From Issue Ten: Chapman's Mill by Paul Fahrenheidt

(@cavkingpaul on Twitter, and his Substack)

Hob-nailed boots plodded across August earth beneath that early evening in the late afternoon only August can sustain from three pm to half-past eight. A lone khaki-clad figure who’d long ago removed his bus-driver cap and had un-buttoned but not yet removed his overcoat which glinted half-dying sunlight off the silver bars that sat on his shoulders. His sun-neglected skin had that too reddish hue which comes with sudden exposure, and his brown hair was wet with sweat which the breezes that blew through the gap couldn’t quite wick.

A canvas covered truck was 50 yards to his front, where a crew of similarly khaki-clad men defrocked of their overcoats were hauling surveying equipment into the back. A bald round-faced man watched them with sergeant-striped arms, his head well-darkened by constant exposure from a young age. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the glinting sun off the silver bar’s on the sunburned man’s overcoat and turned to regard him.

“‘Bout fished up, sir. Two more to go.” The Sergeant said, and the brown-haired Lieutenant nodded.

“They told me it was built in 1742.” The Lieutenant said, rubbing his narrow nose.

“That awful-big mill? Looks like it would be.” The Sergeant looked over the Lieutenant’s shoulder at the seven-story stone structure in question, looming over the roadside like some castle out the Old Country.

“It’s still grinding grain too. Fed boys for five wars, the man said.”

“Y’ever hear bout when the valley smelled like bacon, sir?” The Sergeant said, baring back his thick red lips past his blackening gums. The Lieutenant shook his head.

“Joe Johnston was set up round these parts after first Manassas, that big ol mill back there was where he was keepin the pork for half the Army. But he’d heard bout of a Yankee army fixin to swarm the valley like gnats on shit. So he got cold feet and picked up the boys and burned errything he couldn’t carry, cluding that there meathouse.” He paused. “Your people got bar-be-cues, sir?”

“Not in Maine.” The Lieutenant said.

“Well if y’ever go to a barbecue y’ed smell the lard bubbling after a long enough time and the woods round it smell real nice and if y’ain’t next the pit then skeeters and gnats pick you apart. Cause they smell something sweet.”

The Lieutenant’s eyes were resting on the road.

“Well when Joe Johnston took a torch to that awful big mill, folks said they’d smelled pork far south as Harrisonburg, which is a mighty long way when considerin the pinewood and the dogflower and the fields full of bullshit.” The Sergeant stopped, then half-spoke half-muttered, “Only folks that ate after that was the bugs.”

“We’re all done down here Sarge!” One of the crew yelled from the roadside.

“Then whyin’th hell you standing there?” He yelled back, and the crew set about loading up in the truck upon the prompting. The Lieutenant gave one last look at the mill before they loaded up into the truck for the thirty second drive to the next section.

* * *

“Yes sir, we’re surveyors. Army Corps of Engineers”. The Lieutenant's voice barely broke over the running engine of the idling Studebaker. The Sergeant was within earshot, puffing away at a Lucky Strike. He couldn’t hear the driver.

“No sir, this is not the road to Winchester.” The Sergeant stifled a laugh.

“Yes sir, you’re on State Route 55. If you keep following 55 to the East, you’ll get to Highway 15, and that’ll take you as far north as Leesburg. From there, it’s just about a straight shot east to Washington. Yes sir. Good luck.” The Lieutenant said, backing away. The Studebaker driver waved and motored off, the gap filling with the roar of its engine as it sped on Eastward.

“He was on the way to Washington.” The Lieutenant said as though he were asked.

“Lotta folks are.” The Sergeant responded.

“He was from Missouri. Drove here from St. Louis, across Kentucky.” The Lieutenant reached into his pocket and fished out one of his own Lucky Strikes.

“Outta towners are the same errywhere, sir.” The Sergeant said between puffs.

“Wouldn’t you say you’re an out-of-towner in this neck of the woods?” The Lieutenant struck a match against his boot and held it to the tip of his cigarette.

“Here and Van Buren County ain’t much different.” The Sergeant said.

“Remind me where that is.”

“Tennessee.”

“Did any battles happen there?” The Lieutenant asked, glancing back up at the Mill.

“Nope. But only because we’re on neutral turf.” The Sergeant said. The Lieutenant cocked an eyebrow.

“Neutral? Is Virginia not a Southern State?”

“Only when Yankees are in the room.” The Sergeant spat on the ground and wiped his mouth with a sleeve, before rubbing his bald sweaty head. “Sure was Confederate though.”

“From what I understand, a battle happened here, in 1862.”

“They teach you that at the Point?”

“I went to Norwich, Sergeant.”

“Beg pardon, sir.”

“You were close enough.”

“Errything north Mason-Dixon mightswell be Boston, West Point, and New York City to me.”

“But not Washington?”

“I said north Mason-Dixon, sir.”

“It’s good country up there. Hardy folk. We have farms and forests and fields too.”

“Don’t doubt it. Figger I won’t never see it.”

“Will not ever, you mean.”

“Beg pardon, sir.” The Sergeant finished his cigarette and stamped it out.

“Why won’t you see it?”

“I hates Yankees and Damnyankees like my daddy taught me and his daddy taught him and Bedfored Forrest taught his daddy and the Lord Jesus Christ taught Bedford Forrest, sir.”

“You know I’m a Yankee. Do you hate me?”

“Sir, you are my commanding officer and is entitled to the rights, respect, and privviges of your rank.”

“Good answer.” The Lieutenant finished his own and flicked it into the roadside ditch. He looked back at the Mill. He’d seen plenty like it all across New England, just as old if not older– but none as big. And the ones that were as big weren’t as old, and the ones that compared in size were just a mite newer. Odd. Seemed like a reaction.

“I think the boys are jusbout fished, sir. One more to go.”

* * *

The sun was still peaking out from behind the mountains, but the golden light of the August evening was giving way to a creeping black which seemed to come from the east. The moon and the sun are married, but the sun hates his wife so he runs when she chases him– even around the Earth. Or something like that. It’d been a while since that comparative mythology class.

The brown haired Lieutenant couldn’t help but glance at that Mill. Even if it was almost out of eyeshot and cloaked in gloam, silent from the workers heading home but still the pitter-patter creaking of the old iron wheel in broad run turning slowly could be faintly heard amongst the crickets and cicadas. Odd to see history so ostentatiously set in front of you, poured in one spot like a lazy teamster carried it up two flights of stairs and wanted to do the job but not do it right– that was it.

They did the job but they didn’t do it right. And now some Yankee Officer who was denied entry to West Point and some Tennessee hayseed who couldn’t spell Essayons if you put a gun to his head had to survey some road’s expansion because Joe Johnston burned his meat and Pete Longstreet made McDowell retreat and Bobby Lee smashed Pope fifteen miles east just for the Johnnyrebs to retreat back through and the Mill kept turning and churning out grain for Blue and Gray, and anyone else who bought it. If you do the job you do it right. Doing it wrong gets you Washington.

He crossed his arms and spat. It was hot down here. Bugs were eating him alive. Promotions had frozen up and anywhere dams were being built was in a hotter, humid, stickier place than this even more ostentatious about what it was. But times were hard and any work was work welcomed, even down here in heathen country.

He closed his eyes and for a moment the mill and the road and the whole gap about him was covered in snow and the late December chill wicked his sweat and Christmas had come and gone and he was home. A gnat buzzing by his ear ended abruptly the image of yuletide idyll and the Sergeant was walking over.

“Fished up sir, done for the day.” The Sergeant said from the truck. The Lieutenant chuckled. For the day indeed. But he was still a Damnyankee and the road was still too narrow and the Mill was still churning wheat for war even if the last one ended war– so he figured there’d be more work tomorrow.

He took one last glance up at the Mill like it’d go somewhere if he didn’t, but it’d stay there. It always had. Long as white-skinned men had called this place Thoroughfare gap and that was going on four-hundred years now, so he figured it’d stay. Long enough for the stones to start needing work of themselves.

And he could have sworn he smelled Bacon before he jumped up in the truck.