Uncle Alf
Gerald E. Sheagren
It was just before quitting time when I was summoned to the sanctum sanctorum of Woodrow Pierce, the managing editor of the Richmond Times-Dispatch. Such invites were rare, so I knew that this was either very good news or exceptionally bad news. I rapped on the frosted-glass door and adjusted my tie, his gravelly voice bidding me to enter.
Pierce was enthroned behind his huge mahogany desk, shuffling through a stack of paperwork. Behind him was a ten-by-ten window that had the most breathtaking view of the capitol city. The governor should have been so lucky. “W.P.” as we called him, was a short, balding man with a penchant for Cuban cigars and these humongous, multi-colored bowties that never failed to remind me of one butterfly or another. The yellow-and-black jobber that he was sporting, today, looked very much like the state insect – the majestic Tiger Swallowtail. He regarded me for a few moments like a king would a serf and waved me toward a leather chair near his desk.
“How went the day, Witherspoon?”
“Uh — you know — the usual.”
He cocked a bushy brow, his cigar spewing smoke like a steel mill’s chimney. “And what — pray tell — is considered ‘the usual’?”
“You know; a lot of hard and diligent work — more so with the terrible developments in Korea.”
W.P.’s stubby fingers drummed an annoyed cadence on his desk. “Goddamn those Chinese! I certainly hope that MacArthur teaches them a lesson they won’t soon forget.”
I shifted uncomfortably in the chair, its leather creaking beneath my weight.
“Briggs is with the Eighth-Army, isn’t he, sir?”
I thought of poor Dwight who I had often paired up with on assignments. I could picture the little guy — armed with only a pad, pencil and camera —shivering and scared shitless as hordes of screaming Chinese bore down on him from all directions. Hell, he might already be dead and frozen as stiff as a board.
“Yes, he is. And here we are, all safe and comfy, without a clue as to what he might be going through.”
And puffing on Cuban c-gars and wearing bowties as big as Godzilla the Butterfly, I thought to myself, hardly able to contain my amusement.
“Is something funny, Witherspoon?’
“No, not at all, sir. What could be funny at a time like this?”
W.P. picked up a piece of paper and began to crumple it slowly and methodically in his hand. “I have a good human interest story for you. I want you to start on it first thing in the morning. I’ll allot some money out of the kitty to pay for two day’s worth of lodging and food.”
“Uh — a human interest story?”
“Did I stutter?”
“No, sir, you didn’t.”
“There’s a Civil War vet living in the Allegany Mountains, a few miles west of Clifton Forge, just outside of a little hole-in-the wall town called ‘Snap Pea’. He resides in an old cabin damn near in West Virginia — without indoor plumbing or any other modern convenience.”
I knew what was coming, my fingernails biting into the leather of the chair.
“His name is Alfred Singleton. The old bugger is one-hundred and five years old. There’s not many of his breed left — you can count them on your fingers. And from what I’ve heard; he’s in excellent physical condition with a mind as sharp as a tack.”
“What does this Singleton character have to do with me?”
W.P. glared, eyes narrowing, his digits beating a drum-roll atop his desk. “For one of my most prized reporters, you sure can ask some dumb questions. What do you think he has to do with you?”
“You want me to interview the man — he’s my human interest piece.” I wiggled in the chair, palms sweaty, heart thumping. “I don’t know, sir; I think I would be better off, and you too, if I concentrated my efforts on what’s going on in Korea. You know; our Eighth and Tenth Army, fighting inch-by-bloody-inch to extricate themselves from the Frozen Chosin.”
“Oh?” W.P.’s eyes were shining like newly-minted dimes as he considered me over the rims of his spectacles. “Perhaps you would rather seek gainful employment at the News Leader, covering cooking contests and quilting bees.”
“Your point is well-taken, sir. I’ll be off first thing in the morning.”
“Before the cock crows; as the paperboys are still turning over in bed. And make certain that you take some interesting pictures.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll head down to payroll, right now, and pick up my traveling money.”
*** * ***
I was up before “the cock crows”, my Studebaker slicing through the darkness as I chain-smoked Camels, plying myself with eye-opening black coffee straight from the thermos.
Of all the damn luck! Why was I chosen to interview some crusty old codger while our boys were surrounded by over one-hundred-twenty thousand Chinese at the Chosin Reservoir, during the coldest Korean winter recorded in a hundred years? Why couldn’t W.P. have assigned one of the cub reporters, who wouldn’t give a rat’s ass what assignment he drew, as long as he drew something?
I turned on the dome light and squinted at my map, trying to see what roads would bring me closer to Clifton Forge and the little, blink-of-an-eye town with the crazy name of “Snap Pea”. I gave a wry chuckle, wondering whether I should have brought along some bib-overalls, a corncob pipe, maybe a pair of clogging shoes. Preferably, a little shine in a mason jar.
Hitting Clifton Forge at a little before ten o’clock, I covered a half dozen more miles and was soon driving down the solitary street of Snap Pea, my tires kicking up clouds of swirling yellow dust. There wasn’t much to the berg; a dozen or so houses, a general store, and a big, two-storied building that was slightly listing, called “Pritchett’s Bed and Breakfast.” There was also a Texaco station that still utilized the old “Mae West” pumps of the nineteen-twenties. I figured if I looked hard enough I’d be able to find a hitching post and a watering trough.
With little other choice, I grabbed my suitcase and headed for Pritchett’s where I was welcomed by a little old woman with three teeth and as face as wrinkled as a prune. She said that her name was “Sadie” and I liked her right off — the way she cackled a laugh; her rustic, down-to-earth charm; the way she kept primping her blue-tinged hair, collected tightly into a schoolmarm’s bun. I took a room on the second floor, laid down for a quick nap and headed out to find Mister Alfred Singleton. Walking onto the front porch, I noticed an old man in a rocking chair, a straw hat pulled low over his eyes, a pipe clenched between his teeth.
“How’s it going?” I inquired, plunking down in the chair next to him.
He answered without looking at me. “I’ve been better, I’ve been worse.”
“Nice day, isn’t it?”
“I’ve seen better, I’ve seen worse.”
I lighted up a Camel, blowing out a near perfect ring of smoke. “You know a fellow by the name of Alfred Singleton?”
“I’ve known better men, I’ve known worse.”
I fell silent for a long moment, wondering how to proceed when he finally raised the brim of his hat, arching a bushy brow. “What’s your interest in ol’ Alfred?”
“I’m a reporter for the Richmond Times-Dispatch, looking to do a story on him. You know; a human interest piece, probably for a Sunday edition.”
The old man gave me a quick once-over. “You don’t look like a reporter to me.”
“What’s a reporter look like?”
“I dunno. He probably has a press card stuck in the band of his hat and carries a pad and pencil, maybe a Kodak.”
“That’s a pretty fair description. I’m sorry for disappointing you, but I am a reporter and I’m here to do a story on Alfred Singleton.”
“Uncle Alf,” he corrected. “That’s how he’s known in these parts.” The old man rubbed thoughtfully at his whiskers, his face turning solemn. “I’d be mighyt careful goin’ up his place. He might mistake you for a squirrel or coon and have at you with his rifle.”
“He doesn’t see very well?”
“Nope, and neither do I.”
“You just tell me how to get to his place and I’ll worry about the consequences.”
The old man shrugged. “You jus’ head out on Main Street, here, and drive west, maybe ten miles. When you come to a big rock that looks like a castle, there’ll be a path that heads straight up hill for about a mile or so. When the path ends, you’ll come to a clearing an’ Alf’s cabin will be at its far end. Uncle Alf’s too old to keep up maintenance.” The old man laughed. “Hell, he’s old enough to be my pappy.”
“And how old might you be?”
“There ain’t no ‘might’ about it. Next month, I’ll be eighty-three.” The old man creased his brows, thinking. “Nope; you had better make that eighty-four.”
“Well, thanks for your help, Mister — uh —.”
“Watson, Seymour Watson. Folks call me ‘Doc’. You know; for that Doctor Watson fella — Sherlock Holmes’s sidekick.”
As I was walking off, Doc loudly cleared his throat, stopping me short.
“If you wanna get on Alf’s good side, you best bring along a bag of jelly beans. He sure loves to pop jelly beans, ‘specially the black kind.”
“The licorice ones?”
“Yeah, the licorice ones.”
“I appreciate the tip. Does the general store carry them?”
“Last I heard.”
I made a beeline to the general store and to the amazement of the clerk, cleaned out the entire stock of jelly beans — five pounds worth and a good third of them black. I didn’t mention who I was buying them for, but, as I was cashing out, the clerk looked up and winked, telling me to say hello to Uncle Alf from Jack and the family. I assured him that I would and he suddenly turned serious, warning me to be careful, or I might wind up with a rump full of buckshot. I had shrugged off Doc’s warning, but upon receiving yet another, I started to get a bit nervous. Where’s there’s smoke, there’s usually fire.
A half hour later, I was driving along a rutted dirt road, so narrow in places that low-hanging branches were slapping my windshield and scrapping along the roof. This was God’s country and I hoped that my last confession would protect me — that is if Father O’Malley hadn’t smelled the liquor on my breath.
After five miles, I started to watch for the rock, and, sure enough, it did resemble a castle, with turrets and battlements, even a drawbridge-like expansion spanning a small creek. I grabbed my Baby Brownie and a notebook, and started up the path, which turned out to be a lot steeper than I had expected. If this was the only route to Uncle Alf’s cabin, he must be in damn good shape for a hundred and five years. I was huffing and puffing and drenched with sweat, ruing all the hours spent behind my Smith-Corona and as many perched atop a bar stool.
A possum scuttled from the underbrush and raised itself on its haunches, its ugly snout sniffing the air. I took a quick step back, my heart drumming a-mile-a-minute. Being a city boy, used to nothing but dogs and cats — this creature might just as well have been a twelve-foot bear. Not liking my scent, the critter turned and scurried back the way it had come.
I continued on my way and eventually reached the clearing, spotting Uncle Alf’s cabin in the distance; a shanty actually, of unpainted lumber, with a rusty tin roof and sagging front porch. Smoke was curling from a small pipe atop its roof. I was heading across the clearing when I heard an ominous click that stopped me dead in my tracks.
“Jus’ hold it right there, feller. One step more an’ I’ll likely send you to the Promised Land.”
That’s when I saw him, nearly hidden behind an old oak. He was a short, reed-thin man with a thatch of snow-white hair and matching handlebar moustache. The skin of his face was as thin and yellowed as ancient parchment, but held not a wrinkle or liver-spot, only a glossy scar that stretched from his right eye, down across his cheekbone. He was clad in a plaid flannel shirt, baggy overalls and work boots. If I hadn’t known his age, I would have guessed eighty, maybe seventy.
“Are you Uncle Alf?”
“Who were you expecting — President Harry S. Truman?” He stepped out, his gnarled hands brandishing a shotgun. “What’s yer business, up here, mister?” he asked in a voice surprisingly strong and vibrant.
“My name’s John Witherspoon. I’m a reporter for the Richmond Times-Dispatch.”
“Well, you must’a took one heck of a wrong turn.”
“Uh — My editor sent me here to do a story on you.”
Uncle Alf cackled a laugh. “A reporter fella for the Nashville Banner paid a visit, maybe a year back, an’ I sent him packin’ real quick. So you think I’ll make an exception for you?”
“Well, maybe, since I’m one hell of a nice guy. Plus, I brought along a little gift.” I held up the big bag of jelly beans, letting it sway between thumb and forefinger. “I hear tell that you’re fond of the black ones.”
Uncle Alf limped forward, squinting and aiming his shotgun toward the ground. Snatching the bag, he opened it and peered inside, a small, hesitant smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He popped a black jelly and savored it as most people would a piece of filet mignon or a hunk of buttered lobster.
“Well, now; you might have jus’ earned a little of my precious time. C’mon up to the porch.”
I followed the old man, noting that he was limping along — his right leg seemingly unable to bend. As we neared the porch, a scrawny yellow dog trotted down its steps and began to circle, sniffing at the cuffs of my trousers. Round and round it went, analyzing my scent, a growl lingering deep within its chest.
“Stonewall, you be good, now,” admonished Uncle Alf, shooing the mutt away with his foot.
“By any chance; did you name him after Stonewall Jackson?”
“No ‘chance’ about it. Exceptin’ for Gen’ral Lee, no greater man ever lived.” Uncle Alf struggled up the porch steps with his bum leg, motioning me toward an old cane chair. “Sit on down an’ make yerself comfy. What kind of story do you have in mind?”
“You know; some of the battles you were in — the frightening things that you witnessed.”
“Mister, the whole dang war was frightening; right from the first Bull Run clear to Appomattox. That little ol’ police action in Korea ain’t diddly-squat compared to what I went through. It’s a 4-H fair in the comparison. You sit on down. I’ll be back in a minute.”
The cane chair squeaked and swayed and I though it was about to give out from under me. Old Stonewall curled up at my feet, resting his snout on his paws and cocking me a wary eye.
A few minutes later, Uncle Alf returned with a beehive slouch hat perched atop his head, a big moth-eaten hole, front and center. “This here hat is the very same one that I wore for the entire war.” He plucked it off his head and poked a finger through the hole, wiggling it for effect. “A Yankee ball did this; took it clean off my noggin at Gettysburg.”
“No fooling — Gettysburg?”
In the blink of an eye, he produced a huge Bowie knife and threw it, the point sticking in the floorboard an inch from my shoe, its blade humming as it vibrated. “I kilt a few Yanks with that Arkansas pig-sticker.”
I gulped, touching the big blade with my shoe. “That’s — uh — quite a weapon.”
“Back in those days I could have plucked a hair from yer head an’ split in clean down the middle.” Then he reached out and grabbed a musket which had been leaning next to the door. “This here’s a Mississippi Rifle, U.S. model eighteen-forty-one, fifty-eight caliber. This ol’ baby gave me three good years of service.”
I had to admit that a few jelly beans went a long way in loosening up a tongue.
“I’d put on my uniform — homespun butternut — but it’s getting mighty worn. I keep it in an old trunk with a good supply of mothballs.” Uncle Alf plunked down in another cane chair, stretching out his bad leg. Wincing, he began to massage his knee. “Feels like rain, maybe as early as this evening.”
“Uh — is that a war wound?”
“Yup. From a piece of shrapnel durin’ Pickett’s Charge.”
My heart took a leap. “Wow! You were in Pickett’s Charge?”
“Believe me, sonny; that is something I wouldn’t fool about. I damn near made it o’er the stonewall — right alongside Gen’ral Armistead. Now, that was a terrible slaughter, I will tell you. I lost a good number of friends that day.” Uncle Alf looked away, swallowing hard with emotion. “Pickett’s Division was plum cut to pieces. He never forgave Bobby Lee for that fiasco; ol’ George held a grudge to his dying day.”
“How about you; did you hold a grudge?”
“No, sir, I did not. I would have followed Robert E. Lee clear through the gates of hell. A fine, honorable man; the greatest leader there ever was. He should be alive, today, to give MacArthur a few pointers.”
“So after Gettysburg, you were out of commission?”
Uncle Alf delved into the bag and tossed a red jelly bean into his mouth. “The hell you say. Two of my friends dragged me back to our lines an’ I rode back to Virginny in an ambulance wagon. A surgeon saved my leg ‘cause I practically had this Bowie to his throat while he was operatin’. I had a gimp, but my trigger finger an’ spirits were jus’ fine. I went through a lot more battles an’ witnessed the laying down of arms at Appomattox.”
“Where did you get your facial scar?”
Uncle Alf traced the scar with a forefinger. “I got this when a Yankee bullet kicked a splinter of wood from a tree.”
“I’d like to hear about some of the battles in more detail.”
“Well, you know; I’m sound of body an’ mind, but the ol’ memory gives me a tad of trouble. I got a diary, inside, that might be of some help.”
“Jesus, a diary! That would be great — just what the doctor ordered.”
“I don’t cotton much to doctors. Never go to ‘em. I eat plenty of onions — that does the trick.”
“They’re pretty bad for the breath, though.”
“Don’t need good breath, livin’ all by my lonesome. Stonewall don’t care none; his breath is worse than mine.”
Suddenly, I heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot, followed by a metallic-like ping. Looking up, I saw a washtub that was hanging on the porch, swaying, the sunlight winking through a hole, dead in its center. In the matter of a second, I was lying flat on the floorboards, my fedora landing a few feet away. Stonewall gave a yelp, his pink tongue slavering my cheek.
“Jesus, Alf! Someone just took a shot at us! Get down, get down!”
He gave a long, gravelly laugh. “Ah, it’s nothing to worry about.”
“It must be some nearsighted hunter, or maybe you have a real bad enemy out there, somewhere.”
“It’s ol’ George Hastings. He ain’t much of a hunter, but he’s plenty nearsighted.”
I peered up at Alf, still keeping low. “Who in the hell is George Hastings and why did he take a shot at you, at us?”
“He’s a Civil War vet jus’ like me, who lives over in West Virginny. It ain’t that far — only a few miles. George rode with the First West Virginia Cavalry, Third Division, under Judson Kilpatrick.” Alf made a face as though he was sucking on an extra sour lemon. “West Virginny was nutin’ but a nest of Yankee sympathizers, breakin’ away from this state back in eighteen-sixty-three. Damn bunch of traitors!”
“Okay, but what’s the deal? Why did he take a potshot at us?”
“He’s a might younger than me; maybe a hundred and three. Every once an’ awhile, he sneaks o’er with his ol’ carbine an’ lets one loose in my direction. By the same token; I head o’er his way — now and then — an’ fire one off in his direction.” Uncle Alf laughed and slapped his good knee. “It’s jus’ a little game we play. No harm done, no harm meant.”
“No harm done? What happens if one of you wounds or kills the other?”
“Ah, we’re both blind as bats at a distance. We couldn’t hit a bright pink elephant doin’ the rumba. Hell, we’ve been playin’ this little game since the late thirties. I gotta admit though; it was some dumb luck him hittin’ that ol’ tub, dead center.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“Next time, I’ll try to give ‘im a taste of his own medicine. But you have to promise me one thing, Whippoorwill or whatever your name is.”
“It’s Witherspoon.”
“Yeah, that’s right — Witherspoon. You have to promise me that you won’t write about the little game that me an’ George play. You don’t write about it or even mention it to anyone. Do you promise me that?”
“Well — okay — I guess I can promise you that. But it would be a juicy addition to my story.”
Uncle Alf stared at me long and hard. “If you do, I’ll make a point in comin’ to Richmond an’ takin’ a shot at you. An’ I’ll do it close enough so I won’t miss.”
I talked to Uncle Alf for another hour, and took a swig of moonshine that hit my empty stomach like a flow of molten lava. Just before I left, he presented me with his diary, saying that I could return it at my convenience. I took a few pictures of him; a good many while he was either holding his Mississippi Rifle or Bowie knife, some both, always with him wearing his slouch hat. He walked me to the head of the path, and Stonewall followed me all the way to my car, running alongside and barking as I drove off.
W.P. loved the pictures and went bonkers over the diary, which chronicled everything from camp life and sentry duty to the horrors of an all-out battle. My story hit the next Sunday addition and drew rave reviews from readers and critics alike. A friend of mine at the News Leader said that his managing editor wished that he had thought of the idea before us.
*** * ***
Four months later, W.P. summoned me to his office and broke some new that I could not believe. Uncle Alf had been found lying on his front porch with a bullet clean through his ticker. It was rumored that Stonewall had been found next to the body, whimpering, his drool soaking the old man’s shirt. A murder investigation was in progress, but, as of yet, the authorities had failed to find any meaningful clues or come up with any likely suspects.
Of course, I knew immediately what had happened and who had done the dirty deed, or in the terms of this case — the accidental deed. But recalling my pledge to Uncle Alf, I chose to keep my mouth shut. What was the sense in subjecting a one-hundred-three year old man to a police interrogation?
W.P. ordered me to get to the scene as quickly as possible; that it would be a great follow-up piece to my story. And, maybe, while I was there, I could do some snooping around and come up with the killer. I would go all right, but it would be out of respect and nothing more.
I got to Snap Pea in time to witness a funeral procession heading straight up Main Street; a solemn yet extravagant affair that would have put an ear-to-ear smile on Alf’s face. A high school band led the way, playing “Dixie”, followed by dozens of soldiers and state dignitaries, and a convertible holding three Civil War veterans. Bringing up the rear was an old wagon pulled by two magnificent black horses and bearing Alf’s coffin, draped with a Confederate flag. Hundreds of people lined the route — silent and respectful — many waving miniature versions of both the Stars-and-Bars and the U.S flag.
Leaping out of my car, I joined the long procession to the cemetery, the band switching to a jaunty Union number “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” At the cemetery, following many eulogies and a twenty-one-gun salute, Uncle Alf’s coffin was lowered into the hole, as dozens of soldiers clicked their heels and snapped a salute.
The floral arrangements were extraordinary, including one from the Governor; all big, colorful displays, shaped into everything from Alf’s old regimental colors to crossed muskets and artillery pieces!
I stood there, gaping, wondering how on earth all this could have been planed and put together in such a short period of time. It was truly amazing.
And, then, I noticed that one of the Civil War veterans had lingered behind; a small, stoop- shouldered man, boasting a snowy-white goatee, dressed in a dark three-piece suit with a GAR ribbon pinned to its breast pocket. For a moment, it looked as though he might collapse, but he quickly righted himself with the help of a cane. I knew exactly who he was and I badly wanted to meet him.
“Mister Hastings, Mister George Hastings?”
The man turned, placing a fedora atop his nearly hairless, liver-spotted head. “Yes, I’m George Hastings.”
“Sir, I know that you didn’t mean it — that it was all a terrible accident.”
He blinked his pale blue eyes.
“I was there, maybe four months back, on Alf’s porch — when you put a bullet, dead center, through his washtub. He told me about the little game that you two played.”
He wavered, placing both hands on his cane to steady himself. I couldn’t imagine this old man hiking miles through the woods to take a potshot at Alf.
“Oh my — I’ll — I’ll be sent to prison.”
“No, sir. No one’s going to send you to prison, not at your age, for a very unfortunate accident.” I rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. “And I won’t say a word to anyone. I promised Alf.”
He tried to speak around the lump in his throat, lips quivering. “Do you think — do you think that Alf will forgive me?”
“He probably already has.” I placed an arm around the old gentleman’s shoulder and started to lead him off. “Now, suppose you tell me a little bit your service with the First West Virginia Cavalry.”
He brightened up quickly, managing a smile. “I served under Judson Kilpatrick. Do you know what everyone called us?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
“Kill-Cavalry. You know; short for Kilpatrick and cavalry.”
We walked off toward Snap Pea — George thankful for my interest, and, me, thankful for having saved him from his conscience.
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