The Richmond Saga, 1.05: Chapter Conclusion
Jerusalem Plank Road
Near Petersburg, Virginia
July 6th, 1901
The heavy heat of the Appomattox fell upon the old plank road like a guilty memory, green and still on this Virginian summer afternoon. Heavy rains had washed away more of the old rail lines—once stewards of incalculable industry that had, in their short and violent purpose, ferried artillery shells one way and corpses the other. Forgotten now, by most—already, this clearcut wood began to return to nature; grasses grew over the rails, over the rotten planks, and Preston Kirby pondered, for a moment, leaning on his cane, that it just might swallow all the death and destruction up with it.
Piles of crumbling bricks and unforgiving pikes still marked the corners of this fading battlefield, taken from green life to savage ends, gray and withered like stubborn old men upon grassy mounds amidst the returning trees.
Boiling smoke from the distant factories in Petersburg pervaded the distant woodline, and as he walked along the path, Preston watched a procession of negro boys running and shouting near the shacks beyond the fields, laughing and hollering as they went. He drew a silver pocketwatch from his jacket, glancing at the time and retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket to dab his beaded brow.
A massive pile of stones were piled before him—rooted and growing moss—and he studied this mound with a curious eye, the old pain returning in his leg, until at last his expected visitor arrived.
“Kirby.”
Cooper Fowler wore brown suspenders and a loose white shirt, his cap low to his large brow.
“Hey, Coop.”
Fowler studied Preston, his arms at his hips, and he gave a slow nod. He approached the man, looking down at Preston’s outstretched hand but declining to shake it. He looked instead to the pile of rocks, his expression hard, and he shook his head.
“Hell of a place to meet,” Fowler said shortly in his low timbre. He drew a distrustful gaze on the General Manager of the Richmond Rifles. Kirby nodded in response.
“Thought you might find it fitting.” Kirby looked up to Fowler—nearly a head taller than himself—and placed his handkerchief back in his pocket. Fowler lifted one brow. “Last place on earth you’ll find Michael Monroe is on the field where U.S. grant whooped his daddy’s ass.”
“Aint nothing here but a bunch of white folks’ bones.”
Kirby shook his head. “These are your folks’ bones, Coop.” he rapped the rocks with his cane. “Colored soldiers of the Fourth Division. That road up there–” he pointed back down the old plank road to the south, “is named after the Reb who butchered ‘em.”
“Make your point, Kirby.”
Kirby Preston sighed, working his chin. “Awful sight, this battle. Hellfire on earth. I still remember the great flags come out of that woodline, there, and the tower of smoke that came from that crater out yonder.”
Preston closed his eyes, leaning forward on his cane, and listened to the birds from their distant canopies.
“You took my records away, Kirby.”
He opened his eyes.
“Couldn’t be helped.”
“Is that so?”
“You knew the risk when I hired you, Coop. There isn’t a damned thing that Richmond, Virginia hates more than a negro who’s better than them.”
Fowler stared at Kirby a long time but said nothing.
“Besides,” Kirby continued, “You weren’t all that good of a ballplayer.”
“You ain’t all that good of a manager.”
He chortled at that, dabbing his brow again. “Losing to the god damn Brooklyn Whales, of all teams. Hell of a thing.”
“I know it was you who got me on with the Black Rifles,” Fowler said coldly, placing his hands in the pockets of his suspenders. “I suppose you think one bribe absolves you of all your sins?”
Kirby shook his head softly. “Not all the water in the James could do that, Coop. Walk with me.”
“I don’t think that I will.”
“Suit yourself.” Kirby lowered himself onto a large stump with a tired groan, removing his hat to fan his face and swat away the flies. “You know the big cannon that took half my leg off is still there? Not three miles down that road. Big old sonofabitch. Old U.S. Grant built a railroad just to lay the thing into position. Whistled like an archangel. One whistle, one crack, and my baserunning days were over, fella. Just like that.”
“I came here out of respect for Mrs. Kirby, and the kindness she showed me in my days with the Rifles,” Fowler snapped, stepping forward. “If you’re gonna sit on that rock and give me a history lesson about the white man’s war, I’d just as soon get back to the ballpark.”
Kirby sighed, placing his hat back on his balding pate.
“Things are gonna change, Coop.” he watched the children near the tree, who had found a stick and were hurling pinecones back and forth. “All this violence—all of this destruction—we’re gonna stamp it right back down into the earth.”
Studying the old man, Cooper Fowler shook his head, spreading a rueful grin and offering a cold laugh. “That’s how you’re gonna fix everything, huh? Old Preston Kirby. You gonna take back all these evil years with the game of baseball? You gonna walk back with that cane of yours and take away the chains of my father? That’s the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard, Preston Kirby. And I grew up in Richmond, Virginia.”
“Cant take it back,” Kirby said, leaning on his cane and watching the children play.
”Our league doesn’t need you, Kirby. ” He stared down hard at the man, his voice raising to anger, towering over him. “It doesn’t want you. We ain’t your redemption project, we ain’t some thing for you to save, and we sure as hell ain’t here to prove we can play like you. The whole world already knows that.”
“I know, Coop. I’m not here for that.”
“Then why the hell did you drag me out here?” The powerful mans voice sent a handful of sparrows scattering from their branches to safer climes.
“Just to say I’m sorry, Coop.” He looked up to the man. “That’s all.”
Flush with anger, Fowler worked his jaw with a steel gaze at the old General Manager and shook his head again.
“Sorry’s cheap, Preston Kirby.” He spat on the ground. “Them bones—all them bones—it’s your hands that did the killing. Your hands that drove the whip. Ain’t all the baseballs in the world that’ll change that.”
Kirby nodded, his eyes on the earth. He slowly rose with his arms on his cane.
“You may not be Michael Monroe,” Fowler said, looking out toward the children playing in the field, “but you belong to him, just like everybody else.”
With that, Cooper Fowler turned around and marched away, back toward Petersburg. Kirby watched him depart, a soft expression, and nodded. He looked down to the anonymous pile of rocks—to the growing trees beyond—and to the pillars of factory smoke that invaded the green canopies of the Petersburg forests.
He resolved there, as old romantics often do before such pillars of mighty memory, that his purpose was set and his vision clear.
He reached into his waistcoat and produced a folded letter, tracing the edge of the paper with one hand as he re-read the ornate ink on the front:
To P. Kirby, Richmond Rifles
From Thomas W. Hershey, President, Legacy Baseball League Players Union
And so his work to destroy Michael Monroe began.