A LOST CAUSE
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
March 1862
Wes wrapped a weary arm around his aching ribs and shifted his body in a vain attempt to get comfortable on the rough wooden floor. Pain rippled through him, causing him to gasp involuntarily. It had been nearly a week since his capture and the white hot dagger in his chest had not subsided. He decided that he had a broken rib or two. It was not surprising, considering the vicious beating to which his captors had subjected him.
He had almost been glad to be handed over to the Federals. They, at least, were professionals; they had treated him roughly, but they hadn’t beaten him. He wondered if they would have been more vicious had they discovered that he was a northerner. The civilians who caught him hadn’t cared where he came from. All they knew was that the uniform he wore was gray. They did care about their brothers and neighbors who had gone off to fight him and the rest of his friends, and so they figured they were helping in their own way by beating up one lonely rebel. Wes would have laughed, but the pain in his ribs prevented him. The irony was too great. They thought they were protecting their neighbors; in fact, it was one of their neighbors they were abusing.
Once he had been turned over to the Federal army, he had been moved from place to place, joining larger and larger groups of captured rebels. At first, there were only three or four of them. The men were strangers to Wes, but in every sense they were more his brothers than the northerners swarming about them in blue. After a few days, there were enough of them, about two dozen, to move to more permanent quarters. They were marched up the road to a train stop, loaded aboard a freight car like so many cattle, and moved north. Wes, knowing roughly where the rail lines ran, wondered whether the journey would take him near Gettysburg.
As the train crawled north, stopping at every little station to pick up civilians and occasionally another prisoner-of-war, he peered anxiously between the slats of the car waiting for familiar landmarks to roll into view. Just as he feared, he began to recognize the hills from his youth. The train was in fact nearing Gettysburg. He closed his eyes and listened, praying that they would keep rolling, that they would stop anywhere but there, someplace where no one knew him. But the train pulled into the north end of town and stopped at the station. Perhaps they were just picking up passengers, Wes thought. But soon, the doors slid open and the group was told to get out. Wes descended, afraid to look about, fearing that someone he knew might be nearby. He saw a group gathered at a distance down the platform. Wes couldn’t make out the faces in the dim light, and was relieved to realize they couldn’t recognize him either. He turned to face the train so it would be harder for anyone to catch sight of him.
Suddenly, he heard voices approaching, young voices, high and happy. He noticed a group of boys just as they discovered the twenty-five disheveled prisoners. They stopped in the middle of the street and stared. Wes was turning back toward the train when something crashed against the door of their freight car. Startled, he turned and saw that the boys were throwing things at them. Several impacted the ground in front of them, spraying their shoes with bits of rotten apple. As the prisoners raised their arms to protect themselves from the barrage, one of the Federal guards shouted, “You boys get out of here!” The boys jeered at him.
A crowd gathered to watch the spectacle and Wes’ apprehension grew. Fortunately, the guards were even more concerned. The sergeant of the detail ordered them back into the car, and Wes scrambled up quickly, relieved to be out of sight of the townspeople. He stared through the slats at the boys who were calling the prisoners every unpleasant name they could think of. One particularly loud participant threw another apple toward the train. It banged against the side, echoing through the wooden car. Wes saw a woman step from the crowd, move toward the culprit, and call in a voice that was high and piercing, “Harry Wade, you come home right now.”
Wes felt a moment of dizziness. He stared at Mary Wade as she dragged her boy away from the group. Holding him by the ear, she marched him to the far end of the platform where another figure waited. Wes could not see the other person clearly, but he pressed his face against the slats, desperate to discover who it might be. The figure turned and walked away. Was it Ginnie? As the three moved beyond his range of vision, Wes sank to the floor, overcome.
That scene replayed itself again and again in Wes’ mind as the train rolled on toward Harrisburg. When they arrived, their guards could not find room for them in the temporary stockades so, as a result, the rebels ended up in the city jail. Wes shared his cramped ten by ten foot cell with twelve other soldiers. Given no beds or blankets, they had to make do with what they had, pillowing their heads against each other, crowding together for warmth during the drafty nights. After a few days of repeated pleas, Wes finally had his ribs tended to by an aged doctor who reeked of liquor and resentment. He wrapped the bandages too tightly and made the pain even worse. Wes rewrapped the bindings as soon as he returned to the cell, and the pain in his chest subsided somewhat.
Life as the prisoner was life in hell. He had lost everything, literally everything. None of his dreams remained. Ginnie was lost to him; there was no doubt about that. His friends in the South were now lost too. He had risked one for the other and had lost both.
There was only one person who would still accept him, only one who would be willing to look beyond his mistakes to his dreams: Julia. Wes knew that Ginnie would never understand him now, especially since he was a prisoner. He would be a reminder to her of the sins of her own father. But Julia would understand. The idea kindled a faint light in his soul.
From one of the other prisoners he got a scrap of paper and then begged a pencil from a guard. In his desperate need to reach out to someone who still cared for him, he wrote Julia, asking for help, for supplies with which to bribe the guards for his basic needs. He asked her to consider coming to visit him, feeling that merely seeing her face again would bring a ray of light into his darkness. And he asked that she keep the truth about him quiet.
Getting the letter sent was easier than he had imagined. He promised the guard that sending it would bring a relative who would pay him for his services. The guards, who cared little for politics but a great deal about lining their own pockets, were willing to listen to anything that promised them money. Wes picked one of the guards whom others in the cell had found willing to help. At first, the man was hesitant about taking the letter, until he found out that the recipient was a young woman.
A week passed and they began to hear that they might be moved north to a prison camp near Lake Erie. This rekindled Wes’ anxiety; he imagined Julia arriving in Harrisburg the day after he left. But the only move that materialized was to a barbed wire enclosure, a holding pen for Confederate soldiers on the edge of Camp Curtin in Harrisburg. It was somewhat larger but even less comfortable because it consisted of a roof supported on posts but without walls. There was practically no protection from the weather.
The days settled back into an endless and mind-numbing routine. The others played cards with a makeshift deck and chatted idly, sharing rumors about the fighting further south. One of the more literate Yankee guards spent his afternoons reading newspaper articles to the prisoners, stressing how the South was losing every engagement. But the effort proved to be therapeutic because it kept Wes and the others in touch with the world that existed outside of their miserable environment.
Many of the articles were about The Stonewall Brigade which earned Wes some small notoriety among the others. Jackson was running around the Shenandoah Valley, totally confusing a Federal army twice his size. He continued to surprise the enemy forces, constantly outguessing and out-maneuvering them. Wes listened with pride but also with a bit of trepidation, wondering how Ben and the others in his company were faring. Eventually, his worry turned to jealousy as he realized that, since he was no longer with the 2nd, he could not share in the victories which were making his friends immortal.
At night, after the lamps were extinguished and the others tried to sleep, Wes lay thinking about all that had happened. In the quiet, he cursed God for taking away everything that he loved. There was a strange consistency to his life: each time he loved something, it was ripped out of his hands. He had chosen to leave the North and that had cost him Ginnie and his family. Now, he had chosen to leave the South and that had cost him his friends and his chance at fame. And perhaps his life.
A foot in his back woke him in the morning a week later. The sun was high and the others were already playing cards. Wes looked up to see one of the guards.
“Culp?”
“Yes.” Wes tried to stand but his legs had cramped in the night and threatened to give out. He braced himself against one of the roof posts and stood upright to look the man in the eye. The others had stopped their cards and were watching the interchange with interest since the guards rarely took such personal interest in them.
“You’ve got visitors.”
Wes stood still for a moment, letting the information sink in. Visitors. Who would have come with Julia? Maybe Annie, or perhaps she had been unable to keep it from Will and he had gotten off and come with Julia. Then again, perhaps someone had learned that the captive they held was a northerner, a traitor, and they had come to take him away. His mind swam with that frightening possibility.
The guard opened the gate, which creaked noisily on its rusted hinges, allowing Wes into the outer pen, the exercise yard. “Who’s out there, Culp?” one of his fellow prisoners asked with a hint of jealousy.
Another man answered, “Maybe old Stonewall’s come to escort him back personally.” The others laughed.
The guard shut the pen door and locked it, motioning for Wes to follow him around the corner of the main prison building. Despite the pen’s openness, it was gloomy, bathed in shadow. So the light outside tore at his eyes and Wes tried to shield them with his hand.
The guard led him toward a side gate, hidden from the main entrance. He said gruffly, “You have ten minutes,” then stood in place, obviously planning to monitor the visit. As Wes’ eyes adjusted, he could make out the gate twenty yards away in the corner of their muddy exercise yard. On the other side of the fence stood two shadows whose faces he could not make out. Both seemed to be female. So, it was Annie who had come with Julia. That made sense. She might be unpleasant to him, but at least it wasn’t Will.
Wes stumbled forward, trying to keep his footing on the uneven ground. Between his sleepy leg and the bright light, he imagined that he looked like a madman. But it didn’t really matter. Julia was here and she would forgive the way he looked.
“Julia?” he asked as he got close enough to identify her features. She was even more elegant than when he had last seen her, in a dark dress and bonnet. Then he looked at the other figure and felt his heart miss a beat. “Ginnie?” It was a whisper, a choked cry of joy. He felt that he was hallucinating and that at any moment he would awaken back in the pen.
But the moment passed and she was still standing there, more beautiful than he remembered. He forgot everything for an instant. Nothing existed but the two of them. He grasped the wire mesh between them frantically, searching her face. She smiled a sad smile that communicated pain and pity. It was warm but it was also distant; she seemed to be horrified by what she was seeing.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said in amazement, his eyes immediately welling up uncontrollably. He was astonished at his own weeping, but was powerless to stop it. He reached through the fence to touch them. Julia, who had been able to master her emotions to this point, lost all control and began to sob. She grasped at his hand protruding through the wire, and touched it lightly to her face. Wes tried his best to quiet her and looked to Ginnie for help. She moved closer to Julia and put her arm around her friend’s shoulder.
Julia gained some control, wiped her eyes and looked up at Wes. “I’m so sorry this all had to happen.”
Wes, barely able to speak, finally managed to choke out, “Thank you so much for coming. It’s so good to see you.” He studied their faces, as though their presence could somehow nourish his starving soul. He turned to Ginnie. “I can’t believe you’re here. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I thought I saw you when we went through Gettysburg on the train.” Fresh tears choked him and he couldn’t go on.
Ginnie said quietly, “Julia asked me to keep her company. I didn’t think she should make this trip alone.”
He looked at her in wonder, as a person catches a glimpse of paradise at the moment of death. “It’s so good to see you. I’ve missed you so much.” At this, Ginnie began to lose her own composure. Wes, only half aware of what he was saying, mumbled, “Things were so much simpler before I went away. If I could only do it over....” But he could not continue. Julia nodded in agreement.
“How are Will and Annie?” he asked.
“They’re both well. Will’s safe. He hasn’t been in any big battles, so far as I’ve heard.”
“And Papa?”
Julia’s face fell. “Wes, he passed on.”
Wes felt as if he were watching himself from outside his body. His face grew rigid and his breath was expelled in a long silent sigh. But the emotion had left him. Somehow, he had known what she would answer. He watched himself nod to Julia, with no emotion on his face. Who was this person who could cry at seeing the girls but shed not a tear at news of his father’s death?
“When?” was all he said.
“A year ago. Last June. He wasn’t sick very long.” She wiped her nose with a small handkerchief. “He never got over Mama’s passing, you know.”
He nodded, then looked at Ginnie who was still standing with her arm around Julia’s shoulder. “It was good of you to come with her.” Ginnie squinted her eyes in a brief smile that Wes remembered well. It still stirred his heart. “I got your letter. I didn’t think I’d see you again, after what you wrote. After what...Jack wrote.”
“I’m sorry about that,” she said, revealing her discomfort. “The war...well, the war changed everything.”
“It doesn’t have to,” he heard himself saying.
“Wes,” she said, moving close to the wire, her voice tense. “It’s too late. It’s over. Everything has changed. I just wanted to come see if you’re all right. I wanted to say thank you for...for thinking about me all these years. You’re a good man, in spite of all this.” She glanced around the prison enclosure. “I’ll always remember you.”
They were beautiful words, but they were terribly final. His trip north to change her mind had been doomed from the start. He had been the captive of a hopeless cause, and now his pursuit of that elusive dream had made him an actual prisoner. A final desperation flowed through him.
“But Skelly? Ginnie, please. Think about it. He’s a bully. You weren’t meant to be with him.”
Ginnie’s face fell, her eyes beseeching him. “Wes, he’s changed.”
He studied her face. “Do you love him?” he asked quietly.
She looked at him for a long time before answering. “Yes. I suppose I do.”
“Then I’m happy for you,” he said. He thought about the fight that had forced him from town. His ribs began to ache again as if to underscore the memory. But there was no point in causing her any more pain. The best thing he could do for her was to let her go.
“We brought some things,” Julia told him. “The things you asked for.”
Ginnie reached back and pulled a sack up to eye level. The guard behind Wes came forward quickly. “I’ll take that, ma’am. No gifts for prisoners, that’s the rule.” The women looked upset but Wes held up a hand, quieting them. “It’s all right. They’re for the guards anyway. It will help me get along better here.” They nodded slowly as his meaning registered.
The guard unlocked the gate to retrieve the bag and said to them, “You ladies will have to go soon, before the captain gets back.”
They looked at each other and then at Wes. He reached out to Julia through the wire mesh. Her eyes were puffy and full of pain as he grasped both her hands. “I love you, Jules,” he whispered.
She walked a few paces away from the fence and out of reach, unable to look into his face any longer. Wes watched her, then turned to Ginnie. He could think of nothing more to say.
“I’m sorry things worked out this way, Wes,” she said. “I truly am.” She looked down at the ground in front of her. “There are so many things I wish could have been different. But we have to make the best of what is.” Her eyes searched his. “Don’t we?”
“Yes.” His voice was a whisper. She was so close, inches away, but she was as unreachable as if she had been on the moon. She put her hand through the gate, her eyes glistening. He took it in both of his.
“I hope you’ll be happy,” he said. “We might have had a chance, if the war hadn’t come. But now, you’ll be better off with...him.” He couldn’t bring himself to speak Skelly’s name. He held her hand for a long moment. At length, unable to stop himself, he tried to say, “I’ll always love you.” But no sound came from his lips and he was uncertain whether she heard him. He knew at that moment that this was the last view he would ever have of her.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll always pray for you.” He nodded, then turned to go, unable to endure any more. Even prison would be better than the agony he felt standing here.
She turned away and walked to Julia. Wes, watching them in spite of himself, saw them wave one final time before they moved off toward the town. He felt numb, as though his muscles had turned to stone. The guard had to nudge him three or four times before he roused himself enough to stumble back to the pen.
He sat apart that night, quietly staring into nothingness. The others stopped trying to pry information out of him. Initially, they had been jealous of his having visitors but, when they saw the effect it had had on him, they decided to leave him alone. The numbness continued for days. It was a blessing, perhaps, since the pain it masked would surely have destroyed him.
A week later, the group was rounded up and moved under guard to the train station. Most of the men speculated about whether they were being exchanged. There had always been talk of prisoner exchanges, second- or third-hand stories of cousins or friends who had come back from captivity. Wes paid no attention to the rumors, and life itself was mostly a blur to which he paid little heed. He remembered only snatches, like wisps of smoke floating through his half-conscious mind. There was the cold drizzle of spring, the endless sitting, and then the jolt of the train’s first movement accompanied by groans as the men realized that they were headed north. The ride seemed to take forever, but he spent most of it asleep, or perhaps unconscious – he no longer could tell which. The slow pace of the train matched the dragging rate at which his life moved, and the deadly lack of activity made even time itself slow to a crawl.
He didn’t remember arriving at their destination, and could not say how many days they had been on the train. He was aware of marching through the mud, his feet cold and wet, of flopping down on a wooden floor which seemed to be rocking. He vaguely remembered being moved to another place one night well after darkness had fallen. He did not know where he was, nor did he care. Most of the others were talking and laughing, exploring their surroundings. Their voices were muffled in Wes’ mind, but he covered his ears with his arm to block out the world.
When he awoke the next day, he looked about his new room trying to force his mind to make sense of what his eyes saw. One of the other men saw him. “Hey, look. It’s alive,” he called. Men chuckled.
“Where am I?” a voice asked. It took a moment for Wes to realize that it was his own.
“Why, you’re on Johnson’s Island, son. Don’t you remember?” Wes looked at the speaker, an older man with whitish hair. Wes had heard the man’s words, but they didn’t convey any meaning. There was the sound of laughing.
“But since you don’t look like no officer, they stuck you in this cage. So’s you could have the pleasure of our company!” More laughter. “What’s the matter, boy. Yankees got your tongue?”
“Just let him lay,” someone said quietly. “Looks like he’s had a rough time of it.”
Quiet returned and Wes was left alone with his thoughts. He tried to remember the details, but they hung out there just beyond his grasp. He felt hot. He lay back on the floor, waves of heat flooding over him, his muscles twitching out of control, drowning him alternately in seas of vicious fire and icy water. Voices floated above him somewhere.
“He’s burning up.” “We’d better get someone.” There were other voices, but he couldn’t tell if they were real or not. Then all was quiet. Blackness.
When he opened his eyes, it was as if he had been asleep for a century, as though he had just been born. He heard a quiet flutter and felt a cool breeze. Someone hummed lightly, a pretty female voice, a tune he did not recognize. It felt as though he were swimming upward through ocean depths. He could hear the sound of water trickling and sense a blessed coolness on his forehead. Wes forced his eyes open, blinking quickly to adjust to the bright sunlight.
It took a moment to focus on the shadow that moved above him. The humming was coming from the silhouette and Wes watched transfixed as the figure’s hands dipped into unseen water, then moved to replace the coolness on his brow. The person paused for a moment and Wes saw a smile.
“You’re awake.”
Ginnie. His mind produced a name that meant something to him. He tried to remember what it was. He squinted at the shadow, finally distinguishing brown hair and a pleasant face. He cleared his throat lightly, testing his voice. His mouth was drier than fall leaves. The woman pressed a glass to Wes’ lips and cool water ran over his tongue and down to his throat. It was the taste of heaven.
“Thank you, Ginnie,” he managed in a rasping voice.
A peal of laughter emanated from the form. The sound was delightful, like music. “You’re welcome. But, I’m Rebecca.” Wes pondered the name as the washcloths came and went on his forehead. “We didn’t think you were going to make it for a while,” Rebecca said conversationally. Wes was content simply to listen to her beautiful voice. “You’ve been asleep for a long time, nearly a week. Dr. Starr was ready to give you up.” She paused, then added with a giggle, “But I wouldn’t let you go.” Another pause. “Who’s Ginnie?” she asked softly. “Your girl?”
Wes tried to think of the answer to this question, but nothing came to mind, so he merely nodded. “I’ll bet she’s a very nice girl. She’s lucky to have someone as faithful as you. You’ve been talking about her all week. And you know what?” she went on, chattering happily. “You’ll be seeing her soon. The army is preparing a big prisoner swap, maybe next month.” Wes nodded again.
Another week passed during which Wes gradually regained his painful memories, almost making him wish he could forget again. He was amazed to discover that he was in the infirmary of a new prisoner of war camp on Johnston’s Island, two miles out into Lake Erie, near Sandusky, Ohio. He had no recollection of being aboard the boat which had brought him here.
The talk of a prisoner exchange increased every day, but nothing happened. News from the South told of a pitched battle in which a general named McClellan was trying to take Richmond. Most of the guards seemed to think McClellan would succeed and that the war would soon be over. Wes had his doubts, but somehow none of it seemed to matter anymore.
In another week, he had regained enough strength to stand and walk short distances and eat solid food. Rebecca spent as much time with him as she could, walking him, her arm lightly supporting his efforts. She chatted easily, keeping Wes’ mind from plunging back into the depths. In time, he was returned to the prisoners’ barracks, weak but certain that he would recover. However, his release from the infirmary meant losing the sound of Rebecca’s voice. To Wes, stripped of everything else, that final loss was the most devastating of all. But he grew stronger and, as the weeks passed, he focused on the one hope he had left: a prisoner exchange.
One morning, early in August, the captain arrived after breakfast to announce that those who were well enough to walk would be leaving that day. They were to be exchanged immediately. Wes dressed and joined the line heading for the infirmary. After the doctor checked them, indicating who could go and who would have to remain, Rebecca came to say goodbye to some of the men.
When she reached Wes, she took his hand warmly. “Goodbye, Wes,” she said with her usual bright smile. “Say hello to Ginnie for me. Tell her she’s found herself a true gem.” Wes could only nod. He wanted to thank her, but by the time he had recovered his voice, she had moved on to the next man.
The trip back south was a succession of rides on different trains and long hours of waiting. When they finally reached Richmond, they were processed by a bored major and a young private who carefully copied each name into a large ledger. When each man identified his regiment, the bored major checked a long list, noting the current location of that regiment, and wrote a note which he handed to the man before dismissing him. Wes unfolded his note and read “Gordonsville.” He had no idea where Gordonsville was or how he was supposed to get there.
He turned back to the major, who was busy searching the list for the next man. “Excuse me, sir.”
The major looked at him with an angry expression. Almost shouting, he asked, “Do you want to stay here?” Wes shook his head in alarm. “Then, get moving,” the major ordered.
After asking a dozen people, Wes was directed to a dirty sergeant who was tying down a load of lumber on an overly full cart. “I’m trying to get to Gordonsville.”
“Well, ain’t we all, sonny.”
“Can you give me a ride, if you’re headed that way?”
“If you don’t talk too much or smell too bad. Because my Nelly,” he said, thumbing toward his white nag who looked as though she had about three miles left in her, “she don’t like it when things smell bad.”
Wes doubted this assertion since the sergeant himself smelled like something between week-old garbage and dead skunk. But he nodded and climbed up into the seat. As it turned out, Wes didn’t need to work at being quiet since the sergeant talked enough for both of them.
After a few miles, he no longer heard the man’s chatter; his mind had turned to thoughts of being reunited with his company. When they reached the camp outside of Gordonsville, a few inquiries led him in the right direction and soon he was standing outside the captain’s tent. The new captain questioned him for several minutes before sending him on his way. Wes walked as fast as he could, feeling the excitement building inside him. There was so much to tell, so many things to catch up on.
Then he saw them, Company B, his friends, his family. Some faces were missing and the rest looked tired and drained. But the men jumped up as soon as they laid eyes on him. Wes found himself looking around, soaking in the sights and sounds that he had missed for so long – the happy shouts of the men, the smell of food cooking, the sight of thousands of gray uniforms. Old Pete welcomed him warmly with a pat on the back. Wes looked around for Charlie and Ben.
Old Pete shook his head sadly and said, “Charlie’s gone home. Caught a bullet in the knee at Kernstown.”
Then before he could press Old Pete about Ben, he felt a rough shove against his shoulder. He turned and saw the stern face of his friend. Ben looked older and different, an extra stripe decorating his shoulder.
“Salute your superior, soldier,” Ben barked.
Wes snorted, “Well, look who’s got all high and mighty.”
Ben’s face cracked into a warm grin and he grabbed Wes in a rough bear hug. They embraced warmly, and Ben, his voice choked with emotion, whispered, “Welcome home, Wes. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see your ugly northern face again.”