The locomotive chugged through the dark countryside in rhythmic repetition. Nearly a mile of cattle cars filled with captured Confederate passengers followed behind. The train came to a stop in Philadelphia for a few hours before continuing on its journey.
David sat propped up against the side of the car and forced himself to draw painful breaths of cold air into his hurting lungs. Realizing he was in the city of “brotherly love,” he wondered if his forefathers turned in their graves while their countrymen did unspeakable things to each other in the name of freedom. He also wondered whether they would approve of the Confederacy’s decision to become its own nation, although the war seemed to be all but over now. David glanced at the old Rebel sitting beside him, who appeared to be asleep.
“You know where we’re headed?” asked a young soldier from the other side of the car.
“Heard to New York, after we make a few more stops,” a bearded man in butternut next to the soldier said.
They stared across at David. He knew they were curious about his injuries, but the two of them eventually looked away without asking. His mind was in a fog. Everything seemed surreal, like he was in a dream, except his pain was far too real. The train stopped several times to collect more Rebels who were the overflow from Fort Fisher, Point Lookout, and various other prison camps. David carefully pulled off his coat and removed the blood-stained jacket from over his shoulders. He hung on tightly to the heavy coat as the other captives eyed it longingly, and removed his enlistment paper from the jacket pocket. After pulling the heavy coat back on, he slid the paper down into the inside pocket of his coat, remembering the day he and Jake had enlisted. He missed his best friend immensely and was glad Jake wasn’t here to see him like this.
What a mess I’ve made of things, he thought to himself.
He closed his eyes, drifted off into a fitful sleep, and dozed for several hours. The train’s shrill whistle screamed, startling him awake. Finally, the long, slithering vehicle which entrapped him arrived at its destination with a hiss. He looked out between the slats to see the sun barely ascending above the horizon. It cast long, grayish-blue shadows on the snow-covered platform outside. Swarms of Federals surrounded the arriving train. The door to his car slid open, and the captives were commanded to their feet. Reluctantly pulling himself up, David held onto his chest to ease the sharp pain jabbing into him. He nudged the old man, who failed to respond.
“Come on out of there, Johnny,” a Yankee ordered him.
He stumbled out into the faint light of day. “I can’t rouse him,” he told the guard, who snorted in response.
“That’s because the ole fart’s probably dead.”
He pushed David toward the other Rebels. Letting out a groan, David staggered forward to take his place in line. Yankees marched up and down with rifles clutched in their hands. Once the command was given, they ordered the scantily-clad Confederates to march in a double column. The procession advanced at a slow shuffle, moving in rhythm to the accompaniment of several drummers.
“This is inhumane,” one Rebel soldier complained under his breath, which escaped into the air like a spectral gust.
“I’ll wager they treat their damn Yankee dogs better than this,” said another.
The men made their way through Elmira. Townsfolk emerged to gawk at the new arrivals. Up one street, down another, and onto a third, the detachment marched for over a mile until it reached the camp outside of town.
Overcome with pain, David concentrated on watching his feet move. He looked up to see the immense, wooden gates of the prison swing open like the enormous mouth of a giant monster gaping wide to consume them.
The group of about one hundred new arrivals entered.
“Halt!” a Union guard commanded.
The men stood in a cluster, gazing around in awe as the gates closed behind them. Through his one good eye, David saw the camp consisted of several dozen two-story barracks aligned in rows. A-tents were lined up a few acres away. The entire prison was surrounded by a tall logpole stockade with several flights of steps on the outside. Guard houses were scattered around the perimeter every fifty yards or so. A hand rail supported on stanchions ran along the outside of the fence. Numerous guards patrolled the walkway that ran the length of the walls. They looked down at their prisoners with dutiful intensity.
The camp residents came out to inspect the newly-received captives, who stood shivering in the cold morning air. A few Union officers rode up to them on horseback. Stopping in front of the group, the Yankees stared into the captured Confederates’ faces.
“Gentlemen,” one of the Federal officers yelled at them. “My name is Colonel Tracy. I am the commanding officer of this camp.”
David took in the sight of him, tall and statuesque upon his steed. He appeared dignified in his tailored uniform. On his face, he wore a neatly-trimmed brown beard and moustache. The colonel paused. Some of the Rebels coughed.
“You are here for the duration or until parole is reinstated. As I am sure you are well aware, General Grant has discontinued the trading of prisoners as the South has refused to treat our colored soldiers with dignity.”
A young Confederate next to David muttered under his breath, “Damned ‘Butcher’ Grant.”
The colonel rode his horse up and down the line. “Your living quarters are the A-tents, since the barracks are full. Mess is twice daily. Those who delay shall go without. You will soon discover you do not want to miss your meals. You are allotted fifteen minutes to eat. After which time, another group will enter the mess houses, and you will be expelled. There have been no escapes from this prison, so don’t bother wasting your time. You will all be assigned duties to occupy yourselves.”
One of the Rebels raised his hand to ask a question, like he was a boy in a schoolhouse. The colonel ignored him.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “you will line up single-file and follow me.”
All the while, the camp’s residents looked them over. Accompanied by the drummers, thirty or forty Bluecoats escorted the new captives. They reached the end of the road and stood in the frigid cold. Shivering, they huddled as close to each other as possible while the line slowly moved forward.
David cowered in his coat with his hat drawn down over his forehead. The pain in his chest was almost unbearable. Finally, his turn came to enter the whitewashed building. He went inside and stood before one of three men seated at a long table stacked with piles of papers. A glowing fire burned in the stove behind them.
“State your name,” the Yankee ordered.
“David E. Summers,” he answered.
“Company and regiment?”
“Jeff Davis Legion, Company F, the Dixie Cavaliers.”
The officer scoffed. “Rank?”
“Private.”
The other two officers asked their newly-captured prisoners the same questions. While David responded, the Yankee in front of him wrote his information down on a piece of paper. He wondered why the Bluecoat didn’t request to see his enlistment paper, but realized the Yankee didn’t care whether he provided him with correct information.
“Dismissed,” the officer said.
David stared at him. Stunned for a moment, his head reeled.
The officer looked up. “Dismissed,” he repeated sternly, glaring at him.
David turned and followed another prisoner out the door. The group now gathered outside. They stood about awkwardly, wondering what they should do next, and watched the sun slowly rise into the overcast sky. David thought it might snow. Averting his eyes to the ground, he saw many didn’t wear shoes. They had their feet wrapped in cloth. He understood how fortunate he was to not only have boots but also a warm, heavy coat.
A strange aroma arrested his nostrils. It seemed to come from the three large buildings to his right.
A guard hollered, “Men! You are ordered back to the front gate.”
The new prisoners complied.
“Fall out for roll call,” yelled another guard. He proceeded to call out each man’s name.
David weakly responded to his name when it was called. “Here.”
Completing the task, the guard said, “You are hereby released for mess.”
The men returned to the three large buildings David had noticed before. As they hurried inside for their breakfast, he glanced around the large room and observed two gigantic American flags hanging from the rafters above them.
Another new inmate behind him noticed at the same time and remarked, “They can’t git us to fight under the Stars and Stripes, so I reckon they’ll make us eat under them.”
The group split. Each half filed down the side of a long, chest-high table. Plates were set before every prisoner. They contained a grayish glob of meat no larger than a small tomato and a meager piece of bread barely the same size. Each prisoner also received a tin cup full of water.
Standing shoulder to shoulder with some of the other inmates, David stuffed stale bread into his mouth and drank half the water. He picked up the strangely-colored piece of meat and chewed on it for several minutes. It was so tough his jaw grew sore, so he swallowed the mass whole. After washing it down with the remaining water, he looked up from under the brim of his hat and noticed the other Rebels still working on their pieces of meat.
“Is this a chunk of leather?” the man across from him inquired.
“Reckon it’s from a dead mule,” another responded.
“All out,” a guard yelled.
Some of the men moaned.
David followed other members of his group and exited the building. After walking outside, he saw his prediction had been accurate. It was snowing. He noticed an oblong, frozen-over pond behind the building he had just emerged from. A wagon full of corpses drove past. The new arrivals gaped in amazed horror at the sight. Stacked up bodies were covered with a tarpaulin, but arms and legs hung out from underneath it. The wagon rumbled down the road in front of them before disappearing around a corner. David paused for a moment, disoriented and unable to comprehend his predicament. He shuddered. As though reading his thoughts, another Confederate about his same age approached him.
“What do we do now?” he asked.
David shrugged. “Heck if I know.” Noticing the young man’s concerned gaze, he said, “I tangled with a couple of mean Yankees.”
“I can see that,” replied the young man. “Are you all right?”
“Well, my ribs hurt somethin’ fierce. Other than that, I reckon I’ll survive.” He grinned, but the split in his lip stung and caused him to wince. He thrust his hand toward his new acquaintance. “David Summers,” he introduced himself.
The young soldier took his hand. “Alan Burgess.” A friendly smile spread across his face.
Glancing over him, David noticed he was wearing a Confederate frock coat, sky-blue trousers, new brown leather shoes, and a forage cap on his head.
“Pleased to meet you, Burgess,” he replied.
“Gentlemen, fall out.”
The two young men reeled to see the colonel behind them on his steed.
“You will each be allotted a wood ration, an oilcloth, and two blankets,” he loudly said. “After that, report to your tents immediately. We will discuss with you, in due time, as we see fit, how we will put you to further use.”
The men shuffled to the dispensary on the far side of the mess houses and continued on toward their new homes. Icy snow fell down around them. It crunched beneath their feet. They walked past the whitewashed barracks. Many of the men inside took an interest in the arrivals and came out to gawk at them.
“Fresh fish,” one hollered at them.
Another echoed, “Fresh fish.”
The bantering followed them along as they made their way to the tents.
“Welcome to Hellmira,” some of the inmates yelled.
Several of the camp’s residents tagged behind the new captives, taunted them, and asked for whatever they might have to trade. One approached David.
“Got anything to eat?” he inquired.
His face was covered with open sores, and his mouth was so red it hurt David to look at it. Trying not to stare, he looked away.
“Any onions or lemons or maybe a tater?”
“No, nothin’,” he responded. “Sorry.”
His group reached the small A-tents.
“This one’s empty,” one Rebel announced. “I’m takin’ it.”
“Me too,” exclaimed his comrade.
They scurried inside. The other men quickly found refuge. David noticed Alan’s signal to follow him. The two men walked down a row to what appeared to be an empty tent. When Alan pulled the flap aside, they found a soldier lying under several layers of blankets.
“Oh, sorry, sir,” he apologized. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Git y’all’s sorry asses in here,” came a gruff voice from beneath the blankets.
Throwing a glance at each other, they went inside. The old man sat up, revealing a long white beard with brown streaks running through it. His hair was dark brown with gray streaks and hung down past his shoulders.
“You young’uns need to be with someone who knows his way around here.” He coughed. "And I’m jist the Rebel to show y’all.”
Alan squatted beside the man. “Alan Burgess,” he introduced himself. “This here’s David Summers.”
“Where you boys from?” the old man asked, scratching the top of his head.
“I’m from Richmond,” Alan replied, “and Summers is from—”
“Alabama,” he interjected.
“Oh. Well, I’m from Mississippi myself. Born an’ raised near Tupelo.”
David grinned. “Why, that ain’t far from where my kin are. Morgan County, near Huntsville.”
“I’ve been to Huntsville,” the old man proclaimed. “There ain’t a lot of room in here, but y’all are welcome to share my humble abode.”
“Thank you kindly,” Alan said, flashing his wide, friendly smile.
“What happened to you, Huntsville?” The old man inquired.
“I got whipped,” David explained, holding his hand to his chest.
“You hurt anywheres?”
“My ribs might be cracked.”
The old man chuckled. “Yeah, looks that way.” He pulled off a coat, then another and another. Unbuttoning his shirt, he unfastened the wide belt of flannel wrapped around his midriff. “Here, wrap this ‘round you to hold those varmints in place.” He tossed the wide strip of flannel at David, who reluctantly took it. “Go on, now. Wrap it ‘round you tight.”
Glancing at Alan, he obeyed the man while he winced in anguish. He slowly buttoned his torn shirt back up and slipped into his coat.
“That thing’s supposed to ward off illness, but I think it’s all a bunch of hooey,” the old man said, referring to the flannel cloth. “Does more good holdin’ cracked ribs together, in my opinion. It’s like the officers tell us. That growin’ a beard’ll keep sickness away by protectin’ the throat and lungs. How that’s of any help to the womenfolk though, I have yet to discover.”
The two young men snickered.
“What’s your name?” Alan asked him.
The old gentleman laughed. “Plum forgot to introduce myself. Name’s Harrison, Hershel Harrison.”
“How do?” Alan responded.
Hershel extended his hand to each young man. “Y’all take a seat,” he told them. They found a place on the blanketed ground. “Now, let’s have a look at that eye.” Crawling closer, he put his hand up to David’s forehead. “Got a nasty gash over yer eyebrow.”
He turned to shuffle through his belongings. Pulling out a small tin and a canteen, he poured some of the water from the canteen onto a cloth and wiped the blood from David’s face. He opened the tin, stuck his finger into the putrid-smelling ointment, and spread it over the gash above his patient’s right eye.
“That should take care of it,” he remarked. Taking hold of David’s chin, he turned the right side of his face toward him and squinted. “Yer eye will be fine. It’s jist puffed up is all.”
“Much obliged, Harrison,” David said, trying to smile in appreciation, although the split in his lip prevented him.
“So what do y’all do around here all day?” asked Alan.
“Oh, they usually put us to work diggin’ ditches or new sinks when the weather’s good. Since it got cold, there ain’t much o’ nothin’ to do ‘cept sleep. Gotta sleep or else all our energy will git used up. That way, we don’t git so hungry.” Hershel smiled, revealing many missing back molars.
“Sure is cold,” David observed, wrapping his coat tighter around him.
“I’ve got some firewood. When it gits too cold to tolerate, we’ll light a fire,” Hershel said. “Y’all got any vittles?”
Alan grinned. He reached into his haversack. “I’ve got some cornbread left over from a few days ago and some winter onions.”
He handed them to Hershel, whose eyes lit up at the sight.
“How ‘bout you?” he asked David.
“I don’t have anything.” Reaching into his coat pockets, he realized what he had perceived as extra weight was justified. He discovered items inside and pulled out a small squashed loaf of wheat bread, three Irish potatoes, and two apples.
“Boys, we’ve hit the mother lode.” Hershel giggled with glee.
In his other pocket, David found his toothbrush, a small container of tooth powder, his comb, the buckeye Abigail had given him, his pocket knife, and a piece of paper folded in half several times. He carefully opened it up. Inside, it read, “I will love you forever, David.” His emotions flooded over him. He began to sob.
“Say now, what’s this?” Hershel patted him on his shoulder.
“My wife, she—” Too choked up to speak, his voice broke.
“She put all these things in your pockets?” Alan asked.
He nodded, realizing Anna must have thought it through. She knew what to provide for him in case he was arrested. “We’ve only been married two weeks.”
“Aw. Don’t fret, boy,” Hershel said in a fatherly fashion. “You have to keep hold of yerself. Otherwise, yer tears’ll freeze to yer cheeks, and then you’ll be in a heap of trouble.”
David gingerly wiped his swollen face on his coat sleeve.
“You’ll be back home to her in no time,” Hershel assured him.
“Did you jist git back from furlough?” Alan inquired.
David looked at him questioningly.
“Well,” he elaborated, “you didn’t even know about those things in your pockets. Seems to me, if you came all the way from Alabama with your regiment, you would’ve had time to find them before now.”
“Oh.” Stunned for a moment, he wasn’t sure how to respond. He didn’t want to admit to marrying a Yankee girl, lest it should jeopardize her safety, somehow. “Why, uh, yeah, I did. My wife, she’s up North at present, stayin’ with relatives.” His feeble attempt to explain his situation seemed to suffice, for neither one pressed him further. He sniffed. “How long have you been here, Harrison?”
“Since the damned place opened back in July. I was at Point Lookout fer two months prior to that.” He giggled again. “But tonight, the three of us is havin’ a feast of our own makin’.” He pulled a chunk of frozen cake from his haversack. “Been savin’ this fer a special occasion.” Hershel added it to the pile before covering everything with a blanket. “Don’t need anyone peekin’ in here to see.” He looked over at his two new tentmates. “You fellers lie back now and try to git some rest.” He resumed his place under the covers.
Alan smiled at David and lay back, using his haversack for a pillow. There wasn’t enough room for all three to fit comfortably, so David lay down with his body rolled in a ball. He shivered from the cold. Feeling the corner of his Testament poke his thigh from inside his trousers pocket, he pulled it out and looked at the black cover. Shoving it back into his coat pocket, he closed his eyes, thinking only of his dear, darling Anna.
That afternoon, the men were rousted to supper. They readily trotted to the mess houses. David had the opportunity to see some of the long-time residents up close. Men with long unkempt hair and beards, their cheeks sunken into their faces, their eyes lusterless, struggled to obtain their next meal. A few poor souls were wrapped in thin blankets and had only tattered shreds of clothing on underneath. Some fell down in the ditches, too weak to run on their own skinny legs. The others passed them without assisting. They knew if they stopped, they might miss out on their own meager ration.
David entered the cold building, and received a piece of bread and a lukewarm cup of soup. He started drinking the soup, but discovered it was more like warm water.
“Sure could go for a cup of coffee with this,” he remarked under his breath to no one in particular. Finishing his meager meal, he returned to his tent. Alan and Hershel were already there.
“We’re starvin’,” Alan remarked. “How ‘bout you?”
David nodded.
They shared the food they’d collected, and didn’t worry about saving any for later, since they were all too famished to consider it.
“I got one more treat fer you fellers,” Hershel said, reaching into his haversack. He pulled out a half-consumed bottle of whiskey. “You boys take a deep swig, and it’ll help y’all sleep. Especially you, Huntsville.”
The young men took him up on his offer. David’s throat burned as the amber liquid flowed into him. He soon felt warm, and his pain eased. The liquor reminded him of Patrick, and he wondered if his friend had heard the news by now.
“Tomorrow I’ll show you fellers around,” Hershel told them after poking the last bit of cake into his mouth. “In a few hours, at eight, wake me so’s we can go fetch our firewood ration.” He grinned, rolled back onto the ground, and immediately started snoring.
“We should be out of here in a few weeks’ time,” Alan said optimistically.
Bright lights flashed on outside. The two young men looked out to see what was causing it. Forty-one large kerosene lights reflected down on them from all sides of the stockade.
Alan grinned and lay back in his cramped position on the floor of the tent. Sighing, David did as well.
At eight o’clock, the men left their tent to collect a cord of wood. Each inmate received a small bundle before returning to the tent. Quickly, they lit a fire, but it went out in less than an hour. They lay back down, trying to sleep. David heard a train whistle two miles away.
“Nine o’clock and all is well,” a sentry sing-song hollered from atop his perch.
The provost guards echoed the call all around the prison.
“What the hell?” Alan said, exasperated.
“Do they do that all night?” David asked.
“Every half hour,” Hershel replied from under his blankets, “all night long. And all day too. Reckon you didn’t notice it before. You’ll git used to it.”
David’s mind raced. Every time he started to doze off, the calls from the sentries woke him. Several hours later, a ruckus outside startled them. He looked over to see Alan sitting erect.
“Fall out for roll,” someone yelled from outside.
Hershel slowly sat up and crawled toward the tent flaps.
“Come on,” he said, “Ole peg leg Major Beall is at it again.”
He climbed out, and the two young Rebels followed him. All of the prisoners lined up on the roadsides. Their captors called out each man’s name as the Confederates stood freezing, shivering, and dancing around in a futile attempt to keep warm in the ankle-deep snow. Tiny, icicle-like flakes fell upon them. David’s teeth chattered uncontrollably. The terrible episode finally came to an end, and the men were sent back to their shelters.
“Don’t fret, young fellers,” Hershel assured, covering himself with blankets. “They don’t pull that crap every night.”
He soon fell asleep. Alan lay down without saying a word.
David did the same. His head throbbed. His left ear rang, and the pain in his chest was so excruciating he could barely breathe. He thought back to his train ride and the old Rebel who had died beside him. A twinge of sadness, mixed with jealously, ran through him. The old man had escaped his own terrible fate through death.
Finally, near dawn, David fell asleep, only to be awakened soon after. The men were required to line up for roll yet again, and then they were sent to the mess houses for another atrocious breakfast, identical to the previous morning’s meal. Following breakfast, David returned to his tent. Alan, who was already inside, smiled upon seeing him.
Hershel soon arrived. “Now fer the grand tour I mentioned yesterday.”
He motioned for the two young Confederates to emerge from the tent. The three men stood out in the cold morning air. It had stopped snowing, and the sun was beginning to emerge from behind thick, gray clouds. Although it was chilly, the air was tolerable. The young men followed their guide, who led them around camp.
“We call this here prison the pen, or Barracks Number Three,” Hershel informed them. “It used to be a Federal trainin’ camp, and the state fairgrounds before that. They still use the other barracks fer officers’ housin’ and what not. Last summer, the damn Yankees were playin’ baseball on the other side of the fence.”
They walked on for a few moments before he continued with his explanation.
“The entire prison is run by inmates, from painters to street graders and cleaners to fire extinguishers who put out the kerosene lights on the stockade walls. Some fellers chop firewood fer the camp. Others work in the cemetery buryin’ our brethren, and a few rare talents build furniture that’s housed inside the Union officers’ quarters.”
The men walked down a road past the mess houses and the cooks’ house.
“Colonel Hoffman, he’s the U.S. Commissary General of prisoners. He decided back in August that he would only feed us bread and water as a way of gettin’ back at us fer Libby, Belle Isle, and Andersonville,” Hershel explained. “Y’all know the South is poor and can’t afford to feed the prisoners. But here, it’s different. They can afford it. I reckon the Yankees’ Secretary of War Stanton has had somethin’ to do with starvin’ us too. Make sure y’all don’t cause a ruckus when standin’ in line fer vittles. They’ve been known to cut everyone’s rations, jist because of a few men’s actions.” He threw a fleeting gesture toward his right. “Over yonder is Foster’s Pond, which is more like a cesspool than anything else.” He motioned toward the frozen-over pond. “When I first got here, they had it so the sinks drained right into it, and they dumped garbage in it too. Smelled right awful. Since then, they had us dig drainage ditches into the river, and now it don’t smell near as bad.”
The men continued past the sinks, a well, and rows of barracks.
“Certain types flock with their own kind,” remarked Hershel. “That barrack is called the Irish ward. Nothin’ but micks.”
David raised an eyebrow at Hershel, remembering how Patrick despised being referred to as a “mick.” They came to a tee in the road.
“Back behind the fence is the Chemung River,” Hershel explained further. “Yonder’s the dead house. Some of us make the coffins, but I won’t do it. I wouldn’t recommend it, neither, unless y’all don’t mind gittin’ some kind of disease off’n those bodies.”
He glanced at David, who winced.
“Once the deceased are put into pine boxes, headboards are nailed to the tops with that soldier’s name, rank, company, regiment, and date of death written on it in lead paint. A jar with the same information is stuffed inside and buried with the body. Nine coffins at a time are taken over to Woodlawn Cemetery.”
David shuddered, remembering how he had answered the Federal’s same questions yesterday.
“The gravediggers are paid a whoppin’ forty dollars a month,” Hershel went on.
His listeners moaned in disbelief.
“And these are the hospital wards. You fellers don’t want to wind up in one of those if’n y’all can help it. Most that go in never come out again.” Hershel stopped and stood, staring in silence at the six long white buildings. “There was a surgeon here by the name of Sanger, who bragged he’d killed more Rebels than any Union soldier. He intentionally poisoned sufferin’ prisoners with arsenic. That club-footed, snaky-eyed, sick bastard left a few days ago. Good riddance is what I have to say to that.” He shook his head, continuing down the road.
The young men glanced at each other and followed.
“They used to have religious services, but that came to an end a couple of weeks ago. And back behind the hospitals, that’s where some lucky fellers dug tunnels and got out.”
“But Colonel Tracy said no one had escaped,” Alan said.
“And he’s a damned liar,” Hershel growled. “They dug one under this buildin’ here,” he said, pointing to one of the hospital wards, “but it came up too short. So they dug another one under a tent right over yonder,” he indicated, “back in October, and ten got away. Didn’t git caught, neither, as far as I know. Some were from yer home state, Huntsville. They were with the Jeff Davis Artillery.” He chuckled in high-pitched glee. “Oh, and all that crap Colonel Tracy tells the new boys about the Southland’s refusal to treat black men equal, well, that’s all hooey too. Truth is, it’s because our boys were jinin’ back up after they were released from prison. The Yankees’ way of thinkin’ is that if’n they keep all of us ‘articles of war’ confined, Dixie will become depleted of fightin’ men.” He turned back toward the stockade. “See those rods extendin’ ‘round the fence line, oh, ‘bout ten feet in or so?”
He glanced at the two young men, who nodded.
“Y’all don’t want to go past that line. That’s what they call the deadline. If’n y’all cross it, they’ll shoot y’all down on the spot, no questions asked.”
David flashed a worried look at his comrades.
Alan raised an eyebrow at him in apprehension. “Have you seen that happen?” he asked.
“Yup,” said Hershel. “Sure as yer born.”
The men proceeded on, walking past other inmates in tattered clothing. Some seemed to be wandering around aimlessly, muttering out loud to themselves.
“Is there anyone in here you know, Harrison?” David asked.
“Was. A few old Rebels I fought with at Spotsylvania, but I ain’t seen them around fer quite a while. Reckon they’ve gone to be with the angels. Now over here,” Hershel said, quickly changing the subject, “back behind the main gate are the officers’ quarters. Their wives and young’uns live out there with them.” He stopped again and became distant, as if in a trance. “Sure would like to see my wife and young’uns.” He sighed.
“You have a wife?” inquired Alan.
“And young’uns?” David asked.
“Yup. I got eight of them waitin’ fer me back home. I keep writin’, but I ain’t heard from them since I’ve been in here.”
“They’ll let us write letters home?” asked David.
“Sure they will, fer a price,” Hershel said with a grin. “Everything comes at a price. See that buildin’ over yonder? That’s the sutlers’. He’ll sell y’all foodstuffs, or purt near anything else, fer a price.”
“But I don’t have any money, at least not in greenbacks,” Alan remarked.
“A lot of the fellers here make things and sell them to the townsfolk,” explained Hershel. “The pen is guarded by the twelfth Veteran Reserve Corp, and their commandin’ officer is Colonel Moore. He ain’t such a bad feller. Before that, they had all cuffies guardin’ us, like it was some kind of funny to promote the buck niggers so’s they could reign over us. There’s still one or two coloreds patrollin’ the prison, but I try to avoid them. Don’t want no trouble from them.”
“How many fellers you reckon are in here?” asked Alan.
Hershel scratched his head. “That’s a good question. I’d say, oh, eight or nine thousand by now, with more comin’ in all the time.” Turning toward the fence, he pointed at a lookout tower. “Y’all see that? The townsfolk built it, and last August they built another one. From what I hear, they charged ten cents a head for anyone who wanted to get a gander at us. They was out there sellin’ lemon pop, ginger cakes, goober peas, beer, and who knows what else. The army made ‘em tear one down, along with all the food stands. They still got that one, though. No one’s up there today, but as soon as the weather warms up, they’ll be up there again, sittin’ on their chairs and a-gawkin’ at us through their spyglasses. Mostly young maidens from the local female seminary.”
Alan scoffed.
A shiver ran down David’s spine. The thought of being observed like some oddity in Barnum’s American Museum repulsed him. Anxious to get away from the terrible tower, he was thankful when Hershel suggested they return to their tent and start a small fire. Once they were huddled around the flames, the older Rebel continued to share his experiences.
“Last fall, we received clothin’ from our families, but Hoffman decided we were only to wear gray clothin’. He had the rest burned. Didn’t bother us so much then, but there’s plenty a-hurtin’ from it now.” He shook his head in disgust.
David realized that, ironically, yet fortunately, his heavy coat was gray.
“Back in July,” Hershel went on, “there was a terrible train wreck. They was bringin’ a load of prisoners, and the train collided with another, sendin’ nearly seventy men, Rebels and Yankees alike, straight to their doom. Heard tell they all ended up buried together in one mass grave. The survivors were brought here, but the guards ignored them fer a few days whilst those poor fellers screamed and moaned till they finally got to them.” Hershel reached into his haversack. “Now, who’s fer a gulp of whiskey?”
Alan grinned and took the bottle. After swigging down a swallow, he handed it to David and said, “So I’m assumin’ we’re all in the Army of Northern Virginia.”
“Yessir.” David took a drink of whiskey, careful not to cough from the burn it created, lest he cause himself great pain.
“Me too,” Hershel said, slapping his knee. “When did you jine up, Huntsville?”
“April of last year.”
“I been in since the summer of sixty-two,” said Hershel. “Sharpsburg was the first fightin’ I saw.”
“Mine was Chancellorsville.” David remembered Jake, and profound remorse from his loss made him want to cry. It penetrated deep down inside him, grasping hold of his heart. He was thankful Jake didn’t have to endure any of this.
“How’s about you, Richmond?” Hershel asked.
Alan snickered. “To be honest, I jist got mustered in a little over a month ago. I wandered too far from camp, so here I am.” He smiled cheerfully, as though it didn’t bother him.
David cordially smiled back, but felt uneasy about Alan’s explanation. He got the feeling Alan was concealing something, just like he was hiding something himself.
“So who does the cookin’ and all the other odd jobs around here?” Alan asked.
“We do when they make us. Otherwise, the oath-takers do it,” replied Hershel.
“Oath-takers?” asked David. “Who are they?”
“They’re the white-washed Rebel traitors who took their oath of allegiance fer the Union in order to git nice easy jobs and extra rations.”
Alan’s eyes grew wide. “Extra rations?”
“Yessiree,” said Hershel.
David felt something bite him under his shirt collar. “Ow!” he exclaimed, swatting at it.
Hershel giggled. “One of those critters has found you already.”
David and Alan looked at each other. They both knew he was referring to lice.
“That reminds me of an amusin’ story.” Hershel promptly commenced telling it. “One day, a few ladies were escorted through the barracks by some of the officers. One young maiden lifted her skirts, knowin’ full well what kind of response she’d git. We all obliged her by a-howlin’ and a-yelpin’ like banshees. ‘Oh, the nasty, dirty, ignorant, beastly Rebs!’” Hershel said in a high-pitched squeak, imitating the young lady.
David and Alan chuckled.
“She shrieked to her chaperones so loud that everyone heard. ‘How filthy they are!’” Hershel chuckled himself. “Well, upon hearin’ this, one of the fellers who’d been pluckin’ off graybacks threw a few of his lice onto her skirts without her knowin’ it. He told us after she left that she wouldn’t be so pure as she appeared after all.”
The three men laughed at the story, but then realized they were all doomed to be fodder for the graybacks as well.
Drearily, the afternoon progressed. David heard other men walk past, conversing amongst themselves. Someone nearby plunked on a jaw harp. He lay back, looking at the worn ceiling of the tent, and listened to another soldier sing in a resonant tenor voice.
“In the prison cell I sit, thinking Mother, dear, of you,
And my happy Southern home so far away,
And my eyes, they fill with tears ‘spite of all that I can do,
Though I try to cheer my comrades and be gay.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching,
Cheer up comrades, they will come.
And beneath the stars and bars we shall breathe the air again
Of freemen in our own beloved home.”
Closing his eyes, David’s mind drifted off to his own beloved home, something he hadn’t thought of much since his wedding day. He vowed to write a letter to his mother. Hopefully, it would reach her, providing comfort with the knowledge that he was truly alive and well. He also wished for a way to correspond with Anna, but assumed it was impossible since it might alert the Yankees that she had committed treason. The thought of her suffering in prison, just as he did now, was too overpowering for him. He swallowed hard, choking back his sorrow.
A few days later, the men were allotted clothing issued by the United States government. The supply was ruefully inadequate. Only one-fourth of the needed provisions arrived. Coattails were cut unevenly, and Hershel supposed it was in order for the provost guards to distinguish the prisoners more easily.
The week dragged on with every day identical to the previous. News came the Yankees had taken Nashville, but the convicts were more concerned about their current condition. The camp seemed to breed sickness and death.
It affected David each time a wagon rolled up to a nearby tent to collect a body. He tried not to dwell on it. So far, he had managed to stay warm and dry, thanks to Hershel. Only time would tell if he would fall ill. Lice had already found him. They bit at him and his tentmates relentlessly.
“Why didn’t you have any tentmates before we came, Harrison?” David asked the old man one evening as they took turns holding their clothing close to their campfire, listening to the loathsome lice pop and crackle from exposure to the heat.
“I did, but he succumbed to diarrhea last month.”
“Oh, sorry,” he replied.
“Didn’t know the boy fer too long. He used to sleep right in the very spot where you do.”
David grimaced.
Hershel laughed at him. “He won’t come back to reclaim his place, Huntsville.”
Laughing again, Hershel commenced to make dumplings from flour and bone marrow combined. After frying them up, he offered some to David, who graciously accepted them.
“Seen Richmond around today?” Hershel inquired as they ate their meager meal inside the tent.
“Burgess? I saw him earlier near the bakery.”
He raised his eyebrows, as if he knew something David didn’t. The loud blast of an alarm went off around camp. David stumbled outside. Other Rebels emerged from their tents and barracks. Orderlies and aids scurried around camp while the prisoners looked on in bewilderment. Hershel signaled for David to follow him. They hurriedly walked toward the stockade nearest to the front gate and saw the prison’s battery guns being placed into position. The armed infantry was aligned and prepared to march. A tumult came from the other side of the fence.
“Reckon someone escaped.” Hershel giggled, clapping his hands with glee.
Eventually, the commotion died down. After nearly an hour, the Union soldiers were dismissed.
Sighing with disappointment, Hershel said, “It’s jist another drill,” and started back toward the tents.
“Does that happen very often?” David asked, struggling to keep up with him. The pain in his ribs jabbed into him like a knife.
“Often enough fer everyone to git their hopes up,” he grumbled, disappearing into the tent.
David stood out in the cold for a few minutes, watching everyone go about their previous business as if nothing had happened. Without comprehending his discontent, he followed the old man inside.
That evening, he found himself preoccupied by the day’s alarm and shuffled along the supper line with his head bowed.
“Summers!”
He looked up to see Alan on the other side of the table, doling out small pieces of bread. A red badge was pinned to his coat.
“Burgess! Did you–?”
“Take the oath? Hell, yeah! Now I can have all the bread I want.”
A few of the men next to David glared accusingly at the traitor.
“I’ll bring some back,” he said in a loud whisper.
Without responding, David walked over to one of the long tables. He ate quickly, wondering how Hershel would react to their comrade’s disloyalty, but decided to keep quiet since the extra ration Alan promised would be thankfully received.
His first week of imprisonment crept by, and David realized one morning that Christmas was only a week away. His sadness deepened as he thought of Anna and her family and how he’d been denied the opportunity to make presents for them. Pulling the Testament out of his pocket, he gazed down at it. He even considered opening it, but resisted and reasoned that God had no use for him, after all, or he wouldn’t be incarcerated with the living dead. He only hoped Anna was doing her best to cope with his absence.
Word came on December 21 that Sherman’s army of marauders had taken the city of Savannah.
“There’s no stoppin’ that bastard,” one of the inmates said while the men stood in line for supper.
“Sherman’s crazy as a loon. It’s a sad shame about what’s happenin’ in Georgia,” said another.
David said nothing. He now had difficulty feeling pity for Georgians, for he was witness to just as much suffering within the barracks walls.
“The war will be over right soon,” said the first man. “Maybe we’ll be released by Christmas.”
The men around David fell silent. All wistfully hoped in their hearts Christmas would bring freedom and reunite them with their loved ones.
On Christmas afternoon, the gray, overcast sky heavily hung overhead like a weighted-down tent canvas. The camp was disquietingly calm. David sat huddled in his tent beside Hershel, who lay sleeping, just as he did most of the time. Alan had gone to mess duty early and hadn’t returned all day. Left to his own ingenuity, David tried to occupy himself. He couldn’t stop thinking about his family and his incessant hunger. At least the coat he wore kept him warm, unlike so many other poor souls in camp still attired in summer clothing. Many suffered and died from the increasing cold, lack of nutrition, and rampant disease. Extracting the Testament from his pocket, he lay back and thought of Anna. She would want him to read it, he knew, for she was his salvation. He pulled open the flap. The bookmark Josie had sewn for him partially slid out from between the pages. He stared at it for several minutes. Thumbing through the nearly-transparent pages, he squinted to read the tiny print and found a passage that caught his attention.
We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed; Always bearing about in the body the dying of the Lord Jesus, that the life also of Jesus might be made manifest in our body. For we which live are always delivered unto death for Jesus’ sake, that the life also of Jesus might be made manifest in our mortal flesh. So then death worketh in us, but life in you.
Hershel rolled over, snorted, and coughed. David nudged him until he stirred.
“Harrison? Do you have a pen and some paper so’s I can write a letter home?”
The old man’s eyes fluttered open. He slowly sat up. “I might,” he responded gruffly. Turning to rummage through his haversack, he pulled out a piece of paper, an ink bottle, and a pen. “Now don’t spill ink on my blankets,” he said with a weak giggle.
David smiled appreciatively and took the items from him. “Where did you git all of these blankets, anyways?”
“Every dead man leaves somethin’ of use behind,” Hershel replied matter-of-factly. “I know it sounds callous, but if’n I didn’t take them, the Bluecoats would. I figured I could put them to better use.”
“Have you taken more than blankets?” David inquired, dipping the pen into the bottle.
“I never stole. Some fellers around here will lower themselves to that, so be on yer guard.”
David grunted. “I don’t have anything for them to steal.”
“You might someday.” He lay back down, hummed a few bars of “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” and drifted off to sleep.
Moving the blankets aside, David positioned the piece of paper on the hard ground and pressed the pen’s tip to the paper, being careful not to tear it as he wrote.
Dear ma and sisters,
I take pen in hand to inform you all of my current condishun. I am presently residing at Elmira, New York in the prison camp they have contrived for us here. Please know that I am wel altho for how long I can not be certen. It is Christmas day to-day and the camp is quiet with us boys longing for home. I have so much to tel you all but cant since I am sure this letter will be looked over by the provost before it is sent on its way. I mis you all very much and look forward to the time we will be to-gether again.
Your loving son and brother,
David
He reread what he’d written several times, folded it carefully, and slid it into his inner coat pocket alongside his enlistment paper. While the chant of the guards echoed around the stockade, he contemplated how to come up with money to purchase postage. Glancing at Hershel’s haversack, he quietly crawled past his snoring comrade, found a pocket looking-glass inside, and gazed at his reflection. The swelling on his right eye had gone down. He could see out of it again, even though the bruise was still greenish-purple. Hershel’s remedy had caused the gash on his right eyebrow to heal. His lip was better too. He withdrew another piece of paper and wrote one more letter.
My dear Anna,
Words can not describe how I mis you. To-day is Christmas and I long for you teribly. I am filled with remorse about the way we parted. If there is a God in Heaven which you stedfastly believe there is, then he will see to it that this letter finds its way to you. I am doing fine and can not wait until we are to-gether again. Please do not fret about the treasonus act you have comitted. I am certen that no one will discover it, especially not Stephen. My darling Anna, if I shal cease to return, know in your heart that I am always beside you, that my breth sighs upon you with the breeze’s whisper and my touch warms you with every beam of sunshine. Please do not forget me.
Your loving husband,
David
He composed a poem and inscribed it on the lower half of the page.
I’d give my life—my final breth
and face impending certain deth
For thee my love—you are my wife
for thee I have endured such strife.
I love you more than words can say
I need you more with every day
You are what makes me want to live
for you I have my heart to give.
With this great war I’ve found some thing
that nothing else could ever bring
My love please keep me in your heart
I pray that we shal never part.
A tear escaped his eye and made its way down his cheek. He wiped it away, folded the letter, and shoved it into his pocket with the other. Aware that his emotions would cave in on him if he stayed in the tent one minute longer, he climbed out and walked around camp. The day was warmer than it had been previously, causing the road to become a quagmire of slush and mud. As he made his way through the muck, he found a few interesting scraps of wood scattered around. Gingerly, he knelt to pick them up since the pain in his ribs was still acute. After inspecting them, he shoved some down into his pockets.
Sloshing his way along, he noticed the emptiness in camp. He wandered around the uncompleted barracks and hospitals, looking for scraps of lumber in the roiled roadway that might qualify as future creative entities. Glancing up at the lookout tower, he saw several young ladies and a few gentleman escorts gazing down at him from over the fence. One of the men looked at him through the spyglass and reacted to his appearance by pointing at him. David stared back in abhorrence for a moment, shocked and angered at once. He shook his head and forced himself to continue on. A sudden memory flashed through his mind. He recalled how he and his comrades had captured a regiment of New York cavalry before the Battle of Gettysburg and how he’d wondered what New York must be like. One of the captured Yankees had bragged about how pretty New York girls were, and at the time, David had wished to see them. But now, after seeing some of those girls firsthand, he wasn’t in the least bit impressed.
New York girls ain’t pretty at all, he reasoned. They’re downright ugly. In spirit, anyways.
As he came near the front gate, he looked up to see a black man in a Union uniform standing directly in front of him.
“Now what yo’ be lookin’ fo’?” the young, clean-shaven man asked from under his kepi.
Startled for a moment, he replied, “Oh, jist some pieces of wood to make trinkets out of. Sorry,” he added.
“Ain’t no reason be sorry. Long as you hain’t out here causin’ trouble, Johnny Reb,” the black man said. A slight grin flickered across his lips.
“No trouble,” David responded. He smiled, but the guard looked down his nose at him. “Well, I’ll be on my way, then.”
“Y’all got any niggers back home?” the young black man inquired.
“No, sir.”
“What’s yo’ take on it, den?”
Uncertain where the conversation was headed, David didn’t want to irritate the soldier. The thought flashed through his mind that he might be shot down on Christmas Day by this man.
“Uh, I dunno. I mean, it ain’t somethin’ I’d pursue.” He and the guard stood staring awkwardly at each other for a moment. “I heard some slaves found their former masters in here. Is that true?” he asked.
“Sho is. One nigger say bottom row on da top now.” The guard chuckled.
“Well, I reckon I’ll head on back to my tent.” He slowly turned and started to walk away.
“Merry Christmas,” the soldier called after him, which stopped him in his tracks.
He turned back around. The black man threw a small piece of wood at him. David caught it.
“Dat make a fine trinket,” he said. “When you done wid it, come fine me. My name Harlan. Corporal Amos Harlan.”
David grinned. “Thanks, Corporal.”
He shuffled through the snow back to his tent and went inside to see Hershel still asleep. Retrieving his pocket knife, he emptied his pockets of the gleaned wood. After selecting one of the pieces, he started to whittle away at it. He wished he was with Anna and her family and they were opening the presents he’d wanted to make for them. But the gifts were merely figments of his imagination. He hoped with all his heart he wouldn’t become a forgotten figment as well.
Anna had spent every night since David’s arrest crying herself to sleep. As Christmas drew closer, she became more distraught and even considered going to search for him herself, although she wasn’t sure where to start. Her sisters persuaded her against it, saying it would imperil them all, so she abandoned the thought.
On Christmas morning, Patrick arrived. She went downstairs to greet him.
“Merry Christmas, me darlin’,” he greeted her and handed her a small package.
“Oh, Patrick, you’ve done so much already. I couldn’t possibly accept another gift,” she said.
“‘Tis actually a token from the Meyers,” he said with a smile.
Anna reached for her necklace, the one with David’s ring attached. She kept it close to her heart beneath her corset.
He noticed and said, “I’m only glad I found your ring out in the yard.”
“And you replaced the missing diamond for me. I couldn’t wish for a better friend, Patrick. You’re so kind.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “How can I ever repay you?”
“No need for that, me dear. Nor for tears and sadness. Your David will come back to ye, I’m sure of it.”
He tried his best to console her, but her heart was shattered.
Later on in the day, Anna remarked again about how she would go searching for her husband.
“You don’t even know where he is, Anna,” Abigail said, following her into the parlor. “Wait until Stephen arrives. We’ll persuade him to tell us then.”
Stephen. For the first time in Anna’s life, the thought of him revolted her. His misdirected affections had been annoying before, but she could never forgive him for taking David away from her. She was glad his trip home had been delayed until New Year’s. It would give her more time to prepare.
“We will discover his whereabouts,” Maggie insisted, throwing a confident glance at her two sisters and their aunt. “But we must be discreet. If Stephen suspects anything at all, he might–”
“Yes, I’m well aware of the consequences,” Anna interrupted. She gazed at the scraggly excuse for a Christmas tree in the corner. “You should open your gifts,” she said softly.
“Not without you, dear,” said Sarah.
Drawing a heavy sigh, she arose and pulled a package out from under the tree. She distributed the cluster of gifts before graciously opening three packages herself: one from each of her sisters and another from Sarah. All were articles of clothing. When the family had finished opening presents, she glanced back at the tree and noticed two gifts that still remained untouched beneath it. Her heart ached again as she knelt to pick them up.
“These are David’s,” she said, her voice becoming so small it was barely audible. She stared at the two packages in her hands.
“That’s the book Maggie and I got for him,” Abigail said, pointing to the gift in Anna’s right hand. “Moby-Dick.”
“He would so enjoy that,” remarked Sarah, “and you know I sewed several garments for him.”
“What’s that one?” Maggie inquired.
“Don’t you remember?” said Abigail. “She told us before.”
Anna looked down at the small, wrapped box in her left hand. “This is the pocket watch I bought for him,” she announced as though talking to a ghost. “Inside is a picture of me, taken in Dover on the same day we had our wedding portrait done.” Her eyes started to burn. Tears spilled out and trickled down her cheeks. She placed the two packages on the mantle and ran upstairs, sobbing.
A week later, Stephen gazed out the passenger car’s window and watched the rolling, snow-covered countryside pass by as his train made its way from Washington to Philadelphia. The next day would be New Year’s. He hoped 1865 would bring dramatic changes. It was already starting to look optimistic. Repeatedly, he replayed the incident in his mind, how he had apprehended the boy claiming to be Anna’s cousin. The crusty jacket he had discovered in the barn was shocking, and he marveled at how anyone could survive after losing that much blood. He wondered if Anna really did know of his Confederate affiliation, or if she had something to do with his recovery.
She must have helped him, he thought, but pushed the thought of treason from his mind. It was that Rebel’s doing, he persuaded himself. David tricked her into assisting him, convinced her that he was some long lost relative, and Anna, the sweet, gullible child that she is, believed him, so she nursed him back to health. If I hadn’t discovered his identity when I did, that boy would’ve owned the farm by now. Stephen frowned, slightly shaking his head at the thought. Now that he’s gone, I can proceed as before. He’s gone all right, and from what I hear of that prison, he won’t be coming back. Raising an eyebrow, he smiled with sinister satisfaction at his reflection in the window.