Chapter Nineteen
The Confederates who had previously occupied flimsy tents at “Camp Chemung” were moved into three newly-completed shed barracks. David assisted his weak bunkmate, Hershel, into one of the buildings to which they had been assigned.
“Looks like the carpenters did a right nice job,” Hershel remarked, looking around at the one-hundred-foot long by twenty-two-foot wide structure.
“I heard a guard say they were designed to hold one hundred and twenty men,” said an inmate.
“But it looks to me like there’s at least two hundred of us crammed in here,” remarked another.
David looked around at the green, splintered pine walls, thinking that, at least the sheds were larger than the original thirty-five barracks.
“I reckon ole Colonel Hoffman made sure we got two coal stoves in each of these here new buildin’s,” said Hershel.
David observed one stove installed at each end. Three-tiered bunks ran along each side of the shed with an aisle down the middle. He gently eased Hershel onto one of the hard wooden bunks.
“I’ll go fetch our things,” he said and left him. He returned shortly, carrying two blankets.
“Thank you kindly, Huntsville,” Hershel said. “Where’s the rest? Where’s my haversack?”
David winced. “When I got to the tent, some fellers were fixin’ to take everything. I chased ‘em off, but this here’s all that was left.”
“Damn,” Hershel spat.
Spreading the thin blankets over Hershel’s feeble body, David said, “I wonder where Burgess is.”
“You ain’t figured that out yet, boy? He’s a spy. Reckon he’s chummin’ up with the Billies snug as a bug in a rug right now as we speak.” He coughed a wet, raspy cough.
David realized that Hershel had known about Alan all along. He also knew that Anna was a Yankee because David had mistakenly confessed it once, due to lack of sleep and victuals. Judging from Hershel’s unconcerned reaction, however, David understood his secret was safe with him.
“There’s plenty of galvanized Yankees and spies in here a-watchin’ us to see who’s diggin’ another tunnel,” Hershel explained. “But that ain’t likely to happen now. These here barracks are up off the ground fer enough to prevent anyone from diggin’. Jist the same, Huntsville, you’d best be on yer guard.” He coughed again and rolled over.
Glancing at the door, David saw a group of Rebels staring out. He sauntered over to observe Yankee guards tear down the old summer tents.
“Ain’t sorry to see them damn things go,” said one inmate.
Several more mumbled in agreement.
“Maybe we’ll be warmer in here,” said another ward.
David doubted it, but at least it was more of a shelter. Returning to Hershel, he sat down beside him and whittled on the project he had started nearly a week before.
“In a couple of days it’ll be New Year’s,” he commented, not sure if the old Rebel was listening or not. “Everyone says the war’ll be over soon.”
Two young soldiers approached, for they had observed the extra room on his bunk. “Mind if’n we jine y’all?” one asked.
“Not at all,” David replied.
They climbed onto the bunk beside Hershel. David sat back down on the edge of the bunk and glanced around the building, noticing most of the convicts huddled together for warmth. Their breath floated up, dissipating into the atmosphere in puffs. He overheard someone talking a few bunks down the aisle.
“A friend of mine saw the guards bring in loads of food on Christmas day, but none of it ever got to us.”
David kept his eyes fixed on his carving, but shook his head in abhorrence. Those damn Yankees will stop at nothin’ to make us suffer under their tyranny, he thought.
The two new bunkmates informed they were both from North Carolina and had arrived shortly after David. One of the Tar Heels said his name was Sherwood Richardson. He sported a thick dark beard with heavy eyebrows to match. The other introduced himself as Henry Matthews.
“When I got here and they asked for my name, I told them to write me down as Registered Enemy,” Henry told David with a grin.
The men shared their stories of battles they’d seen and their mutual longing for home. Each sighed in agreement. Home, and the end of the war, seemed very far away.
New Year’s Day in Camp Chemung came and went without any reaction from the inmates but indifference. They were so weary of their surroundings that constant complaints infiltrated the air.
“The food’s so bland that eatin’ is jist a chore.”
“Nothin’ in this God forsaken hole offers up any enjoyment whatsoever.”
Their routine, mundane and dehumanizing, persisted day after day.
“It’s so damn cold in this place I can hardly feel my feet,” one man said.
David agreed. New York’s frigid winter weather paralyzed them all, so they stayed inside the confines of their barracks most of the time and sat crowded together while the cold wind blew in through the cracks.
“You’d think they could at least give us mattresses to sleep on,” Sherwood complained.
“They said it’s to keep the lice population down,” said David.
“It’s my opinion they’re doin’ it out of meanness,” Henry said. “We already have plenty of lice keepin’ us company.”
Eight o’clock came. The stoves were lit, just as they had been twelve hours earlier.
A scuttle erupted, and the men clambered to get as close to the heat as they were allowed, if only for a moment. David warmed his hands for a few minutes before he was pushed back. He returned to Hershel. Taking the old man’s ice cold hands in his, he tried to warm them, but knew his attempt was futile. Hershel gratefully smiled at him.
All of the inmates slept four to a bunk. David, Sherwood, Hershel, and Henry were no exception. They interchanged positions so that one man’s head was beside the next man’s feet. Throughout the night, calls of “turn left” and “turn right” filled the cold night air as the wards turned in the same direction at once to avoid being jabbed or squashed.
During morning roll call, David and his fellow inmates stood outside like human icicles, shivering in the bitter cold and deep snow. A resounding chorus of coughs rose up from them, intermingled with chattering teeth and responses to their names. David covered his nose with a scarf, breathing into it to warm his face.
“Will this winter ever end?” Sherwood asked him once they were released.
“I’ve wondered that myself,” David replied.
Winter in New York, he summated, was unforgiving and relentless.
“There’s an outbreak of smallpox grippin’ the camp,” said Henry. “They’re sayin’ it’s an epidemic.”
David shuddered. The last thing he wanted was to die in this horrific place.
He learned that the camp started giving vaccinations. A few days later, he found himself standing in line to receive his inoculation. The men were instructed to roll their sleeves up past their shoulders.
“This can’t be worse than standin’ at the sink, tryin’ to get warm by pissin’ on ourselves,” one ward remarked.
“Seems everyone in this place is either sick or dyin’ or both,” stated another. “I hardly know of anyone who don’t have pneumonia, diarrhea, dysentery, or scurvy.”
David felt lucky he wasn’t one of those. He’d heard the complaints of some unfortunate souls who had lost control of their bowels, thus forcing them to wear soiled drawers, since the wells and Foster’s Pond were frozen over.
“We’re sick ‘cause they ain’t feedin’ us right,” whined one man. “We’re starvin’ to death, and they know it. Hell, it ain’t like there’s no food, even if there was a drought last summer.”
“They’re doin’ it on purpose,” said another. “You can’t tell me they don’t have food. Yet, all they give us is stale bread, questionable beef, and water flavored with boiled beans, onions, and cabbage, which is their idea of soup. There’s no excuse for it.”
“I heard tell that these shots they’re givin’ us will make our arms fall off,” said a short man behind David.
He glanced over his shoulder to see one of the man’s arms was already missing.
“I heard that too,” said a silver-haired Rebel. “Either that or they produce horrendous ulcers. Or death.”
Hearing this, a few bolted to avoid the terrible vaccinations.
Stunned, David shuffled along, debating whether he should go through with it. He nervously looked around. The men made their way to the medical personnel ahead of them. David reached the front of the line. A member of the medical staff immersed a lancet into a bowl filled with the vaccine and shot it into his left arm. It stung like a thousand bees. Wincing, David rolled down his sleeve and scurried from the building. Only time would tell if he would be dead in a few hours. His thoughts turned to Anna as he made his way through camp to his barracks.
He anxiously awaited the outcome of his vaccination, but resisted the temptation to check it. Within a few hours, his wound swelled to the size of a plum. Pulling his coat sleeve down over his shoulder, he finally took a look. It was puffy, sore, and red. He thought for certain he would die. But after a few days, his wound finally scabbed over.
On January 16, the camp ran out of coal for the stoves, adding to the Confederates’ misery. Their suffering seemed endless.
David watched the camp’s death rate continue to climb, but there was nothing anyone could do to avoid it. To keep the daunting thought from his mind, he occupied his time by carving. Once he had completed several pieces, he found Amos Harlan at his post.
“Say now,” Amos said, looking them over, “dese are right nice.”
“Do you reckon I can fetch a good price for them?” asked David.
“Sho can. You let me take care ob it, and Ah see to it dat payment come yo’ way.”
He agreed before making his request. “In the meantime, I’d like to receive an advance. And postage for two letters I want to send.”
Amos leaned on the butt of his rifle. “What’s yo’ name?” he inquired, squinting his eyes.
“Private David Summers.”
Amos stared at him momentarily to observe the tall Confederate. David’s long brown hair hung down to his shoulders from beneath his slouch hat. His patchy beard matched the color of his hair, and his clothing seemed to be in better shape than what most of the convicts were wearing.
Looking into David’s hazel eyes, he said, “Dat seem fair ‘nough, Summers.”
David handed him the letters he’d been carrying around for nearly a month. “This one has to git past the provost.”
Amos looked over the envelope addressed to Anna. He nodded, turned, and walked off with David’s most prized possessions: the carvings he’d worked on so diligently and his two letters home.
A week later, he found Amos again and presented him with another woodcarving similar to the other three: an intricate, free-standing tree covered with tiny doves.
“Did you mail my letters?” he asked.
Amos’s smile changed to a sneer, sending a shiver up David’s spine.
“Sho did,” he said, taking the carving from David’s hand.
“Did you read them?” he pressed, already suspecting the answer.
“Only da one goin’ to yo’ wibe. She a Yankee, ain’t she?”
He hesitated. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t. You jist tode me.” He snickered at David’s shocked reaction. “Don’t fret. I won’t tell no body, but it cost you.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, frowning.
“Well, deze such purty thins that you hab a make me one, so’s I can send it on to my wibe an’ chil’ren.”
David grinned. “I’d be happy to.”
With a nod, Amos smiled back. He pulled a wad of bills from his trousers pocket and handed a one dollar note to him. “Dis be ‘nough fo’ now,” he said. “When I sell dem, you git credit wid da sutler fo’da rest.” He walked away.
David headed straight for the sutler, where he purchased two apples, some coffee, a cup of milk, which he immediately drank, two onions, and a pair of socks, the sum of which came to ninety cents. Taking his name, the sutler gave him a ten cent credit for future use.
As he wandered back toward his bunk, David chomped down on an apple and relished its sweet, crunchy deliciousness. Recalling how Renegade loved apples, he wondered how his little stallion was getting on.
Ole Pard has surely noticed my absence, he reasoned.
He hoped Renegade wasn’t causing too much trouble for Anna and that Stephen hadn’t claimed him for the Federal army’s use.
His mind drifted back to Anna as it regularly did. A profound longing came over him.
She must’ve received my letter by now, he thought.
The idea that she could be reading it at that very moment gave him comfort.
Four scorbutic prisoners pursued him, begging for a piece of his apple, their eyes red, and their mouths sore and toothless. He tried to ignore them as best he could. When he had finished eating, he threw away the core. It was immediately pounced upon by the scurvy victims. The victor popped the entire core into his mouth and swallowed it whole.
For two weeks, sleet or snow fell nearly every day. Most of the men played cards to occupy their time. David watched passively. Glancing at his bunkmate, he knew Hershel had taken a turn for the worse. He removed the flannel waistband, since his ribs had virtually healed, and returned it to him.
“It worked after all,” he said.
“It won’t work on me, son,” said Hershel, his voice raspy. “It’s too late.” Lifting his shirt, David saw that his chest was covered with tiny red spots.
Sherwood noticed as well. “You oughta take him to one of the smallpox tents on the other side of Foster’s Pond,” he said.
David agreed. He lifted Hershel and discovered that he was shockingly light. The men made their way across the frozen pond to an A-tent. They entered to see two other ailing Confederates. David set Hershel down onto a straw-filled mattress atop a cot. He saw a lit coal-burning stove in the corner, for which he was thankful.
“You can go now, Huntsville,” the old man said with a cough.
“I’m stayin’ right here.” David covered him with a blanket.
Hershel dozed off. Over the course of the next few hours, he drifted deliriously in and out of consciousness and awoke near sunset. “Huntsville, go fetch me a pencil and paper.”
David did as he asked. He returned shortly with the requested items and knelt beside him.
“You write this down,” he said, pointing a wilting finger at him. “You write to my wife and tell her I love her dearly and tell her I miss her, but I’m fixin’ to go to a better place.”
“Harrison, there ain’t no need to—”
“Now don’t you be tellin’ me there ain’t no need,” he exclaimed.
David drew back, startled by Hershel’s sudden, unexpected outburst. “Sorry,” he apologized softly.
“Tell her I long to see her and the young’uns once again, but since that’s impossible, tell her that my final thoughts were of them.”
David nodded.
“You go now, Huntsville. Go write that. Savvy? And send it to her in Tupelo. Can you do that?”
“Yessir,” David replied compassionately. He gazed down at the sickly old man before stepping out of the tent. Overcome with sorrow, he made his way back to the barracks.
Over the weekend of February 4 and 5, a horrendous blizzard blew in, dumping nearly two feet of snow. The town of Elmira shut down, and trains ceased to run. Temperatures plunged into the single digits. Unable to leave their barracks, the men huddled inside.
When the storm finally passed, David struggled to make his way across Foster’s Pond to check on his bunkmate. Entering the tent, he saw that two of the cots were empty. The sick man lying there alone looked up at him.
“Where’s the feller who was occupyin’ this cot?” David asked him.
The man seemed too weak to respond, but finally uttered, “Dead house.”
Stunned, David quickly walked to the morgue. He entered to see several attendees place frozen bodies into pine coffins. The cadavers’ bones cracked as they were forced into their eternal chambers. David grimaced. Meandering down an aisle, he unwittingly found a coffin with a wooden marker tied to the top of it that read:
Ltn Hershel P Harrison
42nd Mississippi
Died 2-5-1865
He stood over the pine box, staring down at the chiseled lettering. A cart lumbered up and came to a halt outside the morgue. With a heavy sigh, David departed the cold charnel. He barely noticed the other inmates, who loaded coffins onto the back of a wagon before transporting them to Woodlawn Cemetery.
One of the attendants saw him and said, “No need to fret. John Jones will tend to them proper.”
“Who’s John Jones?” he asked.
“He’s the ex-slave who’s markin’ every grave. Doin’ a right thorough job of it too.”
David watched for a moment, still trying to comprehend that Hershel was truly gone. He slowly shuffled through the deep snow, dismally wondering if he might soon end up the same way. He remembered what one of the Tar Heels had told him about grave robbers. According to Sherwood, the loathsome ghouls unearthed buried cadavers and sold them to area doctors who conducted experiments on them. He hoped such a fate wouldn’t befall Hershel’s body.
Making his way past the guardhouse used for solitary confinement, he looked up. A few feet in front of him, sitting on its haunches, was the largest rat he had ever seen. It looked to be at least the size of a tomcat. The enormous rodent bared its long, yellow teeth at him. Astonished, David gasped. He hurried back to his bunk; continuously glancing over his shoulder to make sure the giant rat wasn’t coming after him. All the while, he shivered from the cold, and from the sight of the frightful creature he had just encountered.
Reaching the sanctuary of his confines, he rubbed his hands together for several minutes, sat down, and forced himself to construct a sympathy letter to Hershel’s family. The sad event filled his heart with melancholy. He was thankful he didn’t have to tell them in person.
Glancing around, he noticed how some of the convicts were invested in lively games while their comrades lay dying on the beds beside them. It appalled him that no one seemed to take notice. Death was nothing more than a trite matter of circumstance. But to him, it was a life-changing event. He knew he would never forget Hershel. Struggling to hold back tears, he started writing.