Chapter Twenty-Two

 

 

During the last two weeks of March, talk consisted of the Confederacy’s collapse. Grant had blocked Lee’s army at Petersburg, and Sherman was approaching Richmond from the south. Impending doom seemed inevitable.

David occupied himself with carving and writing letters. He wrote numerous begging notes, which were letters other prisoners sent to relatives, friends, or acquaintances, begging for money and food. With the money he earned, he bought fruits and vegetables for Sherwood and himself. The two had grown close over the course of their confinement, and the fact that they were both survivors solidified their friendship. In return, David’s gracious bunkmate taught him the fine art of bartering at the marketplace, and his finesse at five-card draw.

Amos continued to sell David’s carvings. For recompense, he created one each for Amos’s wife and children. But with all he did to keep his mind off his current condition, he couldn’t stop thinking about Anna. A deeply distressing notion crossed his mind. On some days, he walked around camp, staring at the ground like one of the souls who had lost their minds. An ominous feeling came over him, one he couldn’t shake. She hadn’t written to him, but he reasoned that, perhaps, she was afraid to, lest it expose her as a traitor. Still, his body and soul ached for her. Every day away from her seemed longer than the previous. With all of his heart, he hoped she wouldn’t forget him.

On March 30, David received another letter from home. His mother wrote this one, which calmed his concern about her ailing health.

 

Dear Son,

I have sent along some of your favorit cookies and hope the Yankee men there will get them to you.

 

He glanced inside the envelope. There were no cookies.

 

We are all fine, your sisters are fine, and I am fine. Bud Samuels came home with a missing leg last month and now is done with the fighting. We are all weery and hope the war will end soon, even if it means the end of the Confederacy. The slave holders are the only ones who can benefit from Southern victory as I see it. Most every one here has lost a loved one. I only thank the good Lord that you are unharmed. My dear son, we are all praying for your safekeeping. I so look forward to your next letter. Please write promptly, and I will have your sister Josie write next time. Can you believe your little sister is already sixteen years old? Your sister Rena says hellow, and Callie wishes for you to write to her. Now I must go my dear son. We all love you and hope you will return to us soon in one piece.

Your mother

 

David openly wept upon reading the words she had written. After months of sleepless nights and days filled with atrocities and death, he only cared about getting back home.

The next morning, Sherwood invited him to the market, so the two men made their way through camp. Even though the day was bright, the air was still cool; and Sherwood wished out loud that he’d worn his coat.

“Here. You can wear mine,” David offered. He handed the fraying wool coat to his bunkmate, who thanked him in return.

Once they had arrived at the marketplace, Sherwood started a discussion with a vendor about the war. From out of nowhere, Lieutenant McConnell appeared.

“I heard what you said about General Grant, boy.” He pushed Sherwood and sent him stumbling.

Sherwood turned around. Glaring at the officer, he said, “I don’t cotton to that,” and walked off toward the stockade wall.

“Stop,” the lieutenant commanded.

Sherwood ignored him.

McConnell came after him. He lunged, shoving Sherwood so hard that he fell. The officer proceeded to kick him. A crowd gathered around to observe and object.

David’s anger seethed. After reading his mother’s letter, he was more infuriated than ever. Without thinking, he came to the defense of his friend. He threw himself at the officer, knocking him to the ground.

McConnell reacted by pulling his sidearm and pointing it at David’s chest.

A shot came from one of the sentry posts on the fence, barely missing David’s feet. He jumped. At that moment, he realized what he had done.

McConnell clambered to his feet. “You’re lucky I don’t shoot you right here,” he roared.

He pistol-whipped him and sent him sprawling. Two guards immediately appeared to apprehend him.

“Take him to the holding pen,” McConnell barked. “We’ll decide what to do with him there.”

David glanced at his bunkmate. Sherwood glared back at him in shock.

“Are you fixin’ to hang him up by his thumbs?” one spectator asked.

“Or put him in the sweat box?” another inquired.

The Federals ignored their questions and forcefully led David to the barracks designed for solitary confinement. Entering the dark, dank building, they threw him into an empty cell, smashing him so hard against the back wall that it knocked the wind out of him. He groaned in anguish as he lay on the cold brick floor.

“Lock the door,” McConnell commanded the guards. He stared through the bars at his attacker for a few moments. “You’ll regret your insolence, boy,” he snarled, and walked away.

David was tempted to apologize for his rash behavior but couldn’t catch his breath, so he decided he was safer not to speak. The barracks door slammed shut. He sat alone in the dark, regretting his impulsive action while he gasped for air.

In an hour, what seemed like every Union soldier in the prison arrived. David was yanked from his cell and led to an empty room with two log poles erected in the middle of it.

“How old are you, Johnny?” one of them asked.

David glared at him. “What day is this?”

“March thirty-first,” was the man’s reply.

“I’m twenty,” he responded belligerently, realizing his birthday was two days away and he was nearly that age.

One of the guards stepped toward him. He tore off David’s shirt, brutally took hold of his wrist, and tied it to a post. He did the same with his other wrist.

“Twenty, eh?” Another Yankee with a whip in his hand remarked. “Then you’ll get twenty lashes. One for each year of your miserable life.” He struck David’s naked back with the whip.

The excruciating sting it caused shocked him. He gasped but refused to give them any satisfaction by expressing his pain.

“One!” the Federals exclaimed. The whip lashed out again with a crack. “Two!” they counted.

David clenched his teeth and swayed on sea legs. The number of lashes climbed past ten, with every despicable Bluecoat counting and commenting in amused reproach. Unable to contain his anguish any longer, he let out a groan with each infliction. By the time the sixteenth whipping came, he hung by his arms and uncontrollably cried out in agony.

“Seventeen! Eighteen! Nineteen!”

There was a long pause. Grimacing in pain, David could no longer hold his head up. The final lash came with a crack across his back that felt like a thousand swords.

“Twenty!” the crowd roared.

“Untie him,” he heard one of the men say.

Two guards untied both of his wrists at once. He crumpled onto the floor. The guards gruffly picked him up, dragged him back to his cell, threw his shirt at him, and locked him inside. The remaining Federals ridiculed him until they finally decided the show was over and filed out.

“I’ll send a surgeon to check on you in a while,” one of them offered.

The barracks door closed with an echoing bang. Only silence remained. David’s back felt like it was on fire. He moaned in misery and slowly sat up. His head swirled. Tears streamed down his face as pain-filled anger and hatred gripped his heart. He pulled his shirt on over his bleeding back, crawled onto the barren bunk, and rolled up into a ball. With all of his being, he wanted to die, so he could finally escape his torturous surroundings. Sobs of hopelessness consumed him.

“Reckon it hurts purty bad.”

The sound of a man’s voice startled him. He drew in several deep gulps of air and crawled over to the bars. Staring into the dark abyss that engulfed him, he saw the man a few cells down looking over at him, his face covered with a thick gray beard.

“You’re the first boy I know of got whipped,” the man commented. His voice echoed through the cold, empty building. “What is it you done to git yerself here in the dungeon?”

David swayed, sat upon the cold floor, and rubbed the swell over his right cheek where Lieutenant McConnell’s handgun had struck him. “I attacked an officer.”

The man chuckled. “No wonder they give you the special treatment.”

He wandered away from the door of his cell. David sat clutching onto the bars for several minutes before he dragged himself back to his bunk.

Later that evening, a guard arrived with supper. He slid a tray with a tin cup and plate on it under the barred door before walking off. David slowly forced himself to stand, even though he felt sorely unwell. He picked up his meal, carried it over to the bunk, and sat down with the tray balanced on his lap. A chunk of stale bread and a small amount of soup floated on the plate. He consumed the bread. Something in the soup caught his eye. At first, he thought it was a piece of rice but realized it was a dead maggot. Although it repulsed him, he fished it out with his index finger and tipped the plate so the cold liquid ran into his mouth. When he had finished, he slid the tray back under the cell door and downed the cupful of water.

“What’s your name, anyways?” he asked into the darkness.

There came no reply.

David sighed. He returned to the hardwood bunk. Unable to recline on his back, he rolled from side to side, shivering.

No place on earth could be worse than this, he reasoned.

Elmira was Hades without a doubt.

A Yankee Bluecoat brought him breakfast. To David’s amazement, the beef ration was actually edible. By early afternoon, a guard came into the barracks and released the man who had been confined near him.

The man glanced in at David while the guard escorted him past his cell.

“You hang in there, young’un,” he said.

He told the guard he should send a doctor to “tend to the poor boy” before the door slammed shut.

Now David was truly alone. He wondered how long he had to remain in cold isolation and wished he had his coat. Throughout the day he tried to doze, but strange noises jolted him awake. Late in the afternoon, he heard something scurry. He glanced over at the corner of his cell. A gigantic rat stared at him with bulging, coal-black eyes. David sat up in alarm. He recognized the creature. It was the same enormous rat he had seen before. The monster rat drew closer, found a crumb, and scuttled off. David shivered, too shaken to sleep. Afraid the hideous rodent would somehow murder him since he had no way to defend himself, he lay awake all night, staring at the dark floor.

Another morning came. The day of David’s twentieth birthday dragged by. He wished he’d never been born and questioned the reason for his existence. Was it only to cause everyone around him misery? Was it only so that he could suffer through life? A guard arrived and left him a plate for supper, but the meal went untouched. His eyes burned, his head throbbed, his heart ached, and his throat hurt so badly he could barely swallow. David’s cell was too dark for him to even make out his hand in front of his face. Strange noises within the barracks still alarmed him. The cuts on his back burned. He felt certain he’d get gangrene and die. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to think only of Anna, although he loathed himself for what he had done to end up here and for what he had done to her. He never should have fallen in love with her and convinced her to marry him. Sarah was right.

In the morning, the barracks door opened. Footsteps drew near, stopping at his cell, but he didn’t bother to look up.

“Psst. Summers. Is you dead?”

Slowly, he opened his eyes and focused on the Federal standing outside his cell. “Harlan?”

Amos glanced at the barracks door and motioned for David to come to the bars. He handed him a fresh loaf of bread and a tin cup full of jam.

“Here, take dis.”

David eagerly took the loaf and began eating.

“I heared you was in dis place. Talk all ober camp ‘bout how you came to anoder man’s de fence.”

“Thanks, Harlan,” David said. “I owe you one.”

“Naw,” Amos replied. “I gots to go. I try to git you mo’ later on.”

He quickly left.

David reclined on the bunk, careful to avoid touching his painful wounds against the hard wood. Three days of confinement seemed like an eternity.

The afternoon dragged on. All of a sudden, he heard men passing and talking excitedly outside. He had no window to look out of but knew something was happening because the voices grew louder and more agitated. When evening came, he distinguished church bells in the distance. Amos returned with a plate-full of meat and vegetables. David gratefully accepted it.

“Yo’ bunkmate want me to gib you dis,” Amos told him.

He pushed David’s coat through the bars. Relieved to evade another shivering night in the cold dampness, he quickly pulled it on. Amos handed him a candle on a holder and a box of matches. David graciously accepted those as well.

“Did they put Richardson in the sweat box?” he inquired.

Amos merely shook his head.

David sighed, relieved his bunkmate had achieved impunity and hadn’t been chastised for his involvement. “What’s goin’ on outside?” he asked. “I heard all kinds of ruckus this afternoon.”

“We got a wire today, sayin’ Richmon’ been taken. I be ‘tendin’ da parade in town later on.”

“Richmond’s been taken?”

The war was all but over now. An exhilarated sadness filled him, for he knew that his beloved Southland had fallen. Yet, he realized that he might achieve freedom soon.

“Harlan, please fetch me a couple of rocks or a big stick,” he requested.

“What fo’?” he asked.

“There’s a huge rat that comes in here, and I’m fixin’ to kill it. That critter’s worth twice as much as the other varmints, I reckon.”

A broad grin spread across Amos’s face. “I seed dat rat afo’. We calls him ‘King Chemung’.”

He left and returned a few moments later with two rocks and a four-foot stick. David winced with pain as he passed them through the bars to him.

“No doc come see you yet?”

He shook his head.

“I be seein’ what I can do fo’ you, but won’t be till t’morrow, since I be paradin’ tonight. You take care now,” he said and left him alone.

The night slowly went by. In the distance, he heard band music float through the cool spring air. The Yankees were having their celebration all right, at the expense of every captive in the prison. He lit the candle and rummaged through his coat pockets. Finding the note from Anna, he stared down at it for several minutes. He felt his heart break. Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited until the pain subsided. He opened the letters from his mother and sister and squinted to read them again. Placing them back inside a pocket, he felt the buckeye, so he pulled it out. He stared at it as it lay in the palm of his hand and wondered if it had any luck left to give. Returning it to his pocket, he discovered his Bible. Gingerly, he lay back against the hardwood bunk and flipped through the thin pages until he came to a passage that held his attention.

 

Let brotherly love continue. Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. Remember them that are in bonds, as bound with them; and them which suffer adversity, as being yourselves also in the body.

 

Closing his eyes, he painfully dwelled on the words. How could he feel anything but hatred? Here he was in bondage and suffering, yet the Good Book commanded him to exercise brotherly love. He didn’t know if he could ever trust another Yankee again as long as he lived. Filled with loathing, he eventually drifted off.

A squeak and a shuffle abruptly startled him. He sat up to see King Chemung at the foot of his bunk and sprang from it. Slowly, he reached down to pick up the rocks he had left on the floor near the head of his bunk and cautiously stepped toward the rodent. As hard as he could, he threw a rock at its head. He missed. The rat sat up on its haunches, hissing at him as though taunting him. He threw the other rock, which also missed, and bounced against the back wall. King Chemung scurried from the bunk and ran across the cell floor, straight at him. Shocked by the rat’s audacious reaction, David grabbed the stick and swatted at him with it. The gigantic rat tried to charge several times, but then abruptly turned and started toward the cell door. Remembering the buckeye in his pocket, David pulled it out and hurled it with all his might at the escaping vermin. To his astonishment, the rat fell over. It lay there, twitching. He carefully came toward it and poked at it with the stick. Amazingly, he had succeeded.

The damn thing’s dead, he thought to himself.

For a moment, he stood looking down at the ugly creature, its teeth bared in some sort of demonic grin. Keeping his eyes fixed on the rat, he stomped the heel of his boot into the rodent’s head, hearing a crunch as he caved in its skull.

“Reckon you won’t be pesterin’ me anymore,” he said dryly.

He walked over to his bunk. After lying down on his side against the hard wood, he stared at the dark form on the floor until his eyelids finally grew heavy and drifted shut.

In the morning, Amos arrived to see David’s kill and laughed hysterically.

“You did it! You kilt the beast,” he exclaimed. He agreed to take the rat to the market for trade.

“And bring me back a piece,” David requested.

Revenge was sweet. That afternoon, Amos returned with a roasted portion of King Chemung for David to feast upon, along with two loaves of bread and five twists of tobacco. Although his mother smoked a pipe, David had never developed an interest in tobacco. But now he chewed it because it was given to him. It helped to ease his pain, boredom, and depression. He waited to be set free inside the camp, curious to find out what was going on outside the prison walls.

The week slowly crept by; but still, no doctor came to see him. Amos’s visits became nonexistent. He wondered if he would ever see the light of day again. His dejection was overwhelming. He could barely force himself to eat the disgusting slop they brought him and wondered how other prisoners had survived solitary confinement for weeks and months at a time. The Bible was no consolation. He thought he might go insane.

One evening, a guard brought him supper.

“What day is this,” David asked, like he did with every guard.

“April eighth,” was the response.

“How much longer do I have to stay in here?”

The guard shrugged, walked down the aisle, and slammed the barracks door behind him.

David looked at his plate. This time, he found a bean in the soup instead of only diluted broth. Although the legume was tasteless, he relished it, just the same. He returned to his bunk and lay down. Feeling weak and hopeless, he closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. His aching head and throbbing back made relief nearly impossible. Off and on, he dozed, and found himself sitting against the cold wall in the dark, humming “Dixie.” He remembered singing it with Abigail on his wedding day, and naturally, his thoughts turned to Anna. He was so in love with her, but he had been away for months. What if she had given up on him? Could she do such a thing? He couldn’t stand one more day without her. Desolation consumed him. He began to cry, and buried his face in his hands.

“David.”

He gasped. Looking around the dark cell, he saw no one. He quickly wiped the tears from his eyes and sniffed.

“Son, you must be strong.”

“Pa?” His voice echoed in the darkness.

“I am here. I am always with you. Don’t despair.”

David stifled a sob. “Pa, is that you? Where are you? I need you.” He broke down again.

“You must be strong—for the ones who love you. Son, do not despair.”

Reining in his emotions, he wiped his face on the sleeve of his coat. I must’ve been dreamin’, he thought. Or hallucinatin’. He could have sworn it was his father’s voice. “Be strong,” he said out loud, repeating the phantom utterance. His own words resonated in the empty building. “I have to be strong.”

Another long, dreary day progressed. On the afternoon of April 10, the sound of church bells in the distance awakened him. A commotion arose outside, just as it had the day he learned of Richmond’s fall. Anxious to get outside and find out for himself, he paced back and forth until, at last, a guard entered.

David threw himself at the bars. “What is it?” he asked.

The guard grinned at him. “Your General Lee has surrendered at Appomattox Court House.”

His jaw dropped. He couldn’t believe the words the Yankee had just spoken, even though he knew in his heart it was forthcoming. The noble men that he had so gallantly fought with, the Army of Northern Virginia, had succumbed to the iron will of the North. His beloved Dixie had finally fallen.

“You’re free to go,” the guard said, turning the key.

He pulled the squeaky cell door open. David made his way outside, squinting at the sunlight he hadn’t seen in over a week, and stood dumbfounded. The guard closed the barracks door behind them. Inmates in the yard were simultaneously rejoicing and mourning, while the guards stood nearby with rifles poised, ready for an uprising. The scene was strange, yet exhilarating all at once. It was then that he truly comprehended what had taken place. Lincoln’s fatal folly had finally ended. The war was over.