Andersonville (46 page)

In a shallow calm pool among willows she whitened the water; frogs leaped away, crayfish scuttled to safety. No one came to spy upon Laurel’s nakedness, although she blushed in this fearful solitude, made small squeals when she found a leech upon her leg, felt malarial fever through her limbs at every crow-call. Once she was scrubbed and dried the rose oil made aromatic madness on her skin and in her hair. Why had she not fetched her mother’s looking glass? Oh, to gaze upon herself, to see whether her bright hair was the damp loose cloud of ecstasy which she believed it to be when her hands went through it and let it fall and then strayed aloft wonderingly again . . . an idea came to her, in the end. With skirt held high she waded to a dark untroubled place beneath a cypress, and stood motionless, not breathing until the water was cleared, unrippled; then the girl bent forward, squatting, and saw her own thin wild face wavering up at her, and saw the hair . . . oh, Mercy Jesus, God, hell. . . . Oh, Miss Lucy, lady, I do thank you for them soaps and the potion.

That evening Captain Ox was long since departed; but another mule was tethered, and a lamp burned in The Crib and was then put out at the caller’s request. Zoral slept in a wet place of his own making. Coral had gone crutching off to Uncle Arch’s, empowered to buy navy plug, meal, and a stick of red candy for his mother’s use. The late lopsided moon had not yet risen, nor would rise for hours; but starlight yielded golden brownness to enrich each tuft of nearby trees. Laurel Tebbs sat on the step, leaning her shoulder against a post. My, she had the unspoken thought, it surely does stink bad. That there prison pen yonder. Them Yankees must be powerful dirty, dirtier than ever I been in my born days. She thought of Little Sweetwater, and how savage and lonely must be the region where she had bathed; perhaps dangerous wild beasts were prowling beside the very pool wherein she had splashed—formless ferocious wild beasts—she trembled before the notion of their stealth and blackness. She thought of the shampoo, the cake of Windsor worn to a flake; she thought of the rose oil, and scrambled up to bring her bottle out of hiding. She had concealed the bottle within an old clock (the clock did not run, it stood dusty on a high shelf, it was a good place to hide her thimble or any other treasure which might be coveted by Zoral). There was still a spoonful or two of oil in the flask, and the girl resumed her place on the step and held the bottle to her nostril, and believed that the stockade’s vapor could not reach past this immediate fragrance. Presently a dark shape detached itself from hollowness of the roadway, seemed to halt indecisively, then drifted forward. It was a man who tripped over the crude two-wheeled cart which Mag had prevailed upon Coral to build for the baby; the man swore heatedly and then came closer. Laurel stood up. Ma ain’t in the house, she said automatically. She’s over’n The Crib, she’s got a caller.

The man laughed. Honey, I never did come to see your old lady. Come to see you.

She roasted quickly in the heat of her own flesh. Now, you look a here, Sergeant! I’m but a girl. It’s my Ma who does the entertaining.

Sinkfield came up to the step and stood with hands on his wide stuffed hips. Sakes, honey child, I wouldn’t want no truck with your old lady. I like young ladies, like you. Member how we danced at the pic-nic?

Hain’t no pic-nic going on tonight.

Look what I brung you, and he brought forth a crumple of paper. Brown sugar. What they call maple sugar, manufactured away at the North. Ain’t that nobby?

Laurel tossed her head, and brushed her wiry hair with her hands, then smoothed it against her scalp once more. Oh, she said, I don’t much care for sugar no way.

Took it off a Yank that I went through at the depot. Thinks I, Well, now I wonder who’d like this? Thinks I, Bet I know who’d like it. That pretty little Laurel Tebbs, that’s who. So reckon I’ll just mog along that way, once’t I get off duty and get myself a pass. His big hand reached out to touch her knee, Laurel slapped the hand. Sinkfield laughed, he took his hand away. Aw, come along now, honey. Just please to take one bite.

Well, she said, I will try it.

Sinkfield lounged against the post, he seemed to tower tall above Laurel, although he was not truly tall, he was only heavy and loutish. She pressed the stopper of her rose oil bottle into place, put the bottle in her lap, and explored the wad of newspaper which the sergeant had pressed upon her. She liked the odor which came up, she examined the flat lump and few granules which had broken loose. She tasted cautiously.

Now, ain’t that fine, Laurel?

Oh, it don’t taste like much.

Ah, you know it does.

No, it don’t neither, she snapped.

Aw, does so.

Well, she said, twill do for Zoral.

Who’s that?

My baby brother. Baby half-brother, mean to say. We’re all halves.

That Flory just a half-brother also?

Uh-huh.

Little snot.

I’ll have Ma take a stick to you, you go saying bad words front of me!

Why, snot hain’t a bad word, it’s just what comes out of your nose. And I do have a task, keeping Flory in line. But he’s really scairt of me, so I fetch him up sharp. Never had to thrash him but a couple of times.

Officers and sergeants and such— They ain’t
sposed
to hit the boys under them. I heard Captain Ox say so.

Sinkfield grasped the girl’s hand and tried to draw her to her feet, but she exclaimed and held back, and with her left hand hugged the paper of sugar and the bottle into her skirts.

Laurel, honey, less you and me take a little walk—

Her heart was thudding like a hard fist knocking at a door, nok, nok, nok, nok, nok. No, I don’t want to. Look out there, you’ll spill my ssssugar, and her voice also was a slippery entity and seemed to writhe out of management. She twisted her hand loose from the sweaty grasp.

Well, less put it away somewheres.

Well, I—

Just a little bitty walk, honey?

Well . . . you got any sulphur matches, Sergeant? Please to strike a light for me, so’s I can see where to put my sugar. She retreated into the house and Sinkfield groped after her. He lighted the match, Laurel brought a candle (in times of comparative plenty they used lamps and candles in this house, they did not have to use grease-lights). She put the rose oil into the clock, the sugar into a dusty pitcher. She stood, short rapid breathing hurting her chest, heart breaking itself apart inside her. She stood with slightly lowered head, gazing at Sinkfield through the flickers of tawny light, conscious of an indefinite limitless power which she now held. She thought that she should like to use that power to hurt Sergeant Sinkfield, she wished that his face was not so broken into pink and yellow rash; but if she hurt him severely he might not come back again, he might never dance with her again, he might never pull her tightly against his overgrown body again.

You want—? Her voice shook with the excitement ruling the room and the lout and herself. Want a drink of wwwater?

He grinned. I don’t need no water, honey. He came around the corner of the table, and Laurel retreated before him.

Want a peach? We got some.

Why ain’t you just like a little peach your own self! That pretty peachy hair and— He had her hand again, he had both hands; she laughed shrilly, without reason. She shook her head and felt the loose clean hair whipping. Again it must be like a loose cloud, a lovely scented cloud; she wished she could see herself in a mirror.

Laurel, listen—

Whwhwhat?

Less take that little old walk.

Reckon Ma might give me a whipping.

Pshaw, she won’t know nothing about it. Just a little bitty walk.

Well, if’n I do go—

Ah, strength was in her, strength of mules and horses and cruel spring winds a-twisting, power of red blood flowing in rivers, power of engines and staring stars. You know I ain’t but fifteen. We got to stay in earshot of the house, now you mind that.

Sure we will, honey.

And— And you got to promise you won’t hit Flory no more.

Why, sure I won’t if you ask it. Little snot like him—

Ser
geant
! And
you got to swear you’ll stop a-saying that word. If’n I go. For a walk. Just a— A little way. Real close to home.

Sure enough, honey, I’ll do anything you say. He drew her out into the broken wilderness of tan light and umber shade.

Within one hour she had returned to the house, and alone, alternately running a few steps, driving her bruised pelvic region into the motion of flight; but it would pain her severely, and cause her to move more slowly, and then she would walk as one entranced. One sleeve was torn nearly loose from the new-stitched gown and fluttered as a light wind came to toss it. Certain sundered tissues scraped rawly each step that Laurel took, hot moisture oozed, her ragged drawers were stained with it. Had she said she’d go for a walk? Yes, she had said— She had said, We got to stay nigh the house, but he had drawn her on and on, across the railroad and beyond a fence into a bushy corner of the Claffey acres (which site he had selected previously with an eye to solitude and convenience; the grass was long there, no houses stood near). The unidentified power which had coursed in Laurel’s frame and spirit was frozen solid, it was no longer a power, it was ice and wail and terror. She heard a mushy voice battering her ears as later the big dry rod had slain her maidenhood. I’m just the funniest feller. She heard her own treble drawling, How so? . . . Count of the jokes I make, and tricks. I just keep them boys at the camps a-laughing all the while. You mind what my name is: I told you at the pic-nic: tis Jester. Jester Johnson Sinkfield. And what Jester means is a feller doing stunts and jokes. You got a funny-bone, Laurel? Less see— And the clumsy hand digging her side, her own protestation resounding. . . . You ever see a little pig hung up by his hind legs a-squealing? Funniest thing you ever did see! Twas my task at the slaughter-house up Atlanta way; I took care of the little ones, and didn’t they just rip. Way you do is first tie their legs, like this. No, no, honey, I hain’t a-going to tie your legs together; here, give me your hands; no, give me both hands; we’ll play like you was a baby pig, just the prettiest little baby pig, and like your hands was his hind legs; here, I’ll use this big handkerchief; and I’ll tie them tight, see? Like this; ah, that’s good. Ho, ho! Well, look at little Laurel, and I got your hands tied tight. Yes, by God, so I have. And you ain’t a-going to squeal, are you? Cause you don’t know how—and cause I’m going to take this other nice clean handkerchief
and stick it in your mouth,
by God, I’m going to stuff it in, ah, that’s better, ain’t it better, honey, because you can’t squeal no way, and now I got you, Laurel,
get this damn dress out of the way,
and by God, hot damn, holy Jesus H. Christ, I’m a-going to stuff something else in somewhere, ah, aha, aha,
aha—
And
her own cry gagged to a mumble, a mumble and shudder turned back by the fabric in her mouth and rolled angrily in reverse to poison the very soul which had sent it forth.

 XXVIII 

O
ught to call them the Black Brigade or the Dark Avengers or something similar, said Seneca MacBean. He was going over the list of secret Regulators in his mind. He knew a man who’d dug for gold in California (well, he knew several such men, but none of them had ever found much gold) and that man spoke of this new contingent, organized so slowly, quietly, solidly, as Vigilantes. That sounded foreign to MacBean’s ears, so he always used the term Regulators. He would have called them The Blacks or The Darks—he had heard of the Scots Greys—because so many were black-locked. It wasn’t just the pitch which stained their faces; they were dark to begin with. Take Bill Rowe, Michigander from the Ninth Cavalry. Very swarthy as to hue. Take the fellow everybody called Limber Jim, from the Sixty-seventh Illinois. Looked like an Indian, and maybe he did have Indian blood. Well, there were even some full-blooded Indians on this team! Take Nathan Dreyfoos, take himself: both black as to hair. And take the ruling genius of the lot: he was a printer like Sen MacBean, but from Bloomington instead of from Galena; his name was Leroy Key and he was a sergeant in the Sixteenth Cavalry. Fully as dangerous to toy with as MacBean, Key had a talent for organization and planning which matched Sen’s, and an outright executive capacity far exceeding the Galenan’s.

Lord smiled on us when he sent Key here, said Seneca.

Key has the manner of a colonel.

And he’ll
be
better than a colonel, mark my words!

I have a new recruit, Sen. I spoke to him again this morning, and he’ll be at the meeting tonight. Certainly he will be accepted and sworn.

Name?

His name is Hill, a sergeant from the Hundredth Ohio Volunteers. Extremely broad shoulders and the mildest manner in the world. But—

Sen MacBean slapped the board with the tattered drawers he was washing. Don’t need to tell me. I wonder I never thought of Hill before! Just goes to show how stupid I can grow. Why, when we hit Belle Isle there was a bully name of Jack Oliver, Nineteenth Indiana. Had everything pretty much his own way until one day he got to picking on an old man in A. R.’s mess. I mean Hill—that’s his initials—A. R.

MacBean paused for a time as if he were considering what style of type to use to set A. R. Hill’s name and initials.

A. R. says to this bully, Mister, I don’t think that’s a nice way to talk to an old man. Talking slowly, the way he does, kind of spelling out the words like a chorister would line a hymn. Up jumps Oliver with, Maybe you want to take it up? Well, Mister, says Hill, I don’t go around hunting trouble, but I generally take care of all that’s sent me. . . . Oh, you should have seen it, Nate. A. R. went around that fellow like a cooper round a barrel. Oliver’s front teeth were out, his ribs busted, his face looked like it had been run through a job press. He was what you might call better mannered after that.

Nathan nodded but he was still seeking recruits. Is Oliver now in Andersonville? Is he one of the raiders? If not, possibly we could enlist him.

Nope. Scurvy. He’s a sorry picture now. I saw him tother day going along Main Street. His cords had pulled in on him and he had to travel on all fours. Pitiful sight.

Six new recruits were accepted into the band at the assembly that night. Sergeant Key’d worked cleverly at organizing a screen of singers and religious exhorters. These pickets were trustworthy men who approved heartily the plan for concerted action against the raiders, but who would be prevented by age or infirmity or small stature from taking active part in any pitched battle. A sergeant named Waddell, whose home was in Kenton, Ohio, had founded a prayer meeting late in May, and from the devout boys and elders who had been regular attendants Key could levy with no fear of betrayal. As dusk came down the communicants assembled according to prearranged plan beyond Main Street but not too close to the north fence. There were a number of ordained ministers among the prisoners, and some one of these discoursed fervently, turn and turn about. There was a bearded lay preacher named Frank Ives who served his stint. . . . Brothers, I will take as my text this evening Romans Fourteen, Twelve.
So then every one of us shall give account of himself to God.

Hymns arose simultaneously from other circles nearby.

My heavenly home is bright and fair,

No pain nor woe can enter there;

Its glittering towers the sun outshine—

That heavenly mansion shall be mine.

All hail the power of Jesus’ name!

Let angels prostrate fall;

Bring forth the royal diadem—

Tho’ ev’ry prospect pleases

And only man is vile—

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing—

Behind this mask of humanity and psalmody the canny destruction was in planning. The band of Regulators crouched in tight concentric circles; a few sentries walked their beats on the outskirts while Key stood tall before serious eyes watching him. It was impossible to keep raiders or their spies from knowing that something unusual and foreboding was in progress, but at least it was hoped that specific information—the personnel, equipment and tactics to be employed—might be kept from the enemy.

Key’s sober nasal Illinois voice droned calmly under cover of sacred choruses.

I’m going home to die no more,

To die no more, to die no more,

I’m going home to die no more.

Bring forth the royal diadem,

And crown Him Lord of all.

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace—

Armament was the chief problem; that, and coöperation from Rebel authorities. A fear was voiced that when warfare commenced actually on a decisive scale, Wirz would make good his threat to sweep the stockade with canister. His jumping nerves might cry that here rose Insurrection, here came Riot, now the Yankees were trying to storm the gates as he had feared.

We must figure out some plan for apprising our jailers in advance.

Key, that ain’t no good. Too many spies among the Paroles outside, and they’d get word to Curtis or Collins or Sarsfield or somebody in the twinkling of an eye.

That’s correct, Goody. There would necessarily be the briefest of intervals between the apprisal of our intentions, and the actual attack.

But spose the Rebs refused us permission?

I don’t think they would, Ned. Mike Hoare, you got anything to say on the subject?

Hoare was a slim powerful man from Jackson, Michigan, who had been captured during Dahlgren’s abortive raid against Richmond. He spoke, feelingly and to the point, on the subject of armament. In battle they would be going against a horde possessed of knives, slung-shots, brass knuckles, probably some pistols. God was usually on the side with the heaviest artillery. Well. . . .

O that with yonder sacred throng

We at His feet may fall!

It took more nighttime meetings, and shrewd manipulation and bargainings by day, to equip even squad leaders with anything like decent arms. The men were determined that no more of them should commingle with that yonder sacred throng than became absolutely necessary, but that as many raiders as resisted should commingle. The Sucker Laundry and its adjacent barber shop served as a market-place where owners of weapons or incipient weapons might be questioned judiciously and persuaded to part with these essentials when bribed by community resources. MacBean and Dreyfoos gave liberally of their world’s goods to this cause, and MacBean was effective as a missionary enlisting financial support. In this manner nearly two dozen makeshift knives and eight real knives were secured, together with two lead-filled billies and many improvised slung-shots; leaders worked at improvising more. But clubs would prove most effective when the army took the field, and it was lack of these implements which perplexed Key and his lieutenants. Long ago the few trees left standing in the area had been torn apart, the very roots had been excavated piecemeal and burned, every remainder of the old north boundary had vanished as if eaten by ants. Few tent poles could be found which were tough enough to serve.

Face the music, said Sen MacBean. Pine just doesn’t make a good solid club. Maybe a green branch, properly cut and peeled; the rest’s too brittle and splintery.

Nathan said, I should have made more pointed lances or rapiers last spring when still they could be had.

Certainly, you ought. But no use crying over spilt milk. Maybe we can take enough clubs away from the toughs before they bowl us over?

No firearms came to light during a first cautious census by the Regulators. On the hot morning of July second it became known that a shriveled little Italian of the Forty-eighth New York had died in his shebang during the night. Nathan Dreyfoos was called to the scene to act as interpreter during a debate which ensued between neighbors and fellow Forty-eighth New Yorkers. The neighbors sought to have the corpse removed immediately, the comrades wished to wait until a priest named Father Peter Whelan appeared on his rounds; he came inside nearly every day. Nathan spoke only a little Italian, but by resorting to French and Spanish he managed to persuade the survivors to convey the body to the deadline and await Father Whelan there.

The Forty-eighth New York was known commonly as the Dead Ducks or Lost Ducks (their official designation was
Les Enfants Perdus
)
and it was said that every nation in Europe was represented in their ranks, and wags insisted that no two of them could speak the same language. Nathan looked down at the dirty corpse still dressed in its short-tailed jacket and kilt-like nether garment, he looked down at this morsel come so far from some olive-grown hill to give itself to Georgia soil, he pitied the morsel. In helping other lank paupers to lift their dead he felt a lump against the sunken chest and found, to his delight and astonishment, that the little man had been possessed of a small revolver of German manufacture. Apparently
L
’
Enfant
had never felt called upon to use or even brandish the weapon since he entered the stockade; his companions expressed obvious wonder at this discovery. Despite their shrieks, Nathan appropriated the revolver in true raider fashion and carried it away with him, as well as nine rounds of ammunition and a box of caps.

I felt that the greater good would be served, Seneca.

Course you’re right. Isn’t that what they call the End justifying the Means?

We could use it. Some one of us. Perhaps Key?

Key it should be. I happen to know that he shoots passing well with a pistol. You know how the bulk of us cavalrymen are, with a hand-gun: passing bad. But I was told that Key won a pig one time in a pistol match when he was with the Sixteenth. And those other Dead Ducks don’t deserve such a prize. Only interesting thing I ever knew that bunch of riffraff to do was to capture and cook and eat a snake they found in the bog, last spring. Brother Nathan, did you ever eat cooked snake? No? Not even in Europe?

I have eaten eels.

Mister, to think I’ve got you for a comrade!

Nathan traded a haircut for some rancid grease and with this substance he scrubbed off rust which had formed, and took the stiffness out of the weapon’s mechanism. Soon he had action restored to a serviceable state, and presented the revolver to Leroy Key whose firm face broke into a grin when he saw it.

Before nine o’clock that night three figures rose out of gloom beside Key’s hillside shebang. The Illinois sergeant heard his name spoken.

Need to see you, Sarge. Talk with you.

The Illinoisan’s first thought was, They’ve heard about the revolver. They mean to take it away from me.

He knew that these evening callers were not Regulators; a Regulator would have given the password on approaching the chief’s tent at night; this countersign was changed daily, and on this day the countersign was
Sangamon,
and no one had said
Sangamon.

Sergeant Key stepped out into the putrid disorder, into poultry sounds and far-worse-than-poultry smells which saturated the dusk and seemed always worse when you left the kindness of your own lodging. . . . Even rags stretched between you and the sky seemed to afford a comfort, a guardianship.