The Sentinels of Andersonville (23 page)

“It has something to do with the reverend.”

“Nope.”

“Dr. Stiles?”

“Nope. When am I to be hung?”

“Hanged. Eleven o’clock on Saturday morning.”

“I need to keep that in mind. It may spur cogitation. Saturday is how many days off?”

“Two. Posey gave you a key along with the map.”

“Nope.”

“A nail file.”

“Listen, Dance, what progress have you made with Lew’s case? It weighs on me. No slur on your capabilities, but I am more comfortable with his fate in my hands than yours. You are distractible.”

“Progress
 
—what progress? No progress! I can’t think past more immediate realities, you Alabamian haystick! So should you! Tell me your idea before I get angry.”

“Listen, there is something you can do for me. The preacher brought an onion poultice for Lew’s friend, Harris. He took it to both gates but was turned away. Can you
 
—?”

“He gave it to me. I left it outside the door. It stinks. I’ll see what I can do. Emery . . . Gillette says you will not give information to get hold of your folks.”

“I won’t trouble them over something that most likely won’t occur.”

“Most likely . . .”

“Well, since when do my ideas ever land strictly as I mean them to?”

Dance went to grab him by the neck and shook his fists in Emery’s face instead. “Then tell me what it is! You’ll have two minds on it.”

“I want your mind on helpin’ Lew Gann.”

“Well, I’ve never met him. It’s not him I
 
—”

“I want your mind on helpin’ Lew,” Emery repeated patiently. “If you will be a leader in our country one day, and I see congressman shinin’ down on you like a portentous light from heaven, then you must puzzle out for yourself what an Alabamian haystick just about
has. Mercy, but I have given a whopper clue. Meantime, tell me your plan for Violet Stiles. You better fashion one quick before some other swell comes along.”

There Emery sat talking a mile a minute, trying to distract Dance, looking out for Dance
 
—when
he
was the one about to die. And there wasn’t a thing Dance could do about it. No more than he could do anything about Andersonville.

Why did he want to be a lawyer, anyway? How did one fight injustice with unjust laws? One of the few people he cared about was about to be murdered by the very law Dance had been raised to revere.

It was a dark flood rising inside, and he had no place to go. He’d rise to the top and the dark flood would catch him. They’d find him dead on the street one day, dry as cotton, never knowing he’d drowned in his own skin.

He did not want this dying man to see his despair
 
—likely no more than Emery wanted Dance to see his.

He brought his mind back to Emery’s rattlings.

“. . . that you two are suited. Wish you’d ken it. What is more, the fact that you did not kiss her on that porch is something from which Hickory Shearer would fashion a month of maxims.”

“Well, that is completely irrelevant. Besides
 
—well, Emery, you are better looking than I.”

“I know it,” Emery said simply. “But I am taken, else I’d twist my heart to a wreath and lay it at her feet.”

“Who has taken you?”

“Lew’s sister, Laura. She has got some memorable sass. She is Posey Stiles all growed up.”

“Isn’t Lew from Pennsylvania? When did you meet her?”

“I haven’t.” Then he confessed, “I hope she is not ugly. Plain can be beautified by sass, but there is not much you can do with ugly. If she is, in fact, pretty, well, that’s just a windfall; it’s the girl I want.”
He thought a minute, and said firmly, “I will situate myself to ugly if I must. I will be kind to her. Love beautifies.”

“What has she done to warrant your affections?” Dance asked, truly curious.

“I read some of her letters. And Lew’s told me of her. His fondness and admiration are clear. She’s his favorite, and he’s told me many stories. One story did me in. Fort Sumter had fallen, and
 
—”

The key scraped in the lock and the door swung open. “Time’s up, Pickett.”

Dance sighed. “I wanted to hear that story.” He got up.

“It’ll keep. Lew is not an ugly man. Perhaps absent of ugly in a male runs likewise for females of the same blood. I’m ashamed it worries me. I will put it out of my mind.”

Dance paused at the door. “Your uncle and aunt have the same last name as you?”

When Emery did not answer, it was then Dance saw a crack in the cavalier surface. He sat still, hands curled around the edge of the cot.

“There is no idea,” Dance said quietly.

Emery didn’t answer.

“What’s your folks’ name?”

He shook his head, staring at a spot on the floor.

“Emery, you’re not being fair to them. They can be reached through the war department at Huntsville. A telegram will put them on the next train.”

“I did no genuine wrong by any stretch of common sense.” He picked up Posey’s picture and set it back down. “Write ’em a letter later and tell ’em the truth. They don’t need to be pulled off the farm and see me hung for something as stupid as no pass. It has no meaning.”

“It’s Andersonville. Men die for no meaning.”

“Wish I was hung for bustin’ out Lew.”

“Hanged . . .”

“Pickett, get moving,” said the guard.

“If you told me your idea, maybe I could help.”

“Help Lew. He’s in there ’cause of me. I kept one oath I shouldn’t have and made one I can’t keep.” He looked up.

When Dance saw his eyes, he knew it was over. There was no scheme there, no fight. Only worry
 
—and not for himself.

“Keep my oath for me, Dance. Then I can die with all my heart.”

V
IOLET
S
TILES WAS READY
to climb into mourning black. It felt as if the town of Americus had died. All she had
known
them to be turned out to be merely all she had
thought
them to be.

Dance was right. He had warned her, and she hadn’t listened. And what else had he said that day when they were all on the porch and she hadn’t listened?

He had been walking away, and she was losing him, and he had that dark and awful look on his face, and then he came back up the stairs two at a time, his face freshened, and full of hope.

What was it that was said to make him come back like that?

Violet watched a dried-herb bundle sway in what little wind the day brought. It had been raining off and on, and the forgotten bundles tied at the iron rail were alternately wet and dry for days on end, and had likely lost their potency.

She had been too stirred up in plans and passion that day to note what had changed his face to that intensive thought and hope. But she did recall that she had not listened to him, and all she remembered
now was when that hope receded and became blank and he just went along with all their plans.

With
her
plans.

What had been said? Who said it?

Maybe it would come to her on the way to see Judge Tate. She had a question for him.

 
—

“Judge Tate, does the president alone have the authority to forgive a death penalty
 
—or could a governor do it?”

Judge Tate saw that the wrong word from him could plunge Violet back into the state from which she had quite recently come, and only someone past pity would do that, for clearly this misery meant the girl was in love with Emery Jones. So he worded his response carefully. While he would not crush hope, neither would he give it falsely.

“A governor certainly has authority to commute a death sentence,” he said slowly. “In fact, had Governor Wise commuted the sentence of John Brown, the North would not have a martyr on their hands. But, child, you must understand
 
—this is a very, very difficult time for Governor Joe. Sherman bears down upon us and all of Joe’s efforts are for stopping him. I believe there is slim chance you could get an audience with him. I don’t believe
I
could.”

“Hmm,” Violet said thoughtfully. “Maybe J. W. Pickett could.”

 
—

Violet went to the telegraph office
 
—to find it closed. A note on the door said, MACHINE BROKE DOWN. PROCEED TO ALBANY OR ANDERSONVILLE FOR NEAREST OFFICE. She peered through the glass. Two perspiring men worked on the machine while a glowering, cigar-smoking Confederate officer looked on.

Growling, Violet quickly rummaged in her bag. She didn’t dare chivvy Silas Runcorn into a free fare. Maybe she had enough for the fare
and
the telegram. She counted out the coins and looked at the posted fees on the office door.

Oh, dear. Enough for a two-word telegram and one fare.

She raised her bag to dash it to the ground, then she caught sight of Papa and Hettie Dixon strolling over to the ticket counter on the train platform.

 
—

Violet was very glad for Hettie’s ideas for the next F.A.P. meeting. After Violet told them about her telegram plans, Hettie’s chatter kept her and Papa occupied and left Violet alone with her thoughts.

What had Dance said on the porch that day?

She closed her eyes and put Papa in his chair, herself and Emery at the rail, and a belligerent Dance walking away from her plans. Then came,
Yes, that’s it exactly! That’s the truth, Violet!
and he was belligerent no more. His face was flushed and vibrant and those brown eyes, those deeply expressive brown eyes
 
—

What was the truth?

To feed these enemies is to forgive them. That, my girl, this town will not do.

Papa’s words. Dance came swooping in to confirm those words, and it angered Violet, it seemed as though he was at his pompous university best, then, eager to quell her enthusiasm with his arrogant cynicism and worse, his hateful
instruction
. But it wasn’t true, that’s not how it went. That face was the truest he’d ever been. And what did he say?

Don’t get this town involved! But if
you
want to help, then
 
—

And Violet had cut him off.

He had seemed cut off ever since.

She hadn’t listened to him. She’d just roared on with her plans.

 
—

Hettie and Papa had business with the Federal hospital. Papa, with a curious blush, said he had a packet of herbs that Dr. Stevenson could use in surgery, as their properties worked like lint to stanch the flow of blood and may indeed have inhibiting agents against infection. More curious still, Hettie told him it was too much detail and that he needed to refine his technique. They walked off laughing softly.

At least Papa was laughing again.

Violet shook her head, mystified, and went to the telegraph office.

She did not have nearly enough money for all she wanted to say. She worked and reworked the message until $1.09 paid for the following:

Dear Cousin Pickett. Innocent man to die 11:00 a.m. Saturday unless you intervene. Come at once to Americus. The Stiles Family.

The important parts were covered. They would explain everything once he arrived, but she didn’t have money to tell him that. She had to argue with the telegrapher that
11:00 a.m.
should count as one word as it had one meaning, and she got her way.

Papa told her to wait until he and Hettie returned for the next train to Americus. He added, “Violet, for the time being, it will not do for us to
 
—Listen, I don’t want you to visit Emery or Dance or any prisoners or any places of government or to even
look
as though you would give aid to
anyone
.”

“Don’t worry, Papa,” Violet said, uncharacteristically meek.

“I want you to stay right here after you send that telegram.”

“Yes, Papa. Say hello to Dance if you see him. And, Papa . . .”

With all her heart she hoped J. W. Pickett would come and be
moved to pity by Emery’s case, and then take that pity and convince his intimate acquaintance, Governor Joe Brown, to extend mercy and pound a mighty stamp called COMMUTED on Emery’s sentence. If everything went right, that would happen. But nothing went right, these days.

“Tell him we will be here on Saturday morning. He will not have to
 
—” She paused. “He will not be alone.”

 
—

As Violet left the telegraph office, she saw a familiar face. Ann Hodgson saw her at the same time and waved.

Ann sat in the front seat of her farm wagon, James at her feet. Isaiah, the field hand, sat next to her holding the reins. Little James held out his arms to be picked up. Delighted, Violet did so.

“What a handsome little man!” He grasped her bonnet string and shook it. She seized his fist and kissed it.

“Isn’t he just?” Ann beamed. “I want to have six more.”

How could Ann remain so cheerful and so in Andersonville, despite the abuse she took from General Winder and Captain Wirz? Those
despicable
things they said? Yet there she was, fresh and confident
 
—and back to her original business, said a covered corner of the wagon bed.

“You are fearless, Ann. Look at you. Where are those supplies bound?”

Ann gave a wink. “Not up to the gate, I’ll grant you.”

Violet looked around and lowered her voice. “It is truly for the prison?”

“It is. I have . . . a
setup
.”

“What sort?”

“I cannot say. But whatever donations I receive are smuggled in and freely given.” Her smile dimming somewhat, she admitted, “It
is not much. But it is something.” She looked Violet over. “I heard your society took a sound drubbing at that meeting, yet still you live. Bully for you. Don’t let them get you downhearted, Violet.”

“How do you know I’ve been downhearted?” Violet said, ruefully.

“I was, too. Then I said, ‘What of it? Now I know the ways I cannot help; I will find ways I can. And if I can’t find them, I will make them.’ You can, too, Violet. When is your next F.A.P. meeting?”

“Hettie was just talking of it. . . .”

“Let me know. I’d love to attend
 
—now that the riffraff are sorted out.”

“But no one will show.”

“I will. And Hettie. And you. Constance Greer will do whatever Hettie does. There. We are four.”

Sudden tears came. Little James shook the bonnet string and put it in his mouth, and then offered it to Violet. Ann reached to squeeze Violet’s shoulder. “Pull together your determination, my old friend, and do as you set out to do. Do as you
want
to do.”

Suddenly, Violet did not want to cry at all. “As I want to do? Ann, those are not Christian things.”

Ann pulled back a little, surprised but curious. “How do you mean?”

“I
want
to go up to Captain Wirz and General Winder and whoever else brought such pitiless suffering upon those men, on purpose or
not
, and I want to put my hands around their necks and choke them short of death!”

“Why, Violet Stiles.” Ann sized her up anew. “I think we understand each other.”

Violet’s hands were afire, and she said, “I’ll be right back.” She handed over little James, seized up her skirts, and ran for the commissary building.

She burst into the dimness and pulled back her bonnet, looking around for Corporal Womack, then ran behind the service counter.

“Miss Stiles?” said Corporal Womack, his head appearing over a stack of meal bags. He set down the bill of lading. “Ah, you are not supposed to be behind that counter as you are a civilian. May I help you?”

“You certainly may! I need pen, paper, tacks, and a hammer!” She stopped rummaging and looked up. “Why . . . I do believe a certain detective may restrain my action once he discovers it. . . .”

“Is that so?” said Corporal Womack, his face hardening. “Why, I’ve got paper galore, Miss Stiles. You just wait right there. Paper galore.” He ran for the back room.

 
—

AMERICUS, ANDERSONVILLE, OR WHOMSOEVER WILL

Is it possible you think yourself DETAINED from Feeding STARVING Prisoners? Come to the Glorious Outskirts of Society for the SECOND . . .

Friends of Andersonville Prison (F.A.P.) Meeting!

We shall meet AGAIN on the Pleasantly Situated Lawn of the home of Dr. Norton Stiles and Family. We shall meet EVERY TUESDAY NIGHT until KINGDOM COME or until they SHUT DOWN that HELLISH PLACE.

Whichever comes first.

“How many copies you gonna make?” said the corporal.

“As many as I can manage before my father comes back.”

“Well, I am a fair hand at lettering. Can I help?”

“Certainly!”

They worked quickly, dipping and blotting and scratching, and after a few moments, Violet said, “Do you think it will make a difference?”

“I don’t know, Miss Stiles.” He pulled back to survey his work. “I just wish those boys could see it.”