The Sentinels of Andersonville (24 page)

“W
ELCOME TO
A
NDERSONVILLE,”
he’d once heard an inmate greet newcomers, “the place where God has died.”

Dance Pickett slouched at the rail, chin on his fist.
Americus, Americus.
He’d let himself believe they’d rise up and show him that God had not died.

Losing hope in Americus meant losing hope that he might one day win Violet Stiles. He didn’t know how that was true, unless this ball of despair just bled all over everything else. That F.A.P. meeting made everything black, Emery’s situation made it blacker, and all conspired to make Violet unobtainable. For he knew all had to be right before he could have her, and it would never be.

A new blackness occurred to him: not to obtain Violet was not to obtain the Stiles household. This war would end, and he’d have to face a Stiles-less life.

Mrs. Stiles strove to teach her daughters all the elements that promised a completed Southern lady
 
—graciousness, kindness, forbearance, impeccable manners, perfect discretion, and never appearing in public
in a disheveled state. These were the things she thought she herself possessed in spades. Dance was glad she did not, for the result was an independent group of girls with a mildly rumpled upbringing and far less tendency to fashionable outbursts, such as the current trend in fainting. Lily once reported that she had tried fainting at a party and did not like it; she felt ridiculous, and besides: “What’s the fun of fainting if you
miss
anything? Anything worth a faint is far more worth
not
fainting.”

Mrs. Stiles believed she was producing daughters who were beyond reproach, admired, and perfectly in step with the times. In fact, they were admired precisely because they were a half step out of time with the conventional dance of graces. There was something old-fashioned about the Stiles girls, so old-fashioned it was original. The sisters of his college friends were as interesting as a gluey pot of overcooked okra compared to Violet Stiles. And she’d never have him because next to Emery Jones, for his handsomeness and his F.A.P. passion, Dance was the okra.

Americus and Emery and Violet were depressive-enough subjects, but then along came Lew Gann, weighing on Dance like high tide on a beach.

Dance watched a man totter carefully along the deadline. He was little more than a walking bag of bones. He put a hand to the rail to steady himself, then pulled it away and looked up fearfully. He must dwell in a different part of the stockade. No one was shot here. Dance had once fired a warning, but only because Wirz was nearby.

“Pickett, you up to somethin’ again?” said Burr. “’Cause I am nervous.”

“I am never up to something. I watch and I wait. For what, I do not know.”

“How’s that boy doin’?” Burr asked.

“He passed an onerous thing to my keeping.”

“What is that thing?”

“An oath.”

“Oaths are surely that.”

Dance watched the man totter past.

“Say, Burr
 
—do you think Old Abe would do me a favor? I need to find a man. That poultice is for him.”

Burr gave a little whistle and got Old Abe’s attention. He shuffled slowly up to the deadline.

“Looks like he’s getting sick.”

“He is.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“What you want, Mister Johnny Old Reb?” Old Abe called up. “You got something good for me?”

“Oh, I’ll give you a chance to
do
good, you old ragbag.” He swept a hand to Dance. “Behold the man.”

“I’m trying to find someone,” Dance said down to him. “I do not know where he messes and cannot get a look at detachment rosters.”

“Well, that don’t matter much. We don’t stick much to detachments,” said Old Abe. “We fall out where we will after roll call. What’s his name?”

Dance went to say Harris Gill, but instead said, “Lew Gann.”

“What battle was he took in? Sometimes you find men quicker that way.”

“Kennesaw Mountain.”

“I’ll ask around.”

“If you find him, ask him to come see me. I’ve got something for him.”

“I’ll do that.”

“I’m grateful.”

“Aw, it gives me something to do.” Old Abe limped off into the crowd.

Lew was with Harris Gill. Lew would come and get the poultice
for Gill, and Dance would get a chance to size up the one who had captured the respect of a man whose respect was worth having.

 
—

“Fine thing happened on Kennesaw, Lew,” Harris Gill whispered. “Don’t know if I told it.”

“I’ve heard it,” Lew said. “Ran into some other Kennesaw boys and they told me. That’s some story. I hope it is properly put on paper one day, for it is worthy.”

“What is the story?” Martin asked, and Lew told it.

During battle, a thicket that had sheltered wounded Union boys caught fire. There the helpless men lay, flames nearly upon them. Seeing the situation and risking a hail of enemy bullets, a Confederate colonel leapt to an outcrop and waved his handkerchief like a banner. He cried out to his foe, “Get your men away! We won’t fire a gun until you do! Cease fire, boys!” he yelled to his own. “Cease fire!” An instant cease-fire ensued, both sides, and the Federals were dragged to safety. In the last moment of the brief truce, a Union major ran to the Confederate line and presented the colonel with his own pistols in gratitude. He ran back, and battle resumed.

“Thought I’d watch you die,” Harris said hoarsely, fevered eyes upon Lew. “Along comes that Reb just a-blazin’. Where is that Reb, Lew? I want to buy him a drink.”

“I don’t know.” Lew could not look at those eyes long. They were disturbing. He took off his boot and pondered the hole. He’d lost the packing today. “Haven’t seen him in a while. He was likely reassigned. Maybe sent to the front. Wish I’d had a chance to say good-bye.”

“You see things like that, boy-o . . . and you see the world new,” Harris whispered. He plucked restlessly at his shirt. He murmured something indistinct, and then was still.

Lew held the boot tight. If he could just find some packing for
this hole, if he could just find some packing, if he could just find some packing . . .

 
—

While Dance and Burr waited for Old Abe, Dance tried to get where Emery had in his thinking.

“That country swab had an idea that might spare his life, but he won’t tell me on account of the oath. He won’t have me in trouble for helping
him
, no sir, but he doesn’t mind if I get in trouble for helping a Yank. I find it selfish.”

“Hmm. Well. It is a pickle, I will own.”

“I can’t get to Emery’s idea.”

“Will something in that scrip o’ yours push you along?”

“The only thing that comes to mind is a quote by Algernon Sydney. ‘That which is not just, is not Law; and that which is not Law, ought not to be obeyed.’”

“Oooh. Say that again.”

Dance did.

Burr whistled. “Them are sturdy words, and fearsome.”

“This whole county should tremble.”

Someone was coming up the ladder.

“Dr. Stiles,” Dance said, surprised.

“You’re Doc Stiles?” Burr said. “Well, I don’t know what to say.”

Dr. Stiles touched his hat and nodded. “Gentlemen. I was in the neighborhood with Mrs. Dixon. We tried to see Emery but they wouldn’t let us.” He looked a little nervous. “I’ve never seen into the stockade before.”

Burr stepped aside, and he went to the rail, grasping it once there.

“Oh, mercy,” the doctor breathed.

“Take your time, Doc. It is a load.” Burr surveyed his domain. “They are devils, but they are poor devils.”

“Burr
 
—is that Old Abe?” Dance asked.

“It is.”

“Looks like he’s had a day of it,” Dance said.

“It is that scurvy.”

Dance retrieved the onion poultice from the corner of the platform. He showed Dr. Stiles. “Reverend Gillette brought this for Lew Gann’s friend. Onion poultice, for infection.”

“That’ll help some,” the doctor said, but he was distracted; his eyes went back to the astounding sight of thick thousands of thin, shabby men.

Dance watched Old Abe’s approach. No one accompanied him.

“Hail the perch!” Old Abe limped to the deadline. “Well, I found your man, but he did not have interest to come. His friend just died. And I am tired, so I will go and lay me down.” He turned away.

“Wait
 
—come back here,” Dr. Stiles called. He took the onion poultice from Dance and tossed it. “Break it open and eat it. It’ll do you good.”

“Hey!” shouted the tower guard on the north side of the holding pen. “What you throwin’ down there?” He unshouldered his rifle.

Dr. Stiles’s hands came up. “Just an onion poultice. For scurvy. I’m a doctor.”

“That’s against regulations! Burr, what’re you thinkin’?”

“He didn’t know,” Dr. Stiles said quickly. “I’ll go through Captain Wirz next time.”

“We get in trouble for such foolishness! You ask Burr how long they stuck him in Castle Reed for throwin’ down a loaf of bread.”

“Well, that wasn’t bread,” Old Abe objected. “That was a peach something or other. It was sweet. Not like bread.” He lifted the bundle and said, “I’m obliged.” He limped away.

“Onions are an antiscorbutic,” Dr. Stiles said.

“That’s good thinkin’, Doc.”

“He is not past help.”

“What helps best?”

“Well, from what you can get around here, green corn. Lemons, peaches. Any fruit or vegetable will do.” Then he said, “Say . . . my neighbor has a lemon tree. Those lemons get very large, with a thick skin. I do not know their variety. He told me once. I will ask for some.”

“Just don’t say it’s for the prisoners,” Dance said. “Say it’s for anyone else. They’ll punish you for even thinking it. God forbid from heaven we should give these men a lemon.”

Dr. Stiles looked at him.

“Oh, I’ll say what I want about Americus,” Dance said, pushing away from the rail, his heart suddenly racing. “But you know what? I don’t have to.” He threw an arm to the stockade. “Here it is! This’ll tell the story of Americus! I’ll say plainly, Dr. Stiles, I am sick and tired of you defending them, and when I see you that’s all I see, just one big excuse for Americus. Nothing got done at that meeting, did it? Just talk and talk. Nothing ever gets done!”

Dr. Stiles stared out on the immense snarl of humanity. “It’s true. Men die from attrition, and I can’t stop it. But maybe I can bring someone a lemon.”

“Oh, that’s a fine ditty. There’s a brand-new maxim. Let’s teach it at our universities and churches. ‘Bring someone a lemon today!’ That’ll turn the tides, Dr. Stiles. Ain’t it just Jesus.” He shouted into the stockade, “Take up your pallets and walk, you Yanks, for this man will bring you a lemon!”

“What’s going on over there?” called the guard in the closest tower.

“Ease up, Pickett,” Burr said.

A man near the deadline looked up and shook his head. “Always knew you Rebs were crazy.”

“You said Americus might not remember who they are. Well, they sure didn’t, did they?”

Dr. Stiles took a last look over the acres of men, as if committing the sight to memory. He touched his hat to Burr, and started for the ladder.

“I hate Americus,” Dance spit.

“I am Americus.”

“Then I hate you too!”

Dr. Stiles stopped without looking back. His shoulders slumped a little. “Dance, you are not eaten up because of what others will not do, but because of what you won’t. You knew the answer to this place long before Violet did.”

“What is the answer to this place?” Dance shouted, his voice breaking.

The doctor turned. “It has nothing to do with a people rising up, but a person. One person, just one. I blame Americus no longer, and no longer will I try to rally them
 
—but I
will
rally myself. If it’s a lemon, if it’s just a lemon
 
—Dance, if it’s
just a lemon
 
—if a lemon is all I can do, then I will do it!”

Men in the stockade near the north gate paused to look and see what was happening in the sentinel’s tower.

Dr. Stiles went to touch Dance’s shoulder, but didn’t. “Oh, son. What are they not doing that you wish you would?” He looked once more to the stockade. “No. Americus does not remember who they are. But I’m remembering who I am. You can too.”

He went to the ladder and climbed down.

Dance went to the rail and held fast. He put his head down.

He was just one man trying to hold it all together, trying to keep the dark flood down. He shook, and wondered that the rail did not burst to powder in his grip. He wanted to tear down the world, and that would be the easy part. But he had to tear down himself.

“You keep on goin’, Pickett,” Burr said softly. “You’re doin’ fine, son.”

 
—

Hours passed. The sun headed west, and Dance and Burr said not a word to each other.

The usual ennui came once more, and Dance sank to a slouch at the rail. It was easy to see when an officer came by, and he’d save the straightening for then.

Two more hours and his watch would end for the day. And maybe Emery Jones couldn’t be saved, and maybe all of these prisoners couldn’t be saved, but he knew a way to save Lew Gann. He had known all along.

Some prisoners had tunneled out, but Turner’s dogs tracked them down and brought most of them back. A few got out by bribing turnkeys, but not many, and those turnkeys had been found out. Some tried to play dead and were brought out on stretchers; Wirz was on to these, and now each body brought out had to be ruled dead by a physician. A few had escaped from the hospital, but they were easily tracked, as most were too weak to get far.

Dance knew a way to save a prisoner that was so easy . . . a blind man could read by it.

He pushed from the rail.

Mercy, but I have given a whopper clue. A blind man could read by it.

Dance had only been there a moment or two. What clue?

Back through it, Dance, back it up until
 
—

And there it was, and calm came with it.

“Well. He did give a whopper clue.”