The Sentinels of Andersonville (26 page)

J. 
W. P
ICKETT
had the matter in hand, but he had one thing against him, or rather, Emery Jones did
 
—the presiding brigadier general did not like J. W. Pickett. He had tussled with the old man in a courtroom once before, in civilian days and in a place far away; he found Pickett’s manner insufferable then and found it intolerable now.

Most intolerable of all was to preside over this frittering affair while Sherman bore down on Atlanta, the hub of the South, the centerpiece clockwork of the Southern rails
 
—telegraph wires crackled with news, and yet here he languished, listening in pain to J. W. Pickett.

Pickett was old, but he had not lost his fondness for superfluity.

“I rode all night to get here, for duty bade. I spent all morning in a dirty cell with Corporal Emery Jones, for duty bade. And I am deeply shocked that the men in this tribunal did not once think of Article 22, when duty bade. Why should it take an old country lawyer, past his prime and turned out to comforting pastures, to find therein
 
—reclamation?” The word echoed.

The brigadier general rolled his eyes, covering for it by rubbing his eyebrows. He’d seen a copy of the telegram himself. It wasn’t
J. W.
Pickett who had thought of Article 22. He glanced around the courtroom; the boy who had wasn’t here. He was likely on duty.

“For this boy has been reclaimed!” Pickett drove a finger to the ceiling.

“Mr. Pickett, proceed to your point lest Sherman get to it before you.” A titter rippled through the courtroom.

J. W. Pickett put on his spectacles. He took two papers from the table, one for each hand, and read the paper in his right hand.

“A summation of Article 22 states thus: ‘No noncommissioned officer or soldier shall enlist himself in any other regiment, troop, or company, without a
regular discharge
 
—” he looked over his glasses
 
—“from the regiment, troop, or company in which he last served. . . . And in case any officer shall
knowingly receive
 
—” he looked over his glasses again
 
—“and entertain such noncommissioned officer or soldier, or shall not . . .
give notice thereof
to the corps in which he last served, the said officer shall, by a court-martial, be cashiered.’”

He raised the paper in his left hand and waved it.

“This order for Corporal Emery Jones, signed by Captain Russell Graves of the 22nd Alabama Volunteers, states he is to report back
immediately
to his regiment once he delivers his prisoner to Andersonville. Instead
 
—Corporal Jones was detained. He should be standing in front of Atlanta as we speak, right beside my own son, defending this country from the gathering horde. Instead
 
—this boy was unlawfully held back from his regiment and
swept
into that of another, conscripted if you will, not of his own accord, not of his doing, in
direct violation
of signed regimental orders
 
—” he shook the paper
 
—“with no notice given to the corps in which he last served.” He smiled a little and allowed the words to hang, admired. He consulted again the paper in his right hand.

“Now this boy is on trial for his
life
because he went to Americus without a pass. I will say again
 
—a pass. His
life
, for a pass. A little piece of paper in his pocket. I understand the need for military order
 
—I have two sons in the Confederate States Army. But this sentence of yours
 
—” he looked at the council
 
—“seems vindictive to the extreme, as we all know this boy merely wanted to do a good turn . . . so says Reverend William Gillette over there.”

“How it
seems
, vindictive or otherwise, is irrelevant,” said the presiding brigadier general.

“Just so! We shall then abide by Law, for therein we find comfort in its plumb line. Article 22 was violated before this boy had a
chance
to trot into town without that little pass
 
—an item, by the by, which a Sergeant Keppel from Andersonville Prison said he’d have been more than happy to issue, had Corporal Jones asked. ‘Will a piece of paper save his life?’ said he. And he snatches a paper and writes out a pass and gives it to me with no small coloration of what he thought of the sentence handed down here days ago.”

“What the sergeant thought
 
—”

“Yes, yes
 
—irrelevant! Just so! We are perfectly agreed. I will tell you what
is
relevant.” He raised the Articles of War. “Emery Jones would not have
been
in Americus had the Law been obeyed. Article 22 states that
Emery Jones
was not in the wrong for being conscripted to duty at Andersonville
 
—on the contrary; considering the chain of command, this immediate cashiering by court-martial of the officer involved in
violating
this law pertains to . . . well, you.” His eyes fastened on the face of the brigadier general.

A rustle sounded in the courtroom, from council and from audience.

“A court-martial for
you
?” exclaimed J. W. Pickett, fists on his hips. “Why, it is absurd!” He let the words hang. “As absurd as holding this boy back from his duty in Atlanta one minute longer.”

The brigadier general infinitesimally shook his head. If he had time, he’d blast that article so full of scatter shot
 
—with some for J. W. Pickett, too
 
—that it wouldn’t stop leaking for a century.

He had not the time nor the desire to mount a rebuttal. He looked at the manacled Corporal Emery Jones, staring at J. W. Pickett in something like dumbstruck hope, and just didn’t care what happened to the boy. He followed the boy’s gaze to J. W. Pickett.

He called for a recess, and the other four followed him into consultation in a back hallway of the Americus courthouse. He made a suggestion, and they concurred quickly
 
—too quickly, and had to wait for an appropriate time before returning to the courtroom.

“With regard to the new evidence brought before this court, the sentence of death by hanging for Corporal Emery Jones is overturned,” said the presiding brigadier general, and he allowed for reaction in the courtroom, particularly from the family of Dr. Stiles. “The court fully recognizes and upholds Article 22, and had Corporal Jones produced his orders early on, we all might have been spared a lamentable squanderation of much-needed time.” He raised a hand. “However . . .”

The room quieted.

“The court does not like what this man represents
 
—an unmanly softness for the enemy, when softness does not win wars. Mr. Jones, you declared in front of several witnesses that the Yankee you delivered to that pen was a
friend
. Do you like the Yankees so much? Then go to them. You are forthwith dishonorably discharged from the Army of the Confederate States on the grounds of suspicious liaison with the enemy. You are forthwith exiled from the Confederate States of America, and should you ever set foot on Southern soil again, you will be executed.

“Major, make arrangements to have him escorted at once to Mobile Bay. If that is the last Confederate port open in the South,
that is good enough for me
 
—I’ll have you out on the next ship if it is a broken-down packet sloop or a slumgullion blockade runner bound for heathen lands. Atlanta is besieged, yet I am forced to put out brush fires.” He pounded the gavel. “This court-martial is adjourned! You all get back to your duties. Sherman comes.”

He lingered long enough to catch the falter on the pompous old face of J. W. Pickett. When Pickett looked his way, he said, “Was that vindictive?” and left the courtroom somewhat compensated.

 
—

There was scarcely time to say good-bye. The provost marshal allowed Emery ten minutes with those in the courtroom before they took him to the Americus depot. From there, he was under custody of the provost marshal until Andersonville, where arrangements were being made to escort him without pause to Mobile Bay.

Left in the room after the others filed out were the Stiles family, Reverend Gillette, Hettie Dixon, a grizzled guard from the stockade, and J. W. Pickett.

Mrs. Stiles set Posey free and she skipped down the aisle to him, hands in the air, dress flouncing. Rosie and Daisy ran behind her, jumping and laughing. Posey threw her arms around his middle.

“Hello, Traitor Christian!” said Emery.

“You shall not die, Emery Jones!” She looked up at him. “Where is Mobile Bay?”

“Why, it’s in my home state. I reckon they’ll give me a fine send-off. Brass band, dancing, fried chicken.”

She rattled the manacles on his wrists. “Why don’t they take these hateful things off?”

“I don’t mind so much.” He winked. “I reckon if I am trussed up, they’ll feel safe around me. Say, I need to thank you for that map. Sure woulda come in handy if I had a chance to whack that guard.”

“No chance?” she asked, and tried out under her breath the word
whack
.

“They had me occupied in daily tortures. Their favorite was the rack
 
—if you haven’t noticed I am two inches taller. Yet whatsoever multifarious cruelties they applied unto me, they had nothin’ on that mule. He prepared me for the worst. I thought I was eating cake. I ever tell you that mule’s name?”

“No.”

“General Winder. Ain’t
that
a scary coincidence.”

“We had hoped for the best, Mr. Jones,” said Reverend Gillette, with disappointment he couldn’t hide, “and we got it
 
—” a respectful nod at J. W. Pickett
 
—“but this . . . we did not expect. I am deeply sorry for it.”

“Well, Preacher, coming from the man who has most occasion to have aught against me, I am truly affected.”

“Oh, Emery,” Violet said, and squeezed his arm. She
wanted
to throw her arms around him and wail her heart out, for the South was about to lose one of its shiningest men; but she didn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression. Of course, if it weren’t for . . .
the other
, why then, she would be happy to give such an impression, for Emery was a quality man. But with . . .
him
around . . . why, Emery felt like a brother.

“Where is Dance?” She glanced around. “Is he on guard?”

“My son is called to the front,” said J. W. Pickett, drawing himself tall. “He is now engaged in
real
soldierly duties.”

“Dance?” said Dr. Stiles. “I thought you had meant Beau.”

“I received a telegram from him yesterday.”

“Dance, called to the front?” Mrs. Stiles said, her hand going to her throat. “Why didn’t he tell us?”

Lily slipped her hand into Violet’s.

“Called to the front, Cousin,” J. W. Pickett affirmed. “I only wish I could’ve told him how proud it made me.”

“Your son has been at the front since his posting at Andersonville.”

All looked at Papa. His eyes had a sudden perilous light. His hands lay flat against his sides where they would do no harm. Violet knew that pose
 
—she did it all the time. She looked at him in awe.

“Have you
once
told him how proud you were?” he asked Dance’s father.

“Why, I
 
—”

“Emery!” Posey said. “What’s wrong? Is the front bad?”

Emery had gone pale and did not seem to hear Posey. Then he looked at Violet as if to ask a question or convey a very important message, but Violet had no idea what that message was
 
—her head was all a muddle.

“We shall pray a hedge of protection,” Hettie Dixon told Violet, placing her hand on Violet’s arm.

“Oh no! That means the front is bad!” Posey said. “Why’s he gone there?”

“I’m not sure he has,” said Emery.

“Time’s up, Jones,” said the provost marshal.

“What do you mean by that?” Violet said to Emery.

“Why, he told me himself where he went,” said J. W.

“Emery, what do you mean?” said Violet.

“What did he say?” Emery asked J. W.

“Why
 
—” Mr. Pickett thought for a moment. “‘Called away,’ I believe. It is the same thing. Where else would he be, with Sherman coming?”

“Come along, Jones,” said the provost marshal.

Daisy looked up at her father. “Papa, what does
exiled
mean?”

“It means Emery’s going away a bit, but he’ll be back someday,” said Dr. Stiles. “Especially if the North wins.”

“Then I hope they win!” Rosie declared, then clapped her hands over her mouth.

“God protect you, son,” said Reverend Gillette, and extended his hand in blessing and farewell.

 
—

They took Emery away, and Posey ran off to cry. Rosie and Daisy decided she should not go it alone and followed. Mrs. Stiles asked everyone over for tea, and all left the courtroom with heavy hearts. Except for J. W. Pickett. He led the procession to the Stiles house and took up with Hettie Dixon on a subject Violet could not hear.

She trailed behind the group, walking hand-in-hand with Lily, who had placed herself at Violet’s side to shield her from the world.

“I don’t know what to feel about Emery,” Lily said. “It is one thing that he shall not die, it is another that perhaps we shall never see him again. How these men have blown through our lives . . . Violet, we will do as Hettie says. We will pray for Dance, more than we ever prayed for Ben. I don’t think we prayed as much as we could have. You don’t pray as much when you think you’re going to win.”

“What did Emery mean?” Violet wondered. “Did you see his face?”

“I don’t have the heart to tell Posey I
think
I am in love with him.”

“I’ll tell you the one to be in love with: Corporal Womack from the commissary building in Andersonville.”

“Really? What do you mean?”

“Say . . . Miss Stiles?”

The girls stopped and turned.