The Sentinels of Andersonville (3 page)

“That is rough,” Emery said.

Landscape rolled by, corn and pine and pine and corn. Not much else out there. Some rice, looked like, and beans. Peas, they called them down here. He wondered what they called actual peas. He went to ask Emery, but asked him something else.

“You never did explain that very curious inspection you gave when we first met, face-to-face. As we are about to part, I’d like to know what it meant. ’Cause it was more than fixing words to my face.”

“Well, Lew, I was trying to discover if you were worth the oath I gave.”

“
Oath?
What oath?”

Emery took off his hat and put his finger through a hole. “The first man you killed in that standoff was a childhood friend of Captain Graves, and Graves wanted you dead. Offered fifty Federal greenbacks to the man who killed you, and made it clear it should be done even if we took you prisoner. Your Harris Gill gave a decorated opinion that that would be murder, not fair war, and so he ended up with a split mouth, courtesy of Captain Graves.

“By this time I’d taken a shine to you, ’cause of the word
perpetuity
, and the other boys did not hold it against you that you were fighting so hard to live. They admired your courage, with a more fearful admiration of your marksmanship, and even found some amusement in that smart mouth of yours. We counted the loss of Graves’s friend toward war, nothing more.

“Captain Graves, howsoever, was not of our mind. Never was. It was his daddy who got up the regiment, and stuck him in charge by right of wealth alone. Well. Some money spends well, and some don’t. We came up short in Graves. He wanted your Yankee head on a pike, but as the men were, in your particular case, reluctant to despoil Federal property
 
—” Emery shrugged
 
—“I made a proposal, and Graves accepted.”

“What on earth did you propose?”

“Well, part of that configuration entailed seeing you and Harris Gill to Andersonville. When you took sick, I sent Gill on with Corporal
 
—”

“I know that part,” Lew said impatiently. “Get to the oath part.”

“Well, I ain’t gonna tell you.”

“What do you mean you’re not gonna tell me?” Lew demanded.

Emery replaced his hat. “Tell you what. You take care of yourself in the pen, keep yourself healthy and don’t make anybody mad, and I promise you this: I’ll meet up with you in Ezra when this war is done and I’ll tell you then. And you better be satisfied with that, ’cause this is the last oath I am makin’ on your behalf.”

“You’re taking the job.”

“You ain’t rid of me yet. I aim to fruit-farm. You can teach me.”

“I am glad to hear it. But Emery? What
is
that stench?”

“Well, I was tryin’ not to notice ’cause of our earnest conversation. I thought it was you.”

“I will not own such a pestilential stink as that. Smells like the sinks of the entire camped Army of the Potomac.”

The rest of the men in the boxcar noticed it, too, and the train finally pulled into the Andersonville depot.

V
IOLET FIRST WENT
to the small platform depot, less than half the size of the Americus depot, on the east side of the tracks. There she was informed she’d have to check with the commissary agent at the large building on the west side of the tracks, because the clerk could not find a box for Miss Violet Wrassey Stiles; it was likely thrown in with the box for Dr. Stiles, and any boxes on military business went to the commissary building.

Violet crossed over the tracks on a path of wooden planking, only too aware of the stares from the men milling about her. It was her first time to encounter Yankees
 
—other than a distant view of a few escapees from Andersonville, rounded up by farmers on the outskirts of Americus. Though she was madly curious, she could not observe them when this closely observed herself. At least the July heat answered for the flush in her cheeks.

Yankees and Rebels alike followed her progress to the commissary building. Confederate soldiers touched their hats and offered pleasantries she barely acknowledged, while the Yanks were staring but
silent; they knew enough not to address a Southern woman without risk of recrimination from the nearest Confederate. She ducked into the long wooden building with some relief.

“I am here to pick up
twelve
barrels of whiskey, Corporal, not seven.” A man in his forties shoved a paper under the nose of a boy in his teens. “See that signature? This is for the hospital. Do
you
wish to tell him how five barrels have gone missing between here and Macon?” He snatched the paper back. “This is all the painkiller them poor boys have, even for amputations. How anyone can justify stealin’ from dyin’ men is beyond my education. Yankees or not.”

“This is all they rolled off the train, mister. I ain’t sayin’ they weren’t stole, but
 
—”

“Who rolled ’em off the train?”

“The railroad agent.”

“Yeah? And who’d he roll them to?”

The boy nervously scratched his neck. “Well . . . I saw Mr. Duncan with him. . . .”

The man’s face hardened. He nodded in disgust, as if things made sense. “You been to that Federal hospital, son?”

“No, sir.”

“You take a walk in them wards, boy, and you will wish for whiskey just for the look. Now I ain’t gonna sign for this until I have
twelve
, not
seven
, so I propose you either look up Duncan or you search the guard tents
 
—”

“Hello, ma’am,” the young man said, eager for the diversion. “You Miss Stiles?”

Violet nodded.

“Got a box right in the back for ya. Lemme get the paper and you can sign for it.” He hurried off.

Violet looked at the barrels labeled XX WHISKEY XX, and
thought of Dance Pickett and his uncharacteristic behavior last Sunday, the first time he’d missed dinner in two months.

“Is your father Dr. Stiles?” A noticeable softening had come to the man’s face. “Works at the Yankee hospital?”

“Yes, sir. Every Thursday.”

He seemed to want to say more, but a train whistle blew, and a black locomotive rumbled into the station.

Violet looked around the building. It was dark in here, compared to the blazing July sun outside. Close by were several sacks of meal piled against the right wall, while several barrels marked MOLASSES and VINEGAR lined the left. Beyond these were other sacks and boxes and barrels and crates in various states of order and disorder. It was a busy place. Men came and went through the wide entrance facing the train tracks, bringing things in or hauling them out. Outside, Violet could see dozens of men pouring out of the train that had just come in. This, however, was not a passenger train. It was a freight train, and men came out of cattle cars, more blue-clad, dirty, disheveled Yankees, hesitating on the platform, not sure where to go, looking about with wary, sun-squinting interest until a guard ordered them along.

“Tell your father he needs to be more careful.”

Startled, Violet found the man had come closer, and had bent to examine the heel of his boot.

“I beg your pardon?” she said.

“Here you are, Miss Stiles. Sign here.”

Violet turned to receive the much-anticipated box
 
—and stared at it.

“It’s been opened.”

“Yes, ma’am. We have to search everything.”

“How do I know I am receiving exactly what was sent?” The boy didn’t answer. Frowning, she took the pen he had dipped and signed
where he pointed. “I declare. Postmaster Haines wouldn’t put up with this.”

He shrugged. “Orders of General Winder.”

“General Winder or no General Winder,” Violet muttered.

“Perhaps
he
knows of the missing barrels.” The man straightened to take up with the clerk once more. Violet took her box from the counter, and after a glance at the man, went outside.

She looked for a shaded place to sit away from the crowds of men, but found nothing near the commissary building. Hefting the box, which was only the size of a hatbox but was rather heavy, she threaded her way through groups of men on the expanse of grass behind the commissary, hoping her fixed gaze and lifted chin would ward off any inappropriate comments. There was a well at the edge of the commissary grounds, and across the street from the well, three small buildings. The center building seemed to be some sort of dry goods store, about the only place a woman could be respectably found in Andersonville at the moment, so she made straight for it.

But the storefront was quite thick with men, so she kept walking and passed between the store and the small building on the right, where a placard on the door said CAPTAIN H. WIRZ. She came out to the back of the buildings.

It would be a long time until Papa came from the prison, maybe four or five hours, so she took her time selecting a decent place to wait. A stable and corral lay behind the office of Captain Wirz, but the backyard of the dry goods store was free of both man and beast. Gratefully, she took the box to a shaded corner of the store and set it down. It wouldn’t do to sit on the box, as she planned to immediately explore the contents, so she looked about until she spied a very large woodpile beneath several shade trees.

Some of the wood was stacked as tall as a man, some only knee high, and that would answer perfectly for a stool. It was farther away
from the buildings, so even better. She picked up the box and was soon pleasantly situated. It was secluded and much cooler, and from here she could see the Maxwells’ horse in the corral, so she would know when Papa came.

At last she put her attention on the box from Savannah, tempted to unravel her bonnet strings for thread and . . . and last Sunday, Dance Pickett had drunk whiskey meant for the hospital.

“Look there, Violet!” Lily had said. “Isn’t that Dance? Why is he walking funny?”

Papa had gone with Mother to assist a midwife with a difficult birth and Ellen was putting the youngest girls to bed. Lily and Violet were sitting on the porch when Dance came strolling up, none too steadily.

“Yes, it is I, Miss Lily. As to my ungainliness: It may be due to the fact that my sensibilities at present are somewhat . . . bacchanalian in nature.”

“You’re sick?” said Lily.

“Lily, go help Ellen,” said Violet.

“We missed you for supper!” Lily complained. “It’s dreadfully dull without you. I have a new picture of P. G. T. Beauregard.”

“Lily, go inside,” Violet said.

“Hello, Miss Stiles.” Dance nodded genteelly. “I am drunk.”

“I can see that.”

“I will say things I am certain to regret, but, happily, will not remember.”

“Lily, go
inside
.”

“I will certainly not!”

“Instantly, or Mother will hear of it.”

Lily gave a small, exasperated shriek, then flounced out of her chair and went inside.

“What is that you’re carrying?” Violet said, disgusted. “Is your whiskey in there?”

“This? Heavens, no. This is a sanctuary. Nothing has gone in there since my posting, and nothing has come out, for two sanctuaries cannot exist in the same place. It is a law, don’t you see? Heaven and hell cannot coabide. The whiskey is in
this
pocket. It is an experiment, this whiskey. That’s what Linney told me.”

“Linney? That disgusting, vile
 
—”

“Miss Stiles! How unchristian! Do go on.”

“An experiment in what?”

“I wanted to see if he was right.”

“About what?”

Dance stopped at the bottom of the porch steps and looked up at her. Slanting rays from the lowering sun came through the magnolia alongside the walk, and showed the expressive brown eyes stained red. He studied the porch steps.

“Oh dear. I will not attempt those stairs. There are two sets and both are moving. It is unsportsmanlike. Is anyone using this tree?” He took hold of an overhanging limb from the magnolia and steadied himself.

“What is Mr. Linney right about?”

“What? Oh, that.” A cagey grin came. “No, you’ll not trick me. We are not to speak to you of it. To you, Miss Stiles, especially you! You must remain a bastion of glorious ignorance, and thus remain for us, a bastion of . . . something . . .” He frowned, thinking. “I forget what. Something very important. The gist of it is you will continue to be the only thing in our lives that shall remain unsullied. We need you to stay who you are, for if you saw it, we would lose you. I would
 
—” He stopped short, and then said, “Oh, I
am
drunk.”

“I think you are unhappy, Mr. Pickett, and have been for a very long time.”

“Yes!” He pointed at her. “Clever girl.” He drew himself up with as much stately dignity as he could manage. “You have found me out.”

“Why are you unhappy, Dance?”

“Say again?” He cupped his ear. “No ‘Mr. Pickett’? Our relationship has advanced. You must define: Was that a brotherly Dance, or was it something altogether more interesting?”

“Dance?” said Papa, coming up the walk. “Violet? Is everything all right?”

“Ah, Dr. Stiles! Look to her
 
—the lovely goddess of the porch! Not to worry.” He made a motion to button his lips. “A bastion of ignorance she remains.”

“Papa, he is drunk. It’s that Linney.”

“No! I’ll not hide behind the skirts of any Linney. I am fully cognishent it is
I
who . . .” He paused. “Cognish . . . ? I am sensible it is
my
doing. It was an experiment, Dr. Stiles. It didn’t work.”

“Come with me, son,” Papa said gently.

“Wait! I may yet have something to say which I will regret. Ah, there it is
 
—my father wouldn’t put up with this! ‘They are only Yankees, Dance, and God hates Yankees. You will not shame the name of Pickett. You’ve shamed it quite well, right up to the steps of the governor’s mansion. I was Joe Brown’s confidant, you know! His personal friend, his intimate acquaintance. Why, he consulted me on matters of state and you . . . have ruined everything.’”

He fell silent. “I don’t know what to do, Dr. Stiles. One day you and I must have a frank talk, for
 
—” his breath caught
 
—“I don’t know how to help them. And I don’t know how to stand and watch anymore.”

Dance released the magnolia limb and stood in the slanting rays. His clothing was disheveled; his usually tidy hair, uncombed.

Dance Weld Pickett was a university man. He was very clever, and proud of his cleverness. Cynical of everything, and proud of that, too. For his wit and charm and courtesy, and especially for his teasing, he was the favorite Sunday dinner guest of the entire Stiles household. This was a Dance she’d never seen.

He lifted stained eyes to her. Violet took an involuntary step forward.

“Come along, son,” Papa said, putting an arm about his shoulders. “Easy does it.”

“It was just an experiment.”

“Of course it was,” Papa said soothingly.

“It didn’t work.”

“I’d expect not.” He led Dance away.

 
—

Sometimes in their travels Emery made a show of Lew being his prisoner. He’d give him a little prod with the rifle butt, or speak to him rough. When any interest in the two men subsided, so did Emery’s vigilance, and they settled down to companionship once more. Here at the Andersonville station, vigilance could not be laid down. There were too many Confederate officers and soldiers about, regular army or reserves.

Dozens of prisoners arrived at the depot all afternoon until they numbered in the hundreds, and they fell out in groups all about the tiny town, waiting for the arrival of Captain Henry Wirz, commandant of the interior of Andersonville Prison. Some prisoners slept; others played cards or smoked pipes or traded with Rebel guards. Some inquired about rations, of which, they were told, there were none. Negroes moved about with buckets of water, and that was all the ration they’d get this day, as the warehouses at Andersonville were behind on shipments from the commissary stores in Macon and Albany. So the Federals at the Andersonville station would go hungry today, but they were soldiers and settled down to it with no more than a few sullen grumbles. Some had hardtack or dried meat or fruit to fall back on, some looked wistfully at the sutler’s stand set up a small distance from the depot, but many of the prisoners had
no money, and if they did, would likely find a Rebel sutler’s price to be just as sky-high as a Yankee’s.

After reporting to the assistant provost marshal, Emery was informed that Wirz was at the stockade and would be along soon. He was ordered to fall out with his prisoner until Wirz arrived, then wait until the prisoners were sorted into divisions and escort them to the stockade with the other guards. After that he was to report to Wirz, by signed order of Captain Graves.

“Let’s try behind the warehouse, blue belly,” Emery said, shouldering his musket and nodding where Lew should walk. They went behind the building, but the expanse behind it, all the way to the well on the edge of the property, was full of men.

They threaded through the men to the three buildings opposite the well, but it wasn’t much better there. The name GENERAL JOHN WINDER was tacked to the door on the first building. The second looked like a dry goods place, from what they could see between milling men. They went around the first building and came out to a nearly empty area. A corral lay far on their right, and the good horsey smell was much better than the persistent stink near the depot. Emery motioned to some trees on the left of a large woodpile.