The Sentinels of Andersonville (30 page)

 
—

Dr. Stiles waited, reins in hand, peering ahead. J. W. did not feel like waiting in the carriage. He could not see through the pines in the bend. He couldn’t see how far away the picket line was, but if he listened close he could hear the men.

He got down and looked through the thinned pines to the Confederate soldiers’ burial ground. A little farther up the road was where they would bring out Dance from the Union burial trench. He went up the road as far as he dared, until he heard voices at the picket line, then slipped into the pines.

He picked his way over a carpet of needles, through pines and spiderwebs and brambles, and came out to an open place.

A mound of earth rose before him. He walked toward it and went around one side. A shovel was stuck in the mound. Then J. W. Pickett stopped short.

In a shallow trench stretched a row of corpses.

He became aware of the sound of buzzing flies, of wind in the pines, and somewhere, a bird. It was quiet here, away from the stockade, just an old living man among many young dead ones.

A distant train whistle blew.

It was a very long trench. Bodies, close-packed, filled it. The end of it was covered with dirt. Another long, covered trench lay nearby. And another. And another. Thousands of bodies lay all about J. W. Pickett in long, shallow mass graves.

Those before him lay uncovered, these boys who had walked the pen his own boy oversaw
 
—Dance, a sentinel of Andersonville; Dance, whose eyes knew them living, who now lay like a corpse among them
 
—these boys, these young men dead from starvation, these wrecked, ruined men.

His son had called for help, asked his father to face with him a thing he could not face alone. And J. W. Pickett had refused to come.

He walked to the edge of the trench and knelt beside it. Dead men tell no tales? These did. He laid his hand on a head. The hair was matted. A few wisps moved in the breeze. The shrunken face, skin stretched tightly over the skull, had the beginnings of an adolescent beard. “Beautiful boy,” he whispered, “how sorry I am.”

He did not have a clear picture of Dance in the dead house until now.

Did his own beautiful boy lie among corpses like these?

The old man stepped down into the trench to do the same, and so await the fate of his son.

D
R
.
S
TILES
looked at the place he had last seen Cousin Pickett, where he had slipped into the pines. Shouldn’t they be here by now? Several people had passed, sending curious glances to the stopped carriage; some asked if they could be of assistance, and Dr. Stiles had smiled ruefully and said his cousin was suddenly sick, motioning to the pines.

An occasional whoop and holler from the picket line ahead broke the silence. Now a song started up, not much in tune or in time. The boys sounded as though they had a barrel to share.

What if there was a watch change? What if one of them came this way? And what if it happened when Dance arrived?

 
—

The old man rose from the dead.

He climbed out of the trench at the sound of the approaching wagon and waited for it to pull up.

Drover climbed down and came to meet him. When he drew close, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ll say it straight, sir, I ain’t
sure he lives. He had a fit not a minute ago, and now he’s awful
 
—well, where’s the doc?”

J. W. gazed at the wagon bed. “Is my boy in there?”

Drover hung his head. Pickett put out his hand and started for the wagon.

Stacked on top of each other like so much cordwood, beautiful boys.

His beautiful boy lay atop the pile of corpses. How still he lay.

His mouth was open. His face was swollen and bruised. A cloth covered one eye.

“Is this my beautiful boy?” He took his hand and held it to his cheek.

Dr. Stiles touched his shoulder. “Come on, fellas, let’s get him down.”

Drover and the other man took Dance down as carefully as they could and laid him apart from the wagon. They backed away as J. W. and the doctor went to his side.

The other guard muttered, “Drover, if he
 
—Well, if he
 
—we can’t take him back. We can take him to the Confederate site.”

“No,” said J. W., turning to them. “You’ll bury him here.” He rose and looked at the open trench. “You’ll bury my boy with these.”

“There will be no burying yet,” said Dr. Stiles, from where he knelt beside Dance. He took something out of Dance’s mouth and held up a small wad of bloody cloth. “Here is your fit. He was coughing it up.” He rested his hand on Dance’s head, ruffling his hair with his thumb. “Let’s get him home.”

 
—

They gently loaded Dance onto the floorboard of the carriage. He was unconscious, deeply so, and Dr. Stiles hoped he’d suffer no lasting neural harm. He did not yet tell J. W. that his son would lose
his left eye, and he did not yet know what other injuries he had sustained
 
—a cursory examination promised more than mere broken ribs
 
—but he was alive, and his heartbeat was strong. His good eye showed reaction to light.

In truth, it seemed as though Dance was not as bad as he might have been. As though the beating had been stopped short. Why didn’t they finish him? Why didn’t they keep it up until they knew he was dead?

His physician side went on ahead and staged the removal of the bad eye. He had never performed an enucleation; he would ask for assistance from Dr. McCabe. He was sure to get it, as Dr. McCabe’s professional concerns overrode any others.

But his father side said never mind all that
 
—Dance lives, and now so will your girl, so think on practical things later and let your soul rest a bit in joy.

Drover said quickly, “Someone comes. I best get scarce. Send word when you can.” He vanished into the pines.

“Cousin, you best come sit up by me, for it will look strange if you don’t. On the road to Americus, you can join him.”

“Drive carefully, Norton.”

“I will.”

He turned the carriage around to gain the other side of the road before they met whoever was coming from Andersonville. Dance could not be seen unless another rig was directly next to them and someone happened to look straight down into the cart; but no chance must be taken, and Dr. Stiles would keep as much distance as possible. He stayed as close as he dared to the edge of the road without risking a wheel catching the rim of the ditch.

Two dray horses came into view around the bend, and Dr. Stiles’s heart stood still.

On the front seat of the dray sledge was General Winder.

An armed guard sat beside him with the reins, and four armed soldiers stood in the sledge, hanging on to the sides.

“Hold up!” General Winder called. “Who goes there?”

Dr. Stiles drew up, and in the wash of fear, indignation sprang.

“Who goes there?” he repeated. “Why it is I, General Winder, Dr. Norton Stiles from Americus. Do you intend that I should produce a passport to that effect? As you did for those in Richmond?”

“Who is the man next to you?” General Winder leaned and squinted, and when he saw who it was, sat back. A rather pleased contempt came to his face. “What a pair. Sherman comes, and Wirz says your son has cut and run. It is not so hard to believe
 
—the last to join the Cause are first to forsake it. I confess I never dreamed to see a son of the great J. W. Pickett a member of the
militia
. And now Howell Cobb’s singlemost prize has deserted. Well, let me tell you something
 
—if we find him, things will not go well for him. I guarantee that. You and your Articles. I will
clothe
your boy in Article 41. I will make it his shroud.”

“I have seen what you have done,” J. W. Pickett said. “They are just boys. Like ours.”

“They are Yankees.” The contempt condensed to hatred. “I thought you were a good Southerner.”

“I am not. But my son is.”

“I have spoken with Colonel Chandler,” said Dr. Stiles. “You are in his report. He plans to recommend your removal. Oh yes
 
—I’ve seen his notes. He calls for another to take your place, one who shall employ good judgment, and energy, and feelings of humanity for that prison. One who does not pride himself on never entering that stockade. One who would have got something
done
had he put forth even
minimum
effort to ease such suffering!”

“Chandler?” Winder seized upon the name with relish. He leaned forward. “Oh, I will tell you of Chandler. He came down here with
trumpets ablaze, predisposed from rumor to champion the ‘plight’ of the Yank, determining beforehand to give an unfavorable report of all he saw or heard, desiring to show himself in a most compassionate light, throwing about his holy indignations. Well, you don’t know anything. I am sure he did not tell you that he
himself
is a Yank, you ignorant fool! Oh, yes
 
—to join our ranks he resigned his
Union
commission, only to be taken prisoner by the same! Search it out if you don’t believe me. He was exchanged for a nephew of Andrew Johnson. There
 
—your distinguished, your
tarnished
hero.” He receded, the baleful gaze exultant.

“Are we not all tarnished?” said J. W. Pickett.

“How you ever evade . . . ,” Dr. Stiles said in wonder, as if discovering something for the first time. “What of Chandler?” He stood in the carriage and held his hand out toward the stockade. “There it stands! There is your generalship! All the things you could do to help
 
—you not only do not do them, you
prevent
others from doing them! Can you not see how wrong it is? Can you not see it is entirely evil?”

“Walk on,” Winder said to his driver. The driver clucked and flicked the reins.

“Look into that stockade! Look into those graves! Do not look away from them, sir!” Dr. Stiles dropped to the seat. “And if you do, we will not. For we do not answer to you, but to God. The men who survive will tell the truth one day. They will tell of what people did to help them, and of what they did not.”

“Hold up, General Winder!” It was Drover. He came from the pines and went to the cart, waving a piece of paper. “I thought you might like to see this.”

Winder snatched the paper, recognized it, crumpled and threw it in Drover’s face. The driver snapped the reins and the cart lurched forward. Some of the guards toppled. Grinning, Drover watched them go.

“What is that?” Dr. Stiles asked.

“Well, you oughta know.” Drover retrieved the paper, smoothed it out, and handed it to Dr. Stiles. He and J. W. Pickett read it together.

AMERICUS, ANDERSONVILLE, OR WHOMSOEVER WILL

Is it possible you think yourself DETAINED from Feeding STARVING Prisoners? . . .

They finished reading, and Dr. Stiles held it for a moment. It seemed to give off its own light, here in this place.

“Kingdom come, she says,” Dr. Stiles murmured. He folded the paper and tucked it carefully inside his vest. “Cousin, let’s get your boy home to my girl.”

He who sits upon the throne of the universe knows full well the best methods of action, the wisest discipline for the times, and is surely pledged to make Right triumphant in the end. Peace was the watchword at the beginning of His reign, and it shall be the crowning glory of the same at the last. Then let the fearful and anxious hear a voice from heaven saying unto them
 
—

“Dismiss thy fears,
 
—the ark is mine.”

Let them also hear the words,
 
—
Sacrifices are never lost.

 
—
Life and Death in Rebel Prisons
BY ROBERT H. KELLOGG, 16TH CONNECTICUT VOLUNTEERS, ANDERSONVILLE SURVIVOR

OCTOBER 1864

Burr saw Old Abe, and gave a little whistle. He looked both ways and let go the lemon. It took a good bounce in the dead zone and rolled for Old Abe.

Old Abe nodded. “You give that doctor a handshake and say it comes from me.” He limped off, saying over his shoulder, “And keep one for yourself, you flamin’ dog secesh.”

“That ain’t allowed,” piped the nipper.

Burr flicked his head. “Shut up or you’ll go sailin’. They’ll get out forks and knives and say, ‘Supper time!’ You know what their favorite meal is?”

“What?”

“Rebel Child. They like ’em nice and tender.”

Presently, a young Yank came to the deadline. He looked expectantly up at the tower. Burr was about to yell him away, when the piping nipper produced a sweet potato from his pocket. He carefully
looked both ways, then tossed it to him. The Yank boy nodded, looked both ways, and sauntered off.

Burr looked down at the boy, who worked up a wad of spit and let fly. He put his chin on the rail and grinned. Burr flicked his head.

The two sentinels settled in to resume their watch of Andersonville.

MARCH 1865

The War of Northern Aggression shuddered to a close. Eleventh-hour measures, reached for simply because no one knew how to quit, would not save the South now. Appomattox, the end of the Southern Cause, was only days away.

The Friends of Andersonville Prison, small though their efforts were in comparison to the great need, continued to do what they could in collecting food and medical supplies; and until General Winder left the prison in the fall of 1864, these had to be given in secret.

On the last day of March 1865, two founding members of the F.A.P. were married on the pleasantly situated lawn at the east end of Lamar Street in Americus.

It was a very lovely and very small ceremony, as Americus had not yet forgiven Dr. Stiles and his family for helping the Yanks. But they would, one day.

Reverend Gillette and his wife sat at a table with Dr. Stiles and his family, along with J. W. Pickett and Hettie Dixon.

“Do you know how many weddings I have officiated?” said Reverend Gillette to a passing Ellen. “This is the best wedding cake I have ever had. I have sneaky plans for a second piece.”

“Oh, I got my eyes on you.”

Dance, handsome in his dashing eye patch and wedding broadcloth, noticed a particularly daydreamy Posey. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “What are you thinking, Posey girl?”

“Brother, I am fondly remembering a man who’d have my name in his pocket all the days of his life if he could. He has a girl my age, fair and bright. And for all my days I will only know him as Little Mite Badger.”

A cake-filled fork froze en route to the open mouth of Reverend Gillette.

 
—

APRIL 1865

HANOVER JUNCTION, PENNSYLVANIA

The train came into the station, and Lew reached for his knapsack.

The war was over and he’d made it through. But Lincoln was dead. Harris was dead. His whole mess was gone. He packed them away and stood for no grief yet, but felt great emptiness where they used to abide.

They would come to him in the fruit fields, one day. Harris with his artful profanities, Charley Reed with his drum.

What of Emery Jones? Would Emery come with them? All Lew had known of this war was loss. Bullets took most, Andersonville took the rest. He packed Emery away, not as he last saw him, but coming out of a thicket at a crouch, moving smooth, blasting a skulker Reb.

Lew had mustered out in Baltimore, and the Soldier’s Center
arranged a series of telegrams. A work hand would meet him in Hanover Junction, and from there it was an hour by wagon to home where the whole clan waited to welcome him. Mother and Father. His sister, Laura, and her new husband. His brother, Frank, who’d mustered out two weeks earlier. Uncles and aunts, cousins and neighbors. His children. And Carrie.

He’d had only one furlough in four years and hadn’t seen Carrie and the children in two. Would they know him?

He smiled, and his stomach fluttered. Well, the children would get used to him. And Carrie would know him invisible.

The train came to a standstill, and Lew stepped down from the car. He looked for the work hand sent to meet him and had taken no more than a step or two when he stopped.

Leaning against a post in a jaunty pose was Emery Jones.

Emery grinned. “Hello there, thunderstruck.”

Lew could not move.

“Say something.”

“Well, I am trying to tell my eyes what they see,” Lew said slowly. “They don’t believe me.”

“Lewis Archibald Gann, by the way.”

“I don’t recall telling you my middle name. I do not like it.”

“Lewis Archibald Gann
 
—the second. She named Little Mite after you.”

It was too darned much. A real live Emery and a named child. He put his face in his sleeve.

“Why’d she do that?” he said, muffled.

“You just thank the good Lord he takes after her and not you. What
I’d
like to know is how you could forget a piece of information like that. Mercy, I’d remember if my son were named after me. We do hope for a boy, but if it’s a girl, she is certain to be as beautiful as Laura. We can’t go wrong.”

Lew came away from his sleeve.

“Yep
 
—just found out yesterday. You’re gonna be an uncle. You are stuck with me in perpetuity
 
—Brother.” Then Emery straightened and his broad grin left. “Hold on, now, take it slow and easy
 
—yes, I married Laura, and you do not have to look like Armageddon.”

“Well, Emery, it is much. I am trying to accustom. Did her intended die in battle?”

“Nope. Once I saw her I went and killed him myself.”

Emery took Lew’s knapsack. He slung it over his shoulder, and they fell into step.

“I thought you only killed men with bad grammar.”

“I also kill fiancés.”

“What happened to you, Emery Jones?”

“It is a fine story,” he admitted.

The same morning that Corporal Emery Jones was acquitted and exiled, Union admiral David Farragut attacked Mobile Bay. By the time Corporal Jones reached Fort Morgan, that venerable citadel at the mouth of Mobile Bay had been under siege for a week. Jones and his escort rushed to join the embattled garrison and give what aid they could.

Union forces closed in with siege mortars upon the fort, and the Confederates abandoned two batteries on the outer defenses. When ordered to spike the guns on retreat, one battery crew took a direct mortar hit. Emery Jones never made it out on a slumgullion blockader to heathen lands.

“I did enjoy that battle, though I was blown up some.” He pulled up his shirt. “Look at that. If you look at it from my vantage, it is a map of Sumter County. A special little girl drew one for me once.” He dropped the shirt. “Well, after the mapmakers put me together they made an earnest matter of my exile, and I was sent over as a traitor to the Cause under white flag at Fort Morgan
 
—just
after, as a matter of irony, I was awarded a medal for the action at the battery.

“You may surmise that the Union had not much cause for used goods such as I, so they kept me safe under lock and key until they took stock of my talents. I made the rounds of some of your
 
—I mean,
our
, as I am now a blue belly
 
—prisons, a few of which, I am sad to report, gave Andersonville a run for the money: particularly Camp Douglas in Chicago, from which I do not have a solitary decent memory. However, I ended my prison days at Fort McHenry in Baltimore, and I did like it there, for there I took up correspondence with Laura. She came and visited with your folks, as they wanted more details on you; I learned later they came to size me up ’cause
you
gave details of
me
in your letters. Well, I don’t know what lies you told, but I am in your debt. We were married in January. I asked ’em to keep it mum in their letters to you. I knew you’d not believe it lest you seen it. You know what, Lew? It is sure nice to talk to you again. We will philosophize and grow fruit trees until we are aged. Well, Carrie and Laura are sure gettin’ up some kind of feast. Place looks like a county fair. You’d think someone special’s comin’ home.”

“My sister’s name, coming out of your mouth . . .”

“You gonna miss anything from your Southern sojourn?”

“Not much,” and he waited through an aching threat of unpacking as Harris Gill’s face came up, and Andy and Martin from Hotel Ford, and the sight of those fence rails loaded into a wagon.

One day when he could bear it, he’d let them out. And one day when he could bear it, he’d travel south and visit Andersonville Prison. He’d do something special there
 
—he’d fashion a monument or plant a tree for Harris and the men of the 12th Pennsylvania. He’d make sure their suffering meant something. It did to him.

For now, for now, pack Andersonville away.

“I’ll miss only one thing for now, and more when I am able. I’ll miss a little girl called Traitor Christian. She helped me on my way.”

“Say that name again.”

“Traitor Christian.”

Emery put his hands in his pockets, and smiled.