In a hidden fold of her skirt, Meg grazed her thumb over the webbing at the base of her fingers. “I’ll do what I can.”
“But not now.” Sylvie set her jaw, bade Nate good-bye, and marched from the room.
Heat prickled Meg’s neck, from guilt or frustration or both. She looked at Nate for his reaction. “Am I being irresponsible?”
He shook his head. “If you don’t keep digging, who will?”
Exactly.
This was the thought that comforted her during the thirteen-mile ride to the Soldiers’ Home in South Evanston, on the shore of Lake Michigan. Well, that and Nate beside her.
Meg peered through the carriage windows at the limitless blue of the lake beyond. Seagulls squawked as they swooped over the pebbly beach. In the distance, the horizon melted water and sky together.
When she’d gone to the lakeshore as a child for a family picnic, she’d waded into the shocking cold while Sylvie and their mother stayed far enough away to keep dry. “I can’t see the end of it, Papa,” she’d said while standing on the tips of her toes, water pulling at the hem of her dress. “Pick me up, I want to see the end.”
He’d swung her up so she nestled into the crook of his arm, and her wet feet dripped onto his clothes.
Shading her eyes, she’d cried, “The water goes on forever!” She’d felt as though she stood at the edge of the world.
“Not so, little one! Just because we can’t see the opposite shore doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
In a new way, Meg was still searching for the opposite shore, longing to reach the end of the unknown deep spreading before her. Pick me up, Lord, she prayed silently. Let me see the end. Then, thinking better of it, she added, See me to the end, instead.
“Meg? We’re here.” Nate looked at his pocket watch. “The men will be eating now.”
Childhood memory faded as soon as she thanked Eli for the ride and entered the two-story brick building with Nate. A matron in a white uniform greeted them in the parlor before sending them to the dining hall in the basement below. Wide, short windows near the ceiling allowed a little daylight into the space.
Six long tables formed three rows, with benches of men sitting on either side. The air smelled of their lunch: pork chops, gravy, buttered squash, green beans, fresh bread, and coffee. Four women bustled among what looked to be four dozen veterans, rationing sugar into their coffee, pats of butter onto bread.
“Asa Jones!” Nate hailed a man whose ash-blond hair receded from his brow. He might have had the trim figure of a hardened soldier once, but he’d softened and grown thick about his middle. A crutch leaning against the wall drew Meg’s attention to his legs. One of them was gone below the knee. An arm was cut short at the elbow.
With his cheek full of bread, Mr. Jones beckoned them over.
After the basic introductions, Nate added, “This is Stephen Townsend’s daughter. Did you know him?”
Meg and Nate sat across from Mr. Jones, and she braced herself for another negative reaction.
But the veteran’s face relaxed in understanding. “For the six weeks we both trained at Camp Douglas, yes. Then his regiment went a different way than mine. Seems to me he was a gentle soul with more smarts than most. He drew a raw deal, young lady. That ain’t nothing to be ashamed of. That’s just life dealing its cards. It’s a gamble, you know. All a gamble.”
It certainly felt that way at times. And yet what a hopeless philosophy, to think there was not a higher purpose, even if it defied human understanding. Meg had to believe God remained in control even when His children were not. No, especially then.
But all she said was, “It sounds like you’ve read about my father in the Tribune.”
“Starting with the piece Nate here wrote. He wrote about me too.” He wiped his napkin across his face. “But I’m sure you haven’t come to get my autograph.”
Meg rested her forearms on the smooth oak table, preparing her questions. Mr. Jones glanced at her scarred and bandaged hands, then held her gaze with his. He’d seen worse. Survived worse.
“What can I do for you two?” he asked. “Have you got more questions, Nate?”
“I believe Miss Townsend does.” Nate nodded for her to continue.
“You knew my father,” she began. “Did you also happen to know Hiram Sloane? He was a guard at Camp Douglas, part of the Invalid Corps.”
Mr. Jones shook his head. “The prison camp was a separate section from where we trained. I had no call to be there, but I did take a gander at the Johnny Rebs a few times from the Union Observatory. It was a tower fifty feet high near the main gate on Cottage Grove. For five cents, anyone could climb it and see what was going on in the prison yard. Folks thought it great sport.”
Meg bristled. Ruth had never allowed her or Sylvie to go near the camp, concerned about contagious disease spreading from soldiers of either side. So she hadn’t known the prisoners in Chicago had been gawked at by the public, as Stephen had been in Andersonville.
“What did you see?” Nate prompted. Ever the reporter, he took out a pencil and pad of foolscap, ready to take notes.
“Oh.” Mr. Jones grabbed a saltshaker and rolled it back and forth in his hand. “Those Southern boys were made to stand in snow and ice, facing an icy mist coming off the lake, for hours at a time with nary a bite to eat. But if they moved, they’d be shot by one of the guards.”
“Not Hiram, though,” Meg said. “I can’t imagine him being so cruel.”
“Like I said, I didn’t know one guard from the other except by sight. There were other forms of punishment too, things so devious we’d cry foul if such things were done to Yankees down south. There were four guards most notorious for things like that. Big, burly fellows.”
“That doesn’t sound like Hiram Sloane,” Nate said.
“Not at all.” Meg inhaled deeply, ready to move on. “Mr. Jones, you didn’t know which guard was Hiram Sloane, so you couldn’t have known if he had particular enemies. Correct?”
Amusement played at the corner of his mouth. “Well, miss, he was a prison guard in time of war. Thousands of Johnnys were his enemies.”
“Not his personal enemies,” she insisted.
“Maybe from where he was standing. But if you’d asked those prisoners, they’d say it was plenty personal.”
An older veteran shuffled up to the table with a half-filled cup of coffee. “Mind if I join you?” His joints creaked as he folded himself to fit on the bench beside Asa Jones.
Nate reached across the table to shake his hand, then introduced the man to Meg as Elton Burke. “He was a guard at Camp Douglas too. Perhaps you’d be willing to answer a few questions in a moment, Elton?”
He agreed.
Though eager to question Mr. Burke, Meg circled back to the fact that Mr. Jones had known her father. In a way, Stephen was a victim of Hiram’s murder too, for his life had been taken hostage by the false charge.
“Mr. Jones, do you know if my father had any enemies?”
Mr. Jones set the saltshaker aside. “Stephen Townsend? No. I can’t think of a single man who wasn’t cheered by him being around. He ministered to me more than the chaplain did. You tell him that sometime. See if he remembers Asa Jones.”
Meg smiled. “I will, thank you. I have just one more question for you. From what you knew of him, would my father ever shoot an unarmed man in the back?”
“What? Is that what they’re saying your pa did? No, that’s cowardice six ways from Sunday.” Mr. Jones shook his head. “Don’t you believe it.”
“I don’t. Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Jones.”
“My turn?” Mr. Burke’s voice had a distinctive gravelly tone. He set down his coffee with too much force—or too little control—and it sloshed over the rim.
Meg wiped up the spill with a napkin. “Thank you, Mr. Burke. You knew Hiram Sloane?”
He scratched his whiskered cheek. “I did. Not a bad fellow. I never knew him to shoot a prisoner for sport, nothing like
that. And as for the more creative punishments that were common to all prison camps North and South, I never saw him direct those either.”
Of course Hiram wouldn’t have done those things. “Do you know of anyone who might have wished him harm? Other than all the prisoners who wanted to escape, that is.” After pausing to allow him to think, she added, “Did he ever mention Otto Schneider?”
Nate nudged her with his elbow. “You’re leading the witness,” he teased.
“Otto Schneider?” Recognition lit Mr. Burke’s watery eyes. “His legal sparring with Hiram was in all the papers. But nothing got Hiram so hot under the collar as the news that came out of Andersonville. He had a friend there, if I’ve got it right.”
“My father,” Meg said. “Stephen Townsend.”
Mr. Burke looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Well, they must have been close. When word reached us about the starving Yankees in Georgia, Hiram zealously enforced the new policy to cut rations for our prisoners up here. Not that our prisoners were getting three squares a day. But if our men were suffering in Andersonville, the Rebs would suffer here too. That was the mindset.”
“Retaliation,” Nate confirmed.
“Exactly.” Mr. Burke slurped from his mug.
Meg shifted on the bench and rearranged her skirt over her knees. “I never knew Hiram to be vengeful.”
“You never knew him like I did, then. He did his duty and then some on account of the plight of his friend held down South. For instance, prisoners were searched upon entering Camp Douglas. Personal items were taken and recorded in a log, to be returned to the prisoner upon his release. But Hiram didn’t stop there. He searched their persons at random in the square. He even searched their barracks, taking them by surprise. Rumor has it that what he found, he didn’t always turn over to his superiors for safekeeping.”
Meg couldn’t believe that. “What are you insinuating, Mr. Burke?”
He smiled, his brow clear of concern. “I’m saying that Hiram Sloane didn’t always play by the rules. The way he figured, our boys in Andersonville suffered far worse degradations. Just because he lacked the stomach for inflicting physical pain didn’t mean he was averse to other methods, like taking personal effects and contraband items. Called it payback. Only the fellow he was paying might have been himself.” He shrugged. “That’s the rumor, anyway.”
Nate put down his pencil. “We’re more interested in facts, Elton. Did you ever see this take place? Did Hiram ever admit to you directly that he’d stolen from the prisoners?”
“We weren’t that close.”
Meg had heard enough. Swallowing her indignation, she thanked Mr. Burke for his time and rose to leave.
Chapter Twenty-One
OCTOBER 31, 1871
Dear Father,
Meg wants to write you herself, but only her left hand is free of the bandages yet. She practices writing and drawing obsessively, losing all track of time, and I have to remind her to eat. She’s made some studies with her paints to get used to the brushes again, but she seems embarrassed by the results even though I see progress. She dictates again:
We think of you often and wish we could see you in person. Did you get our last letter?
Nate and I visited the Soldiers’ Home the other day. Asa Jones says to tell you hello. Do you remember him?
Jasper Davenport and some classmates cleared the rubble on our property so that when it’s time to rebuild, we’ll be ready. So much rubble from the fire has been dumped in the lake between the Illinois Central tracks and the shore that the man-made basin has virtually disappeared.
Many are rebuilding already, but the weather complicates construction, so we’ll wait until spring. By then, I expect you’ll be out of the asylum and can help oversee the building yourself, if you’d care to.
One of the stray cats you used to feed keeps coming back to the corner where our shop was. He looks so pitiful with his whiskers singed off and bald patches where sparks burned away his fur. The day he followed Jasper all the way back to Hiram’s house, he let him stay. Sylvie and I named him Oliver Twist. You’d love him, Father. We’re taking good care of him.
If you’re allowed to write to us, please do. We love you very much and pray for you every day.
Your Daughters
P.S. In case our father’s mail is being read by asylum staff: if you refuse to give this to him, at least tell him we fare well and love him.
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1871
Stephen took the medicine because it was preferable to solitary confinement. But he hated what it did to him.
He’d supposed himself emotionally detached before, but that was nothing compared to this all-over numbing, inside and out. The medicine—some cocktail he couldn’t identify—was meant to slow his heart and keep him from shaking. That it did. But it slowed his mind too and cast a veil of apathy over what was actually in front of him.
He sat on the floor in the corner of the day room, where patients passed the daylight hours when not in the dining room or in their cells. He had little interest in jockeying for one of the few chairs provided. There were never enough. It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing mattered anymore. Head on his knees, he felt it altogether too much trouble to look around and connect with other men.
Vaguely, he registered the sound of buckles hitting wood. Without looking, he knew it was two patients in straitjackets, rocking back and forth at a table painted to look like a chessboard, though Stephen had never seen any playing pieces. They moaned and spoke unintelligibly. It didn’t bother Stephen. He felt like moaning too.
A spot on his leg grew damp and cold. It took him a few minutes to realize he’d been drooling again. He drew the back of his hand across his mouth and then wiped it on his trousers. That made another wet spot. Next time he wouldn’t bother.
“W-w-hat do you have th-there?”
The voice sounded Irish. It was loud. Stephen turned to find another patient sitting cross-legged beside him. His head was shorn like everyone else’s, but the stubble growing in was like pepper, as were the whiskers shadowing his cheeks. His gums, when he spoke, showed signs of scurvy.
It wasn’t surprising, considering the food they were served. The only full meal was the noon dinner. Meats were boiled, but they were never cooked thoroughly. Soup was the water in which the meats were boiled. There were no vegetables or fruit. The coffee was so weak it looked like tea, and the milk so repulsive only the most desperate among them threw it down their gullets.
Stephen ran his tongue over his teeth to see if they were loosening. Not bad. “How long have you been here?”
The man nodded toward Stephen. “B-bad news, is it?”
Stephen frowned. He’d completely forgotten he clutched letters from Meg and Sylvie. Stretching out his legs, he spread the papers over his lap and marshalled his focus to see what they had to say. Had he read them before? He must have. But recalling their contents was no easier than remembering a dream upon waking.
The first was dated October 16. It was Sylvie writing. Meg and Nate had come to visit the asylum. They had? The script was so fine, his head ached to follow its lines and loops. He’d never had trouble reading before. It should cause him a spike in heart rate to notice this deficiency, but it didn’t. He felt strangely set apart from his own body and from his life, especially the life he had before the asylum.
“Who’s it f-f-from?” the man beside him wanted to know. “I’m Hugh. Hugh B-Brodie.”
Stephen looked at him sharply. “Are you really here and not some apparition?” He felt no fear. Just curiosity.
Hugh nodded soberly. “Hit me and s-s-see.”
Stephen didn’t want to hit him. But he did shake Hugh’s hand and felt his bones within his grip. “I’m Stephen.”
“You s-s-see other people too?” Hugh asked, eyes void of shame or surprise. “I do. I s-s-see people who aren’t th-there, I mean. M-mostly dead ones. Doctor s-s-says I have s-soldier’s heart. And I don’t n-n-need him to tell me
I’ve g-grown a s-s-stutter. S-since the war.”
Soldier’s heart. The term struggled to the surface of Stephen’s mind. “Yes. I have that too.”
Hugh pointed to the letters. “But you have people writing to you.”
Stephen’s ears adjusted to the man’s stutter until it no longer registered in the flow of conversation. “My daughters.”
Hugh blinked and scratched behind his ears. “My wife left me years ago. Took the children. I have two sons who pretend I’m dead. Maybe it’s easier for them that way. Or easier for their mother.” He picked dirt from his cuticles.
Light striped Stephen’s legs. Dust particles suspended in the pale beams. Stephen watched them dance, transfixed.
But Hugh had said something. What was it? Bringing it to mind seemed too much effort.
“You’re drooling.” Hugh pointed, then rubbed his head again. “They’re giving you that medicine to keep you quiet, eh?”
Only mildly embarrassed, Stephen wiped his chin. “They are. It’s working.”
With good humor, the Irishman slapped him on the back. “Yep. I can tell. I bet normally you wouldn’t like me touching you.”
Stephen didn’t really like it now either, but his heart was beating so slowly, he couldn’t muster much of a protest.
“You having trouble reading those letters? You want I should read them out loud to you? I could sing them to you, if you don’t mind the tunes. I don’t stutter when I sing.” When Hugh reached for the first one, Stephen let him have it.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Stephen concentrated on the words and not the voice behind them. This was Sylvie talking to him now, and Meg. Not a singing inmate. It was surreal, hearing his daughters’ words ring clear as a bell from Hugh’s mouth in song. They told him they were safe in Hiram’s house. They spoke of going to church. “We will thank God as soon as we can,” the reverend said. Meg thought that would bring him comfort.
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