Dark Chaos

by Ginny Dye

  “But if we lose the war, we’ve lost everything,” Robert protested, wondering even as he spoke if he really believed that anymore.

  “Have we?” Olsen asked. “We may have lost the way of life we have cherished, but we won’t have lost our souls. We won’t have lost our ability to love and laugh. We won’t have lost our ability to learn and grow.”

  “Then why are you working for the Confederacy?” Robert asked, confused.

  “Because I believe in our right to make our own decisions. I don’t believe the Federal government should dictate what we do. Even if what we’re doing is wrong.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Slavery, Robert. I believe slavery is wrong. I gave my slaves their freedom long ago.” His voice grew firmer. “There are people who feel they are fighting just for slavery. Ownership of another human being would never give me the motivation to engage in the struggle we find ourselves in now. No, I’m living the last years of my life in support of the Confederacy because I believe in states’ rights.”

  “I own slaves,” Robert confessed. “At least I did before the war started. I haven’t been near my plantation since the war started. For all I know, they’ve all run away.”

  “You don’t sound like you would be very distressed.”

  “I wouldn’t. I’ve changed how I feel about it. I don’t believe in slavery anymore. I’ve discovered blacks are people just like me.” He paused. “I was almost killed at Antietam. A black fellow who I will probably never know saved my life. It was a black family that took me into their home for seven months while I healed. Living with them changed my life.”

  “Yet you are still fighting for the Confederacy?”

  “I’m fighting for my home. For my wife. For my right to make my own decisions.”

  “And if we lose the war?” Olsen asked, watching him closely.

  Robert hesitated. It’s not that he hadn’t thought of it. He had feared from the beginning that the Confederacy had taken on a challenge they had no hope of winning. So many had thought the North would simply let them walk away - that there would never be a fight. Certainly they had never thought hundreds of thousands of their men and boys would die or be maimed for life. Robert finally shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Think about it while you’re here,” Olsen advised kindly. “I find it much easier to deal with a situation if I have come to peace with whatever the results might be.”

  “But doesn’t that make you weak in your fight?”

  “On the contrary,” Olsen asserted quickly. “I find even more energy to pursue what I’m after because there is no fear of failure to hold me back. I’ve already decided I can live with whatever happens.” He paused then turned to look Robert squarely in the eyes. “What will your life be like if the South loses? Can you live with it?” He turned back to stare at the ocean, obviously not expecting an answer.

  Robert stood next to him silently, pondering the old man’s words.

  “There it is!” Olsen suddenly called out, pointing his cane toward the horizon. “Good old England.” He was quiet for a few moments then asked, “How much do you know about England?”

  “Not a lot,” Robert admitted. “I’ve done some studying, but I still feel inadequate. I’ve always felt you should know as much about a foreign country as possible before you go there. I’m afraid this trip was rather unexpected.”

  “England is staunchly against slavery. Do you know that?”

  “I’d heard they weren’t fond of our peculiar institution,” Robert said dryly. “Are you afraid I’m going to put my foot in my mouth and embarrass myself?”

  “Not at all,” Olsen said hastily. “I just find it helpful to understand the mental state of people before I try to develop a relationship with them. Uncle Tom’s Cabin sold more widely in England than it did in the United States, you know.” Then he laughed. “Of course, English dislike of American arrogance could have much to do with its popularity.”

  “What are you really trying to tell me?” Robert asked.

  Olsen stared at him for a moment. “Don’t get your hopes up too high, my boy. The aristocracy is on our side, but the Queen and most of the people support the North. Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation was a stroke of genius. It was just what was needed to swing anti-slavery England all the way to their side. Not that it really matters, I suppose. England has rather wisely chosen a position of neutrality. I don’t fancy anything we can do will change that.”

  “It was an English captain who commandeered the boat I ran the blockade on,” Robert reminded him.

  “Ah, yes,” Olsen said wryly, a small smile curling his lips. “People motivated by money don’t often let a little thing like political persuasion stand in their way. The English aren’t fools, Robert. They recognize a way to make tremendous profits when they see it. There are many Englishmen who will become quite wealthy off the misfortune of the South. Not that it’s bad,” he added thoughtfully. “Were it not for their desire to make money, the South would have been destroyed long ago. If it weren’t for the massive amounts of goods being shipped from this country, we would not still be surviving.” He swung back around and stared across the water.

  Robert wasn’t sure what to think of this conversation with Olsen. If all was lost, why not just turn around and go home to Carrie? And more battle... a still voice reminded him. Robert frowned. Was he coming to England just because he didn’t want to fight? Surely he had never suspected Carrie would choose not to join him. What exactly was he doing here?

  Robert pushed aside his thoughts for later reflection and leaned against the railing. Soon the other passengers joined them, their laughter and talk reflecting their own relief at finally reaching their destination. The thin line of land grew larger until Robert could finally distinguish church spires and buildings in the distance. Ship masts looking like a cushion full of needles bobbed in the breeze.

  Robert leaned forward excitedly. How many of those ships were loaded with goods destined for Nassau and the blockade runners waiting for them? Which one would take his letters to Carrie? As he watched the city take shape before his eyes, his longing for Carrie gripped him like a physical ache. How he longed to share all this with her. How he longed to explore the city with her, together experiencing all it had to offer.

  Gulping to swallow the knot swelling in his throat, he once again reminded himself he had to let her be who she was. He couldn’t demand she change. He couldn’t make her into something she wasn’t. I knew what she was like before I married her, he reminded himself. He shook his head heavily. “That doesn’t make me miss her any less,” he whispered fiercely, glad the sound of the boat and the wind swept away his voice.

  Matthew, the captured journalist, gazed around wearily as the train carrying him, and about a hundred other prisoners, pulled into the train station on Broad Street. His mind flew back to before the war when he had arrived to spend Christmas on Cromwell Plantation with Carrie and her family. It seemed a different time - a totally different life. He looked down at his filthy clothes then contemplated the looks of despair and defiance of the men with him. It was indeed a different time. He pushed the thoughts of earlier times out of his mind. It was now he had to live.

  “All right, gentleman,” a Confederate soldier called mockingly. “You’ve almost arrived at your new home. I’m sure you’re glad to be here. We’ll try to make you as comfortable as possible.” His words were accompanied by a harsh laugh.

  Matthew gritted his teeth and stood up to exit the train with the other men. He had decided he envied the men who had no idea what to expect. They had plied him with questions about the prison facilities of Richmond, thinking that Matthew’s confinement here the year before would give them information to make it easier. Matthew had done the best he could to prepare them, but knew his efforts were futile. Only through experience could one understand the humiliation and degradation of prison existence.

  He shuddered as he thought of the number of enlisted men wh
o would not even have the dubious comforts of Libby Prison to experience. Libby was deserved for officers and civilian prisoners. The enlisted men would find themselves in even more crowded conditions. Matthew had heard rumors of the prison on Belle Island. How many of his companions would end up out there?

  Matthew had tried to prepare himself during the long ride across the country for what was to come. When he had been released in a prisoner exchange from Libby the year before, he had hoped to never again experience anything like it. The long nights stuffed into the train had given him plenty of time to relive those horrid months - as well as to envision what waited for him. He fought daily to hold on to hope and not let despair completely overwhelm him.

  “Well, Mr. Justin, I guess you’re home again,” a guard sneered. “I’m sure you missed it.”

  Matthew looked at him steadily but didn’t respond. He took a deep breath, stood, and joined the queue of prisoners streaming from the train. Dawn was just breaking over the city, so the streets were mostly empty as they marched down them toward the river. The few people up and about muttered and scowled when they saw the prisoners.

  Matthew struggled to remember the kind and gracious city he had visited just a few years before. There was little to remind him. The evidences of neglect were everywhere. Paint peeled from buildings and shutters hung free, creaking in the breeze. Fence posts lay where they had fallen; whole sections of the once proud, elegant structures now sagged to the ground. What had been carefully tended yards abloom with flowers were now dusty, weedy spots. Trash and litter were everywhere, clogging the streets and covering the sidewalks.

  Matthew felt a surge of pity for the people of the once proud city. They had paid dearly for the honor of being the capital of the Confederacy. The rather dubious honor had assured they would become a besieged city. That they had managed to survive this long was a miracle. His thoughts flew to Carrie. Was she still in the city? Were she and her father well? What had happened to his friend, Robert? Matthew stifled a groan. It was doing no good to try to block out the past. Everything he saw brought it to life - rising to taunt him. It was bad enough to be heading to prison. It was even more torture to be in the city which had once held such fond memories for him.

  “It doesn’t look much like I thought it would,” Peter said quietly.

  Matthew glanced over at his fellow journalist. “It’s changed,” he said brusquely. “Just like everything has been changed by this war.” He knew his voice sounded bitter. He was losing his battle against despair.

  “We’re going to make it,” Peter said confidently. “We’ll probably be exchanged in a few weeks. They won’t keep us long.”

  Matthew nodded. “Yeah.”

  “You can’t lose hope,” Peter admonished him.

  “I also can’t survive on pipe dreams,” Matthew reminded him bitterly. “No one will be happier than me if I make it out of this place again, but I’m not counting on it.”

  Peter stared at him silently. “You don’t sound like yourself,” he said finally.

  “We’ll see how you sound after a few weeks in this place,” Matthew countered. He didn’t tell Peter of the months of endless nightmares he had endured after his first prison stay. He had managed to put them all behind him. In the last two weeks, they had once again become a constant reality.

  “Is that it?” Peter asked suddenly.

  Matthew glanced up then nodded. “That’s it.” The building was the one of his nightmares. The three story brick structure, once a tobacco warehouse, loomed from the street. He could see the faces of men peering from every window. As before, there was no glass to keep the rain and cold out. At least it was summer, he told himself grimly. He wouldn’t be freezing for a few months. His heart caught as he remembered the coat Carrie had brought him the winter he had been confined. He had felt guilty being warm while he had watched other men sicken and die, yet he was sure the coat had been the only thing that had helped him survive. Just to end up back here again, he groaned.

  Libby Prison was just as crowded as Matthew remembered it. Hundreds of men looked up as he and Peter were escorted into the room after being registered in the office with the twenty other men chosen to stay.

  “Welcome to Libby Prison.”

  Matthew forced a smile as he turned to look at the man standing close behind him. “Greetings from the outside world.” He knew from past experience that the men confined here longed for any word of what was happening outside the four walls they were trapped in.

  “My name is Captain Arthur Anderson.”

  “And I’m Matthew Justin. This is Peter Jansen.”

  “Your commissions?”

  “We’re journalists.”

  A smile lit Captain Anderson’s face. “Come on over here, boys. We’ve got us a couple of journalists. Now we can really find out what is going on out there!” He pulled up a barrel and plunked down on it. “Talk.”

  Two hours later Matthew and Peter had answered all their questions. At least the ones they had fired at them so far.

  “My turn,” Matthew finally said firmly. “How is the prisoner exchange going?” In spite of his determination not to hope, he was grasping on to the chance his time here would be short.

  Anderson shrugged. “Hooker lost a lot more men than Lee at Chancellorsville. There has been exchange going on, but there are still lots of us here. The Rebels like to hang on to the officers in case there is someone really important they want to exchange for.”

  Matthew felt his hope flicker. “I see.”

  “Come on, Matthew. They aren’t going to keep a couple of journalists here,” Peter argued. “We’ll be out of here soon.”

  Matthew said nothing. The look on Anderson’s face said it all. The rules of this war had all changed. They were now being written as need dictated. There might be the need for a couple of Yankee journalists. As long as there was that possibility, they would be held. Their very novelty made them a valuable commodity.

  “What’s Belle Island like?” he asked suddenly. Matthew wanted to take his mind off his own situation.

  Anderson scowled. “It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen. And nothing you ever want to experience. This is a grand hotel compared to what those men are enduring. There is precious little shelter, and never enough food. Those men are crammed in there like rats in a cage.” His voice grew husky. “We watch them from the windows sometimes. You can see dark shapes tottering around. God help them if this war isn’t over by winter. Having them out there then will be nothing less than murder.”

  Matthew watched the agony play over the man’s face. He knew some of the men he had commanded must be confined on the island.

  “I’m the president of the Libby Prison Association,” Anderson said finally. “It is my privilege to inform you of the rules on conduct we have established here.” He smiled. “They’re pretty simple really. We just decided that when we finally get out of here we will still be civilized gentlemen.”

  “Those of us who started that way,” a listening man hooted. The room rang with laughter.

  Matthew felt himself relax a little. The faces had changed since he had last been here, but the camaraderie remained the same. The South could steal a man’s freedom, but it couldn’t steal his humanity. That was a choice that would always remain his. As before, Matthew determined to maintain his humanity.

  “What happens if you need to go to the bathroom?” Peter asked quietly.

  Matthew smiled slightly, settling in his cramped position among the rows of men laying on the floor side by side, their feet towards the narrow center aisle. He had asked the same question. “You do your best to hold your bladder,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s almost impossible to get up without stepping on someone. It’s not the best way to form friendships,” he said dryly.

  Peter was quiet, digesting this piece of information. “Do you really think we’ll be here a long time?” His voice lacked its usual confidence.

  “I won’t be,” Matthew said, his voi
ce barely above a whisper.

  Peter turned over to stare at him. “What...?”

  “I’m going to escape,” Matthew whispered. Then he turned his back to avoid any more questions. Just one day back in the prison had convinced him he would not willingly stay longer than necessary. Every day would be spent waiting for the right opportunity.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Robert settled down at the rustic wooden table with a mug of ale in his hand. He leaned back against the plush cushions behind him and scanned the room slowly. He had been in London almost a month now. He had become familiar with the streets, grown accustomed to the constant noise, and had made many new friends, but nothing had eased the ache in his heart for Carrie. He thought about her now as he took a sip from his mug. He tried to envision her - where she was, what she was doing. He frowned, once again feeling the frustration of not even knowing whether she was safe. If she had written letters, none of them had reached him.

  “What’s the frown for, old man?”

  Robert looked up as a cheerful voice broke into his thoughts. He smiled, relieved to have someone to take his mind off home. “About time you got here, Charles,” he said, raising his mug. “I’ve been waiting for almost twenty minutes.”

  “I was delayed,” Charles said casually, slipping into the chair next to Robert. “The weather is rather beastly, don’t you think?”

  “London weather is almost always beastly,” Robert scoffed. “I can deal with it though knowing I will be returning to the sunny South, but I don’t know how you Londoners stand it.”