Loot was taken from all and sundry, either through open assault in daylight or by sneak thievery at night. Loot could be traded, sold to the guards in exchange for any comfort obtainable. Cash exchange, the exchange of barter: it mattered not what machinery was employed so long as stewpots bubbled and raw corn whiskey was delivered in jugs. The more venal among the guards tolerated William Collins and his gang because they were a source of knives, watches, scissors, needles, buttons and clothing no longer commonly to be procured in the South. Other guards looked upon Collins with disgust, and swore to shoot him at the first opportunity. At Belle Isle Willie never went near the boundary ditch in consequence. When a new prisoner had been selected as a victim for search and seizure, and he chanced to be a prisoner located near the ditch, Willie would send subordinates to do the job.
In one whistling icy evening, a henchman named Tomcat O’Connor was engaged in stripping the flannel shirt from a fifteen-year-old newcomer whom he had hammered into submission. The attack took place close to the north ditch and came under observation of an old guard whom folks called Father Time—a patriarchal mountaineer who never swore at the inmates when ordering them about, but who misquoted liberally from the Prophets instead. There was still light enough to see, although lamps were winking on in Richmond and Manchester. Father Time halted in his leisurely sentry’s pace, took his unlit pipe out of his mouth, lifted his musket and took painstaking aim. The report of his gun jarred nearer groups, and sent people crawling away from their small fires. But Father Time wasn’t shooting at random, as depraved guards sometimes did: he was shooting at Tomcat O’Connor and he was shooting to kill, and he did kill. Tomcat leaped high off the ground when the ball broke through his chest; his arms shot out to their fullest spread and he gave a loud gulp as he fell. The next sound was a roar of laughter from Willie Collins as he stood safely beside a crowded tent, half screened by his associates. Did you see that Tomcat? he hallooed, pealing again with glee. Did you see him? Faith, I thought he was trying to jump over the moon! Then, in a lower tone, Barney, do you get over there like a brisk kiddie and go through him, and fetch his clothes—soon twill be dark, and the guard can’t see to shoot you well.
So Edward Blamey had chanced to be counted into Belle Isle in the same Hundred with this monster. Here at Camp Sumter or Andersonville or whatever they called the place, here, caged in a fresh stockade, Ed Blamey was dully grateful that he was no longer in dangerous proximity to an unprincipled force. . . . But he maintained a loathing respect for the giant just the same. Mosby certainly did look out for Number One in more than a fair way. You had to give him credit.
Willie sat in well-fed massiveness, boss and lord, the imperfect picture of a prisoner, the perfect figure of the New York City gangster which it was said that he had been all his life. Ed Blamey knew nothing of New York except that it was a noisy and bewildering place to travel through, and when he traveled through New York he had been cheated by a motherly old Scotswoman who offered the boys chocolate fudges to taste. Aren’t these fine fudges, dearie? and I’m letting them go cheap: a shilling a box, and that’s no much for fine sweeties, is it, now? Everybody tasted the crumbs she gave out, and she sold all the boxes she was carrying—twelve—as fast as the quarter-dollars could be handed to her. Then she disappeared in the crowd, saying she would be back soon with more sweeties. Edward Blamey was one of those who bought; but when the boys opened their treats they found that the boxes contained only bits of brick and shavings and no fudges at all. New York also was said to be the home of the Plug Uglies. Blamey rather supposed that Willie Collins had been a Plug Ugly.
For now Willie owned a plug hat, and it rested on his knee, that knee thewed as thickly as some men’s trunks. He wore a long blouse of blue, a plaid waistcoat, and a woolen tippet was tied around his squat neck. A gold watch chain hung across his front, and he carried a pair of officer’s gauntlets stuck into his belt, and in his pockets he had two slung-shots which he might wield simultaneously when the need arose: these weapons he called his Neddies.
Also he was said to own dirks, and rumor armed him with a pistol. He took from his pocket a green silk handkerchief and, unwinding it, produced a thick sandwich of biscuit and meat which he chewed up in three or four bites. Oh, thought Ed Blamey, that was beef. How I’d like to have—
In front of Willie’s kingly gaze the gang labored. This was still the winter season and night winds could stab you. The residence in construction was half a cave and half a fort: when the stout stump was torn out by chains and oxen it had left a hole, and this hole was utilized shrewdly in the construction design. Walls formed of wood and earth, the cavity enlarged and deepened, the sheets of rubber, the portions of canvas shingled aloft. If he dwelt here until summer Willie would have a tent constructed, for air and coolness; now he wished to be snug. Three of the men fabricated a mud chimney, as he had ordered them to do. Several of the company were apes close to Mosby the Raider in size and threat; but he had taken the measure of each as their resentfulness or ambition dictated, and at last they served consistently—if with occasional rebellion—the cause of Willie’s enrichment and their own.
His ponderous head turned, his glance identified the gawking Blamey, his finger crooked. Ha.
Blamey did not stir; he supposed that Willie must be summoning a man beyond him. He looked back, there was no one else close.
Ha. You in the cavalry jacket. It’s you I’m beckoning to.
Blamey approached with reluctance.
Come near me, Rubber Legs. God, a man could put a beer barrel betwixt them. Are you not from Belle Isle? It’s in my own Hundred you were.
Ed Blamey nodded and made a sound.
What want you here?
This patch on my pants. I thought—maybe one of your men would own a needle and thread.
Ah, your ass is ragged, and that’s the truth. Ho there, Lipsky. He summoned an undersized black-bearded man with a devilish face and one blind eye.
Lipsky can see to sew, for he was a tailor in his time. Lipsky, fetch you your tools and stitch this gentleman where he needs to be stitched. He wagged his rough boulder of a head while Lipsky sulked off to delve into a ragged bundle.
Once he tried to come at me with a knife, and I rubbed my thumb in his eye. That should teach him, hey?
Yes, chattered Edward Blamey, it ought to.
Speaking of eyes, I must needs speak with you.
Lipsky, the former tailor, unclean even among those droves of unclean and building a private stench wherever he moved, came up and prepared to thread a needle. So I can’t sew pantaloons when a customer is wearing them, he moaned.
Be taking them off, Rubber Legs.
Blamey had little wish to remove his trousers but he obeyed. He stood in a shred of under-drawers while Lipsky arranged himself on a hummock and bent to the job.
Rubber Legs, they say you’ve the ogles of a hawk. Weren’t you the one, now, who was forever spying out what went on near Libby? Sure, the fire in November! Every man of us saw the flames and people on roof-tops a-watching, but it was you who could spy how many there were, and could tell of the women you saw amongst them. Ah, it’s good to be blessed with a brace of ogles such as yours. It should teach Lipsky a trick or two, should it not? Lipsky, you dirty sheeney, it’s only one eye you’ve got for your sewing now, and why did you ever attempt to open up Willie Collins? So he rambled on while the tailor stitched, while Ed Blamey stood shaking, while other ruffians appraised Blamey’s masculinity and were rude in their evaluation of it. Mosby the Raider pulled a second sandwich from his pocket and sat munching. He did not offer to share, but Blamey would never have offered to share had that been his own sandwich. Mosby talked on with his large mouth full, and crumbs of biscuit flew out each time he opened his lips on certain words.
And a multitude of his words were incomprehensible to the bowlegged young Rhode Islander—the argot of organized brawling throngs in w
hose ranks Willie Collins had slugged since he was a child. Sure, and there was another fire after the New Year, near to Libby, and you were telling all that went on. . . . It’s little more than a fortnight since the Union cavalry, bless their barking irons, tried to capture Richmond and got themselves anointed for it; and the Rebs were pitching about on their forts and fetching up new cannon, and it was every motion you could see when they looked like mice to the rest of us. Ah, what a fine pair of gagers you’re a-wearing in your head. May God damn you, Lipsky, bestir yourself with the gentleman’s pants! Now, which of you kiddies has made off with Willie’s flask of bingo? Nickey help me, I’ll tear the wattles off your skulls if you’ve drunk it! He kept grubbing around among overcoats on which he lolled, and finally he gave a grunt of satisfaction and his hand brought up a brown glass bottle filled with some sort of liquor. Collins smirked at Edward Blamey and drew out the stopper with his teeth. The guards call it pine-top. It cost me a bean, and it would burn the gob out of most men; but to Willie it’s like the milk from his dear mother’s tits.
He spoke as if he could remember his dear mother, but he could not. He was brought from Ireland when a boy, by a father who died of what Willie called barrel fever in a Fourth Ward slum, in 1845.
Lipsky finished sewing the patch. It looked like it would last as long as the rest of the garment. This was the best tailoring which had ever been the fortune of Ed Blamey. He mumbled thanks to Lipsky, but the wretched fellow gave only a glare of his one good eye and put away needle and thread. Ah, you dead-ogled sheeney, roared Collins as the tailor passed him. He threw out his great platter of a hand in an attempted slap, but Lipsky dodged away. Willie Collins laughed, slid the brown bottle into his pocket, and again crooked his finger at Edward. Come, Rubber Legs. I’ve business with you. What’s your name?
Ed finished knotting the cord which held up his pants. He forced himself to step closer to the giant, fearing that the slap thrown at Lipsky might now be directed at him.
What’s your name?
Blamey.
Is it Delaney you say? I’ve a friend—
No, sir. Blamey.
Don’t go to sirring me, or I’ll tear the velvet out of your head. Collins is the name, you addle cove—Willie Collins!
Yes—Willie.
When did you come from Belle?
Got here a yesterday.
What’s your Hundred?
Second Squad, Eighth Hundred.
And where do you dwell? Where do you come from? You look like a joskin from the hayseeds to me! Delaney, harken to Willie Collins. I’ve use for a pair of gagers like your own.
In that moment Edward Blamey thought wildly that Collins must be planning to gouge the eyes out of his head; he would have stumbled in flight, but Collins’s hand had clamped on his jacket. Collins dragged him closer and explained his plan. This stockade enclosed a large area, far larger than Belle Isle. It was difficult to tell what was going on at one end of the pen when you stood at the other. Blamey should serve as a scout, an observer. He could tell when new prisoners were coming in at the gate, and which of those new prisoners possessed blankets or bundles, and where they went to domicile themselves. From far distances Blamey might be able to see whether men pulled watches from their pockets to look at the time; he might know which prisoner held a jackknife in his hand, and which only a bit of stick. Cannily he might discover whether there were four men or fourteen gathered in a remote well-furnished shebang—whether the crowd was weak enough to be attacked, or strong enough to put up a dangerous defense. Ah, Willie would rather own eyes like Delaney’s than the finest field-glass in the land!
It’s on the best you’ll be faring, along with these snafflers of mine. No more chicken shit, but fine sawney and stews, with a swig of pine-top to help it along. I’ve the best cooks in the land; you’ll be my nose, man, my very nose! We’re a jolly crew, a jolly crew, and so is Willie a jolly rabbit. You should hear the ditties I can sing. Ask any man from the Eighty-eighth Pennsylvania that I was captured along with. I’ve jumped a dozen bounties; and Willie Collins’s pockets are lined forever, man, they’re lined with beans. Ask any from the Seventy-second New York or the Hundred and Twenty-fifth New York or the Fourteenth Connecticut or the Hundred and Nineteenth Pennsylvania, for I’ve been in all of them; and they know my ditties. Should another man seek to take the brass from your pockets, you’ll cry O Yes, O Yes, and my kiddies will be about you in a twinkling. And isn’t that better than living on hog-fodder, and gadding the hoof? Sure, with me a fellow has everything he’s needing except a ladybird.
Edward Blamey backed to the limit of his jacket’s length and said No. It took courage for him to say this, but he did so through no conscious heroism. The peculiar mixture of promises, boasting and prophecy—the mingling of unfamiliar thieves’ jargon with familiar slang of the army—left him puzzled and unnerved. His quick rejection of the offer was his father’s rejection, Rhode Island’s rejection, his elder brother’s rejection, the rejection of the Baptist Church. The Wrath To Come was a flame kindled for robbers, adulterers, murderers, atheists; in time it would scorch Willie Collins and all like him. Ed Blamey did not wish to sizzle. The next instant he was jerked whirling, he was smacked by the bottom of Collins’s shoe, he went through the air and landed on his face. Blamey got up and ran for his life. Blood began to ooze from a dozen small lacerations on his cheeks and forehead where tough roots had abraided him. Behind, he heard Mosby bellowing, I’ll teach you to say No to Willie Collins! Edward Blamey fled to the north slope which now he knew he should never have left, and he promised himself that he would not go the South Side again.
When he came puffing up to the site of the previous night’s encampment, he found acquaintances at work constructing a shebang. He had no special friends among them, but they asked about his injuries. Fell down, he said. Was up on a stump and a root busted under me. Later he warned that the Belle Isle raiders were present in force, and that it would be well for all their crowd to be armed with clubs in case of an attack. Soon blood stopped running from Blamey’s abrasions; they were not deep but painful. He went to the western edge of the stockade where the creek came in below the high fence. A young guard peered down to watch him as Edward Blamey bathed his face, but the guard did not offer to shoot nor did he order Ed away. Apparently there was no observance of a deadline here in this new place; and he mentioned it to his companions when he returned to do his share (no more than his share) in preparing shelter. No deadline? Just you wait, said a grim New Hampshireman, they’ll have one.
Edward contributed his lone two-thirds of a louse-ridden blanket to the roofing of the shebang, he fetched boughs and poles for half an hour. Then he went searching for a cudgel with which to fend off possible raiders; he wanted a club heavy enough to drub a big man’s head and make him feel it. Any greenish pine he found would be too awkward for convenience, and he roamed farther afield. Luck attended him when he discovered a dressed length of hardwood amid the litter on the ground. There was a rusty bolt or rivet hole discernible at the broken end; this seemed to be the handle of a spade or shovel which had been snapped when workmen were there. Blamey observed that the letter C had been scorched into this handle as if to mark it for identification. It was the tool he sought for a weapon of defense, and he started back to the new shebang in an emboldened mood.
During his search he had chanced upon a lone blue figure curled in a hollow and partly sheltered by roots. The first time he passed he did not bother to make further examination; that looked like a good place to sleep, and Edward Blamey supposed that the man was sleeping there—it was out of the wind. But as he circled the hole on his homeward trip he heard a wail and chattering. The figure moved, and there was the sound of weak retching. Edward paused and looked down. He could see foam on the man’s mouth. Hi there, he said, out of some sense of Christian duty. He remembered his father reading about the Levite who passed by on the other side. The man did
not move.
Hi, Mister.
The curled-up man opened his eyes, they were glass, they saw nothing, the eyes fell shut again.
Want something?
A weak voice said, Catherine.
What say?
The fellow wore a short cavalry jacket very like Edward’s own, but newer and cleaner; he could not have been long imprisoned, but was about to be Exchanged. That was what they’d called it on the Island—and probably in every other prison camp, North or South. When someone died the others were apt to term him as Exchanged. When someone was shot by a guard they called him Paroled.
Hi, Mister. What’s your name?
The eyes failed to open, but the fellow shook quickly in spasm, and more fluid issued from his mouth. Swarner, he said.
What name did you say? Warner?
Swarner. J—H—Swarner.
Where from?
Second New York Ccccavalry. He managed to stutter the last word loose, but it was an almighty effort for him to do it.
Andersonville Page 17
