Andersonville

by MacKinlay Kantor

  ...His aide tiptoed into the office, making himself appear as insignificant as possible. This was not difficult since the aide was an insignificant man to begin with. Winder found a bully’s satisfaction in towering beside insignificance.

  Where is the list of officers eligible for the court-martial and of inquiry?

  The aide came hastening to lift a paperweight in the shape of a pink cat with two paws broken off. Once General Winder, in ordinary temper, had thrown that paperweight through a windowpane. Clerks scrambled into the street to recover it; the paws had been glued back but they would not stick for long.

  Here is the list, sir.

  What of the letters of appointment and assembly?

  All copied, sir. I’ll have them fetched—

  Never mind now. I want the classification of charges!

  I’ll fetch it, sir.

  Well, God damn it, hurry up! He had brooded on eggs of anger, they were ready to hatch, he could feel them cracking under the weight of his broad stagnant bottom.

  Court would convene, a heart or two might be broken (that would be fair, if many hearts were mashed), the details relating to proceedings and sentences would be written up, the long confinement would commence. Let newspapers say what they would of him. He cared nothing for newspapers.

  When, a furious editorial writer had demanded lately, will Richmond ever be rid of Old Winder?

  Let them scream, spread their type, let them print, foam, froth, weep, clench their fists, gnash futile teeth.

  He sat at the table of the President, he sat there frequently. John Winder might not be the most popular officer to enter the bar at the Spotswood Hotel, he might not be regarded too affectionately by fellow Episcopalians, meeowings might sound behind him in the street if there were a safe crowd about; but he wondered often if there was another brigadier who had the ear and unalterable patronage of Mr. Seddon and Mr. Davis as he held them. He knew that there was none. His curiosity on the subject was perfunctory, a judicious exploration of other political intrigue observed by him, resulting always in the fatuous knowledge that his position would not be changed until he desired it to be changed.

  Brigadier-general, commander of the Department of Henrico, inspector-general of camps in the Richmond area, Supervisor of Prisons, provost-marshal-general of Richmond . . . in time, perhaps, Commissary-General of all prisoners held by the Confederacy? It would be a wise move on the part of the President to initiate this appointment, it would be a wise move for Mr. Seddon to expedite it. John Henry Winder would see to it that those same Yankees did not plague the Confederate nation further.

  ...In the 1820’s weather was cold, the valley of the Hudson was a polar ice-cap, the Hudson was frozen tight. Students of the United States Military Academy blew out white steam as they ran to their classrooms, they ran through heavy snow, there was a great deal of snow and it was impossible to clear it away.

  Cadet Davis could be remembered mainly as a hobbledehoy with glinting eyes and abnormally large hands which always twitched (contrary to regulation) when the youth delivered a recitation in the presence of his tactical instructor.

  His tactical instructor was a lieutenant named J. H. Winder.

  Gentlemen, the Grecian army, at the period when the military art was in greatest perfection among the Greeks, was composed of infantry and cavalry. The former was made up of three different orders of soldiers. I shall request one of you to describe to us the three orders of Grecian infantry. Mr. Davis.

  Huge hands gripping tightly, gripping nothing. Sir. Heavily armed were the Oplitai. They wore very complete defensive armor, and bore the sarissa. Macedonian pike—a formidable weapon about twenty-four feet in length. Light infantry were the Psiloi; no defensive armor; customarily they carried javelin, bow and sling. Intermediate between these two grades—

  Not grades, Mr. Davis. Orders.

  —Between these two orders— Thank you, sir. Between these two orders of infantry were the Peltastae. They wore a lighter defensive armor than the Oplitai; also bore a shorter pike.

  Thank you, Mr. Davis.

  ...Thank you indeed, Mr. Davis. You will be Secretary of War when I am still a Regular captain, and you will not remember my skillful tactical instruction at the time, nor seek me out for well-deserved promotion, but— But that will be the fault of the Federal demon whom we both serve. When once we are no longer serving that demon— Thank you again, Mr. Davis.

  The aide placed the classification of charges upon Winder’s desk.

  Who’s outside?

  The usual, sir.

  Nothing usual about any of them. Except they’re always a God damn nuisance. That man Betterson come back?

  No, sir. Not yet, sir.

  Tis just as well. Who’s there?

  Those two ladies again—Mrs. Polling and Mrs. Leftwich.

  Yes, yes—son and husband in the calaboose. Son of a bitch ought to hang—feeding an escaped Yankee prisoner—

  Doctor Kendrick—

  He’ll get no pass from me! Tell him to go way.

  Yes, sir.

  Tell him I’ll place him under arrest next time he comes bothering!

  Yes, sir. A Mr. Lee from over in Manchester—

  Any kin to the general?

  I don’t think so, sir. He wants—

  What mean you, Captain? You don’t think so! Do you know?

  No, sir. I didn’t ask him, sir. I mean to say—

  Anyway I’m too dratted busy. Tell him to go way.

  A Mr. Buckland and a Mr. Prentice—they seem to be together, sir. Mr. Prentice has but one arm—I think he’s a veteran, sir.

  Did you ask him? Do you know? Why don’t you present a few facts, God damn it?

  And a Captain Wirz—

  Who? Ah. With a beard?

  Yes, sir. He’s here in response to an order—

  So he is. Send him in.

  Henry Wirz had been sitting as he sat before in other offices, cap upon his knee, pained eyes darting inquisitively and disapprovingly over fellow petitioners in the anteroom. Once again he was in uniform; he had worn that uniform since he crept aboard the blockade runner in a French port, he had worn it for fear of capture by the Federals, he had no wish to be executed as a spy. The swollen right forearm was wound in its dirty black cloth, the thin face was set in the ice of longing. Wirz dreamed of freedom from hurt, he dreamed of rank and emoluments, he wished that his name were known, he prayed that one day his name would be known throughout the Confederate States. Captain Peschau came to bend down, put his pomaded head near Wirz’s and to announce in a stage whisper which all might hear (and thus know that they were kept waiting, because Wirz had arrived later than the others), General’ll see you now, Captain.

  Danke— Thank you.

  When Wirz stood alone before the wide cracked marble-topped table which served as one of Winder’s desks, the general grunted and motioned toward a chair. He sat staring moodily at Wirz for at least twenty slow seconds after the captain had seated himself. Winder was applying deliberate discomfort, putting Wirz in his place, castigating him silently for wrongs which Henry Wirz could not identify or even recollect; yet he felt that he must have committed them, and hoped that he would not be stripped of his tiny rank.

  Uh—Wirz.

  Ja, mein General.

  Worked for me before. . . .

  Ja, sir. It was at Libby. Also in that Tuscaloosa.

  Uh—long leave of absence—

  Sir, in Europe I was. It is my arm. The wound I got from Seven Pines. But also I take dispatches and they name me Special Minister Plenipotentiary.

  Uh—how’s the arm?

  The great pain I have. Sometimes it is so bad—

  I’m no surgeon, said Winder harshly. Don’t fret me with your ailments. It matters only that you’re fit for duty or you’re not. Are you fit?


  Henry stiffened briskly and nodded his head many times, Ja, General Winder, I am fit.

  Stop bobbing about.

  Ja, sir!

  After a time John Winder had softened his tone until it was near to a caress. Captain Wirz, do you bear any love for the Yankees?

  Ach! Love?

  I put a question to you. That same soft voice.

  Is it I must now love the enemy? Nein. I hate them much!

  Why, Captain?

  Because— Why, because it is coercion! They invade the Sister States, they come with sword and fire, our rights they would trample—

  And—your arm, Captain?

  Ja, I tell you what they do to me! Mein General, I also was one surgeon before the war, and I tell you that my radius and ulna—

  You wouldn’t feel like—coddling Yankees?

  What means this coddling, General?

  Oh, treating them soft as silk. (His voice was softer than silk.) Babying them. Being—kind to them, Captain.

  Kind? We must be stern. We must show them who is boss!

  The thin mouth in the huge face began to curl lazily at its lined corners. John Henry Winder was cooing. Since you went abroad, Captain, we have constructed a new prison. My own son Sid was empowered to select the site and get the place in readiness; and it seems that he has performed his duties capably. It’s in Sumter County, Georgia, near a little village called Anderson—

  XVI

  Dear Cousin Lucy, wrote Harrell Elkins, making a great gesture of his use of Cousin and underscoring the word in red ink as a pleasantry which he considered reckless. It is a weary hour, ten after ten by Grandfather Elkins’s gold watch which is my sole fortune, if one excepts those acres at present untilled! I am weary to the point of desolation, yet find a comfort in projecting myself into the Claffey home and partaking of the company of those whom I cannot help but regard with fondness. May I be permitted to do so?

  Why, you forward creature, thought Lucy in response to the mood. And then, stirred with secret guilt in remembering that Harrell Elkins now appeared consistently in her sensual dream, she could not drive him away although consciously she tried. She lowered the letter in her hand, closed her eyes, and reconstructed Rob Lamar. Far gone, far gone. She lifted the letter and absorbed Cousin Harry’s polite inquiries as to her health, her father’s health, his expressed hope that the condition of her mother had improved.

  ...You ask me to tell you of my work, yet it might be considered a repulsive task to any individual not of the medical persuasion. Lately I have traveled to one of our hospitals where hospital gangrene caused severe mortality. I assisted Dr. Joseph Jones in performing a series of post mortems and learned much. At his behest I wrote a preliminary report for the eyes of our Surgeon General; doubtless this will be promptly filed away; but how could one act upon it if he had the inclination to do so? Suppose I write—and I quote with pride: While the clots were absent in cases in which there were no inflammatory symptoms, their presence in other cases sustains the conclusion that hospital gangrene is a species of inflammation in which the fibrous element and coagulation of the blood are increased, even in those who are suffering from such condition of the blood, and from such diseases as are naturally accompanied with a decrease in the fibrous constituent. Suppose I write this (and I did). Is there any immediate and direct decrease in human suffering, is the ugliness alleviated? Are our men—more of them—returned in good fettle to their arduous hazard in the field? Not that it can be noticed! What may a scientist do but recommend? The practicalist, the Chief of Staff, the quartermaster, the commissariat: these and only these may expedite a reform. One fair shipload of drugs from the Continent of Europe would serve more purpose than a thousand such reports; and (gloomily) would serve more purpose than a thousand such men as write the reports. . . . On re-reading the foregoing I diagnose myself as suffering from a severe case of cholera morbid, if the pun may be excused.

  ...We fellows, when serving at the front, were accustomed to cracking raucous jokes in imitation of the orator who, secure in the certainty that age or physical disability or political expediency kept him from courting bullets, puffed forth his bombast: Would that I were only younger (or less corpulent or less generally bombproof)! How gladly would I shoulder a musket beside you brave lads, with what lightness of heart would I march at your side & & & et cetera. Well, be it said, dear Cousin, that now I find myself in that peculiar position which two years agone I would have scorned to High Heaven. Has your father need of a good overseer? Assuredly I could keep the black people contented and industrious; my very jocularities should turn the trick! May I apply to you for Good Character??

  ...Must have underestimated the Yankees in more ways than one. Now we approach the entering of the Fourth Year of conflict. At first it appears that we underestimated their fighting qualities. (I did, for one, and to my pain.) Next, their staying qualities. Over all, their productive capacity. Were we ever whipped, it should be a sad thing were we whipped by this ironclad blockade and (array me at strict Attention before the muzzles of a firing squad) by the blunderings of our Executive and his Fellow Cooks Spoiling the Broth. The administration of the Confederacy’s military affairs approaches poltroonery! We had our opportunity, we had it on a round dozen occasions. No one might be allowed to act upon it. Now, after toiling for nearly three years, what is the sum? The lines in Virginia lie within a comfortable stroll of where they lay in 1861 (but there are little birds speaking of a vigorous onslaught soon to be entered upon by the Yanks, following the inevitable change in command). The ligatures of the blockade are shutting off our life’s blood. The Federals control the Mississippi and its affluents. Thus the Department of the Trans-Mississippi must be written off, except for its nuisance value. Who owns New Orleans? The Federals. Who have swept not too triumphantly to the very doorstep of Georgia (yet indeed they have swept)? The National army. Who have invaded boldly upon Florida soil, even though sent packing at Olustee? The National army. Cousin, my lamentation is longer than Jeremiah’s, and could get me a prison cell at best were it made public. Observe how I trust to your discretion?

  ...So there is naught to do but to proceed with one’s task as faithfully as one may. There is naught to do but close one’s eyes to the infernal maneuverings of arm-chair busy-bodies who, to indulge slangily, rule the roost. I have applied repeatedly for a post of more activity; but there seems to be an especial pigeon-hole wherein my applications are stuffed, with passage pigeons flying nobly away with them from tother end. Daily (or rather nightly, when I am alone and seeking slumber) I recreate a panorama of Claffey acres, Claffey verandah, Claffey repasts, Claffey beauty & courage. See what selfish fruit your combined hospitality bore! Are there more violets in adjacent woodlands, Cousin? Or have you time for the seeking? I judge there must be none any longer within the confines of the prison pen itself, since it must be in an increasingly trampled condition.

  Now it is past midnight, and the spirit weakens along with the flare of this inadequate lamp. Pray think of me kindly. I think of thee & thine with respect and admiration and with whatever degree of tenderness might be allowed. Y’r servant, Cousin. Harrell Elkins, Surgeon, P.A., C.S.

  Lucy Claffey wrote to him, Would that I could offer better news of my mother, but I cannot. She has taken to having her meals above stairs; and, even worse, insists that her tray be brought not into her own room but into the room once occupied by the youngest, Moses, where also she keeps all objects pertaining to the memory of my brothers. In vain might I insist that her course is unhealthy and bound to destroy sanity. Such contention is useless: she has a will of iron, but a cold and unseeing will. Frequently she ventures forth in the evening, walking alone in her cloak if the air be chilly. Poppy attempted to accompany her at first; she would have none of it; then he ordered one of the wenches to accompany her, which Ninny does but ineffectually.

  Enough of gloomy topics, Cousin Harry. What shall
I tell you of those Claffey acres which you prize? I just fear I’m a poor interpreter of horticultural activities and always was. (Would that I might be allowed to be a nurse. Then should I meet you eventually in the tented field, no doubt?) Father is deeply concerned with asparagus at the present, and thus we have asparagus for dinner—as a topic of conversation, not as yet garnished with sour sauce. It seems that we are shy of salt, and not likely to obtain salt in quantity for some time to come, with the railroad so busy feeding both Lee’s and Gen. Johnston’s armies. The asparagus beds should have had a top-dressing of salt, two pounds to the square yard; hence Father is fretful about it. Mighty little do I understand, as well, about the production of beans which are now being planted or have been planted; but it appears that we have had such an awful lot of rain during March that the seed is liable to spoil without germinating! Land sakes. I do listen, and try to understand, for Poppy has no one else in whom to confide or to whom to complain! There is something about the pole beans which should have been planted simultaneously with the main crop of bush beans; but this he must explain when again he takes pen in hand &c.

  Jem cut his foot severely, poor old black thing, on some instrument of endeavor—is it called a dibble?—and goes hobbling about. I really can’t say that I wished for Jem to be hurt, for he is a good hand if he has no more wits than a duck; but it did give me a fair opportunity to indulge in what the boys used to call my Florence Nightmare tactics. Thus I have bathed his foot and tended him devotedly, and am rewarded by observing a good healthy uniting of his tissues in the laceration of that broad ebony foot. Once again, Surgeon, have you employment for me in the field?

  ...As an infrequent guest we welcome one Lieut. Col. Alexander Persons, now in command at this post.

  (This statement was received with disquietude by Surgeon Elkins.)