Andersonville

by MacKinlay Kantor

  I have Sutherland’s field-glasses by me, Brother Dillard.

  Ah, I saw. Captain Poe fetched them to you, after—?

  After Gettysburg. Watch closely—they’re like twin spy-glasses—each tube must be adjusted of itself, to suit the eye.

  Cato Dillard stood with white whiskers pushed by the mild breeze, and had much difficulty in adjusting the glasses to suit his vision. Ah . . . The wicked are like the troubled sea, when it cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt. And the priest proceeds with his pagan rites!

  You know, Brother, doubtless he feels sincerely that our rites are the pagan ones.

  Them there Catholics, said Corporal Yount. They bow down to wood and stone. Yes, sir, they worship idols. My own brother he went into a Catholic church one time, at the North, and he seen the idols with his own eyes.

  Caught in the circle of vision, never knowing or caring whether men put a stare on him or not, Peter Whelan toiled with eyes, ears, lips, hands and the opening and pressing out of his own honest soul. In this fierce moment recollection cried for blessings on a group of serious men in the Rome of long ago, who had made it possible for him to award these poor creatures an apostolic blessing. In his youth— When first he entered the Church— No, it could not have been done then. As a young man Peter Whelan had been taught the clear theology of the time: the Sacrament of Extreme Unction could not be given to those who stood in danger of death from a purely external cause. So it stood even today. But in Father Whelan’s young time there was no clear theology about the last blessing. Bishop Miter announced his belief that the apostolic blessing could be given only when Extreme Unction could also be given, Cardinal Cassock said Nay—he felt that the blessing might be awarded to even those in danger of death from external cause. So the argument abounded, it had abounded for a long time. Peter Whelan’s memory went back to a chilly night in front of a welcome fire—why, it was in 1841; he was still in Ireland; he sat before Father Monell’s peat—and the eager voices spoke on every side.

  ...Very definitely. Twas announced by the Sacred Congregation of Propaganda.

  ...And what was the question submitted?

  ...Truth is, it concerned a condemned criminal.

  ...You mean to tell me, Father, that the Sacred Congregation declares the last blessing can be given on the same day that a man dies?

  ...Sure and I do. How grateful all the condemned, of the present day and the future as well, should be for this leniency! Blessings be upon the Sacred Congregation of Propaganda! Sacrament of Extreme Unction or no Sacrament of Extreme Unction—

  Oh, Father—

  Yes, man.

  Twas a hockey. I broke his head with a rat. I was but a child—

  What are you saying, Collins?

  A drunken man. He was that elderly! I killed him, Father, killed him dead—

  And do you truly and fervently repent of that crime?

  Father, I do, I do—

  And all your multitude of other sins?

  Och! But it was never true about me slaying the priest. Nor about the nun, Father—

  I’m endeavoring to awaken in the poor soul of you as much real sorrow for your past sins as you are capable of feeling.

  I repent, Father! Truly, truly, truly I do.

  Through the grace of the Holy Ghost, the Comforter, deliver them, O Lord!

  In the day of judgment, deliver them, O Lord!

  And which are you again, you poor miserable creature?

  Name’s Munn.

  Yes, indeed, I get you mixed, lads. And Munn, me boy—for it’s not more than two and twenty you can be— Ah, Munn. Name your sins and be contrite. Feel the sorrow of them!

  There—there was a boy. Cabin boy.

  And when was this?

  When first I served aboard the Kitty Cat. But—we were in dry-dock—

  Did you commit murder, Munn?

  Twasn’t that. My watch below and— He was there. Weren’t no others about. He—he was little. Kind of a pretty little boy. Not more’n twelve or thereabouts. So I tied him up and pulled down his pants— He did yell and cry! I put it up— Up his—

  Time is fleeting, you poor miserable Munn. Do you truly repent of your abominable sins, me boy?

  Oh, Father— I do, I do repent!

  We sinners, beseech Thee, hear us.

  That Thou spare them, we beseech Thee, hear us.

  Lord, have mercy on us. Christ, have mercy on us. Lord, have mercy on us.

  Leroy Key had been glancing at his watch again and again. Now he stood with watch in hand, and nodded, and made a clicking sound toward the hangmen who were grouped close behind the condemned and seemed so slight in comparison. Those designated as actual executioners were two named Harris and Payne; at Key’s signal they moved toward ropes which lay coiled neatly on opposite sides of the scaffold. A grimy youth with caked pinkish hair (he came from Hamilton County, Iowa—his name was Dolliver) put a cautious hand at Willie Collins’s back and poked him several times, and finally pushed Willie into motion. Willie blubbered whole-heartedly, his vision was so watered with tears that his blundering feet had difficulty in negotiating the ladder’s steps. Eben Dolliver helped him to climb. First step, said the young man, pushing the hulk along. . . . Next step . . . now the third. . . . Next one. Take care, he said, it’s wider. . . . Now up you go, onto the planks. Dolliver prodded Collins along the braced boards to the farthermost noose. Willie went with the docility of an agèd blind dog. Eben Dolliver took him by his rigid elbow and made him turn to face the east, as others were being made to turn, close beside one another, bound arms pressed close, their thighs pressed close. There they were lined in another minute or two: Collins, the reeking Curtis, Munn, Delaney, John Sarsfield, William Rickson; and Rickson was the only one who made no sound. Father Whelan had offered the Crucifix even to this Unbeliever, but Rickson turned away with an annoyed jerk of his head. Whelan sought to follow the parade of the dozen men up the ladder, but Sen MacBean restrained him. Sighing audibly, the old priest moved to the east of the scaffold and opened his precious little book. He began with Adjutorium in nomine Domini. Qui fecit caelum et terram, but soon realized that little time remained; he must seek a shorter form. He began again: Ego, facultate mihi ab Apostolica Sede tributa—

  Three minutes to talk, said Key. If any of you want to talk. You’ll go at eleven o’clock.

  All were talking except the iron-jawed Rickson. John Sarsfield’s voice rose above the rest; he was telling of his being wounded in the field, of his life being blameless before he came to Andersonville. Munn said, Four months ago, when I came here, I’d never stole a dollar in my life. I—I got a mother and two sisters in New York— And this made Willie Collins think of a wife and child who had been merely incidental in his life and whom he had deserted calmly. Boys, he wailed, don’t hang me! Spare my life, boys, for I’ve a wife and child at home—

  Indulgentiam plenariam et remissionem omnium peccatorum tibi concedo.

  Aw, said Paddy Delaney, shut your jaw, Willie Collins. You’ll never be getting the governor’s stiff. If I had to live on the rations the rest of you live on— Faith, I’d rather hang! Only if a man were to steal would he get enough to eat in this damn place.

  Peter Whelan looked up at him in admonishment. Me son, did you not truly repent of your crimes? Concern yourself with God.

  Father, I’ve got this watch in my pocket—pants pocket, I can’t reach it with my hands tied— But I see Pete Donnelly a-standing below; and Pete, tis in my pocket on the right side; so you shall have the watch after I’m gone—

  Two minutes, said Key, looking closely at his own watch. Payne and Harris had uncoiled the ropes attached to the two stout braces beneath the planks, and stood in soldierly fashion with the ropes’ ends in their hands.

  Pete Donnelly, there’s this ring upon my finger; has a fine jewel in it, and be afte
r giving it to Pete Bradley, him that was once a jaw cove at the City College—

  Father Whelan interrupted his reading with increased sternness. Me son! Let go these matters of Here On Earth, temporal matters. Turn your attention to the things of Heaven!

  But, Father, I’ve got to dispose of my property.

  In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.

  Crows in faraway woods said, Wah-wah-wah. Sun came boiling and baking, people on the sentry platforms and ladders were motionless, the crowds on the two outside slopes were near to being motionless, the thousands of clustered prisoners were more near to being motionless than they had ever been before, the mosaic of faces beyond the marsh seemed to glisten and fry in the sun.

  The thin hands of Eben Dolliver widened the noose, preparing it for Willie Collins; he had to reach far and up to spread the noose for Willie Collins. Slowly he worked the heavy rope over Collins’s puffing trembling face and began to tighten it around the immense neck. Other hands toiled with other nooses. Voices of the five talkative condemned were a busy convocation of guinea-fowl. At the outbreak of the Rebellion I enlisted and served three years with the army thinking that my mother and sisters will hear of this makes me wish I’d neh-heh-hever been born oh lads be after finding mercy for me as the priest told you and Pete I’ve a few beans in my watch pocket, and distribute them to the kiddies. . . .

  Amid babbling of the rest came the thick dull mutter of Charles Curtis: I don’t give a fuck. Get ahead with the job. Don’t take all day about it.

  Per sacrosancta humanae reparationis mysteria remittat tibi omnipotens Deus omnes praesentis et futurae vitae poenas—

  One minute, said Leroy Key, never lifting his head from the watch held close to his gaze. It had been his father’s watch, presented to Key as a talisman when he went off to war; and Key’s father had been opposed firmly to capital punishment. Leroy Key wondered what his father would think if he knew of the necessary use to which this watch was now put.

  A meal sack went over the head of Rickson, a sack masked the face of John Sarsfield, muffling his voice. But continually that voice hurried with its explanation, boast, extenuation. Bad company it was, bad company—first off, the only thing I stole was rations. Sacks were drawn to cover the heads of the other four, and as with Sarsfield their murmurings went down proportionately in volume. Don’t lay it on so thick, boys were yelling impatiently in nearby ranks of watchers. You’re a God damn villain, Munn, and you know it! That bastard Sarsfield killed a fellow used to live in our shebang! Willie Mosby, you dirty— Yeh, he took Paster’s blanket when he was laying sick to death. Get ready to hang, you noisy sons of bitches!

  ...Paradisi portas aperiat, et ad gaudia sempiterna perducat. Amen.

  Time’s up, said Key.

  The vast chant had begun behind him, in front of him, sun burned hard, the hillside larded with its thousands was shaking, heat waves rippled, the pound of ten thousand voices and more became a steady beat of drums. Hang them. Hang them. Hang them. Four functionaries jumped from the scaffold more or less nimbly, two of them went down the ladder with caution. Sergeant Key looked questioningly at the executioners. They had the ropes ready . . . Payne nodded in reply. Key looked to see that the assistants were well away from the gallows, and they were. He held his hand high, pulled it down sharply. Payne and Harris dug their heels into the ground simultaneously and flung themselves back, toward the east and the west; the braces flew at them, planks came banging down. Men standing closest could hear the combined thud and snap as six huge face-swaddled bodies dropped, those in the center speeding down a fraction of a second before those at the ends . . . there was a suggestion of a V in the shape of the descending mass. Willie Collins’s great feet struck the ground with a double thud: his rope was shorn in two.

  The other five raiders gyrated slowly, some of them were struggling. Certain of the watchers thought of fowls hung outside a poulterer’s. In an instant Munn and Delaney were without motion except for the dangling, the gradual heave and twitching of weights and ropes subjected to sudden shock. The necks of Curtis and Rickson and Sarsfield had not snapped. They died of strangulation, waggling their corded legs, gesticulating with their corded hands and arms in a strange leisure. Sarsfield died more ruggedly than the others. His knees came striving up; almost they touched his chin; he jerked his legs down once more.

  Lookit that vein in his neck, said a low voice.

  Thought twas going to bust.

  He’s still kicking.

  Guess they didn’t get that thing tight enough around his throat to begin with.

  Most attention was centered on the tumbled shape of Willie Collins. Leroy Key and several others swore the slow powerful oaths of men who do not curse frequently or fluently. Eben Dolliver stood appalled, overcome by the belief that this accident had occurred through some neglect of his own. In no way might he be blamed. The Confederates had searched high and low to find sufficient rope; some of it was old, long exposed to the weather in some other more prosaic use; and the section employed to build Collins’s noose was rotten in its hempen core.

  Take off the sack, said Key. Already it was stained with blood, and Willie’s lips were pushing against the wet bright red surface. A shiny fly came with burnished buzzing intent, prisoners batted away other diving flies as they lifted the huge man’s head, drew off the sack, and worked the noose loose. Willie’s face was the color of cigar ashes. Blood came steadily from his nose and mouth, some people thought that it was issuing from his big ears also; boys would say later that Willie was bleeding from the eyes. Give us that bucket, called Seneca MacBean. A pail of water was brought forward, and MacBean dashed its contents over the waxy face. Blood ran away in pink rivulets, but fresher darker blood reappeared insistently. Father Whelan recited a private prayer for Willie, and held the Crucifix close. Kyrie, eleison. Christe, eleison. Kyrie, eleison. Pater noster— His old anguished voice slid to a whisper. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem—

  They drew Willie into a sitting position. Men supported his shoulders and bleeding head while other hands worked furiously at preparing a fresh noose. His eyes were protruding from their sockets until it seemed they would burst forth and roll like crab apples on the ground. He said, Agh, agh. And then, Agh, where ammmm I? and drew the low words out lengthily. Ammm I innnn theee otherrr worrrld?

  Soon see where you are, bastard, Limber Jim told him.

  Och, boys, I’ve never hurted you—

  Kilt my brother, said Limber Jim softly.

  Willie twisted his sore neck, his head lolled back. As through waves of heat he must have seen the gallows turned to milk, and milky men standing aloft, making milky frenzy of the milky rope. For the sake and love of God! Do not be putting me up there again. God has spared my life, has he not, now? Father— Priest— Tell them, tell them! God meant that you should be merciful to me, indeed He did—

  Rope’s ready.

  Hope you got it strong enough this time.

  Hell, twould hold a dozen of him. Twould hang Wirz himself, and the laughter rippled as people thought of the meager round-shouldered despised captain.

  Sed libera nos a malo. Salvum fac servum tuum—

  Fffather, tell them— Father—!

  Be putting your mind with God, me boy. Peter Whelan knew sadly that he could gain nothing by pleading again with these grim avengers. Repeat, son. Repeat the words: O my God, who putteth his trust in thee—

  Och— My—God—who putteth—his—trust—in— Father! Father!

  O Lord, hear my prayer—

  Och, Lord—hear my—prayer—

  Hands spread around Willie Collins as they had spread on July third when he was kicked and beaten. Hands and arms held him, he was being carried, lugged like a great sack of booty. He heard the priest intoning, seemingly far below him: And let my cry come unto Thee. Willie struggled dutifully to repeat the words as bidden, yet h
e could say nothing more. A hasty vision occurred as cloth was pulled over his face again, as cloth covered the sun and diffused its royal glare. Something about a boat decked in bunting, and a woman’s hip rubbing his own hip, and a man—that name? Was it Hicks?—dropping from his perch on Bedloe’s Island. Said the bellow of Willie Collins through the years, And if they ever come to hang me, they’ll have to hang me twice! In anguish he wished to speak to the audience before him and explain a variety of things. He wished to tell of his father, of Big Biddy, of turmoil in the long-forgotten Gotham Court. Something tightened against his windpipe. He was free in space. A cricket’s voice said tik in his ear.