I mean— To me at this stockade. They should not send more.
Winder made his stiff heavy way down the ladder, the ladder sagged and groaned under his weight. Flory Tebbs, displaced from the platform by the coming of these officers, stood bug-eyed and expected the ladder to smash and the general to fall with it. But to Flory’s disappointment the ladder did not break.
Winder returned slowly up the hill to his office, breathing heavily as he went (he felt somehow that the prisoners had made him short of breath and he blamed them accordingly). Late that afternoon, when Wirz’s delayed regular return was placed before him, he meditated upon it and then addressed himself with testiness to the adjutant and inspector-general, General Cooper.
Your indorsement on the letter of S. B. Davis, relating to the strength of the guard at this post, contains a very severe censure—
Winder sat for a time with the penholder shaking in front of his thin mouth. He wanted to chew the penholder, for thought, but he might press that infected tooth again. In old age he was trying to break himself of biting penholders.
—Which I am sure would not have been made if you had a clear comprehension of this post, of its wants and its difficulties. Reflect for a moment; twenty-nine thousand two hundred and one prisoners of war, many of them desperate characters—
Just how desperate, Cooper might never know. If Cooper could have stood upon that platform, if Cooper could have seen the lanceless Oplitai— God damn it! If Cooper could have seen squirming pollywogs in the marsh—
—A post a mile long by half a mile wide, the stockade for prisoners within one hundred and sixty yards of a mile in circumference, numerous avenues leading to the post to be guarded, public property to be cared for, guards for working parties—
He did bite the penholder at last. The jolt from that savage tooth-nerve went like a knife through his upper jaw and splintered the top of his head. He wrote on, as soon as his vision cleared. The ink was hot, the ink bitter, the ink black, black as John Winder’s own blood had been for nearly fifty years.
You speak in your indorsement of placing the prisoners properly. I do not exactly comprehend what is intended by it. I know of but one way to place them, and that is to put them into the stockade.
He thought, And remember me to the President, devil burn you.
Again he retreated to the Hudson, he retreated into a classroom of 1827, a classroom of early 1828. . . . Did Mr. Davis have his pointer in hand? Had he advanced to the blackboard? Yes. Did the Tetrarchiae still number one thousand and twenty-four, the Lochoi or files, four thousand and ninety-six Enomitiae of four men each? Did Mr. Davis remember? John Winder remembered.
Perhaps ten days later, at two o’clock in the morning, Elizabeth Wirz roused up to see a dull brown bird on the ceiling above her and on wall and windows. This bird was the shadow of her husband Henry as he bent above and beside a stub of candle, extending his arm in a nest of rags and lint.
Husband, are you picking again? Her high-pitched voice was soft with sleep.
Gott, it is that I must pick. Almost it kills me, Ilse! He called her that often, it being an affectionate diminutive of Elizabeth with which he was familiar; also a favorite neighbor of his Zurich childhood had been named Ilse; the name had a connotation of warmth.
Elizabeth put on the nightcap which had come off while she slept, and in her wrapper went to help her husband. He had some surgical instruments in a pan, and had been trying without success to relieve the congestion of his old wound by establishing drainage. He cursed, not directly at his wife, but he cursed civilization around her, behind her, ahead of her. He complained that his left hand trembled with the pain engendered by his right arm: so he was making a botch. Furrowed hide of his forearm was a stubble field of angry corrugations—there were marks of old openings and old healings, there were long fresh ridges of cherry red drilled unevenly amid silvery scar tissue. Kinky black hair grew in disorderly patches, it did not grow upon scar tissue.
Will never I be rid of this?
You said you did not wish it amputated, said the little woman sadly.
Nein, rather would I be dead. He indicated an area which he wished to have sliced with his scalpel, and afterward he wished the incision deepened by use of a sharp probe. Elizabeth had performed this surgery for him several times before but once she fell in a faint while doing it. This was the first time Henry Wirz had made such a request of her since the day when she fainted.
You are giddy? he asked anxiously.
No, husband. I’ll try the scalpel, as you bid. She tittered, trying to comfort him: My, I’m such a baby, Henry. And you, poor thing, suffering eternally—
He gasped, Ilse, do not scrape. It is sharp. Now you cut. Cut deep! The incision was made, the jiggling probe poked in. The woman felt a roaring in her ears. She shook her head and gritted her teeth, continuing with the task. There issued forth a secretion, but not in the quantity that Henry wished, and no flakes of separated bone came with it. Wirz thought that adjacent to the mutilated radius and ulna there was a reservoir of fluid which might later come pouring through the avenue made for it, and so pulsation and hotness would diminish, and so he might sleep again.
Bandage was constructed, linen was wound once more, the candle extinguished. The man and the woman got back upon the bed. Soon Elizabeth was breathing regularly in sleep. Henry’s mind went jerking.
He was concerned with a chain gang. Twelve men had been shackled in this particular gang, ironed by the smith at Wirz’s command. It was a creditable job: Captain John Heath, a commissary officer, superintended the blacksmith at the task and saw that all was well. The men thus confined were dangerous. All had tried to escape, two of them had attacked guards, one had tried to escape twice. Now he would not escape again or even try to! Each man had a chain and a shackle around each ankle, the chain leading forward to the man ahead of him; with legs so shackled, the prisoners could step but eight or ten inches at a time, and mechanically all were forced to keep in step. Each owned a small iron ball which he had to lift and carry in his hand when he moved, and there was a much larger ball chained to every group of four. By combined pulling of the gang the larger balls could be dragged.
At the present a problem intruded. One of the prisoners came down with diarrhoea in its most violent form, and Henry Wirz did not know what to do about this. The final plea brought to him when he left the prison at the end of the previous day had been a complaint of the well prisoners fastened to the sick one. At first they’d tried going along with him to the sink, whenever he had to Go Out; but he had to Go Out all the time. The Yankees fastened to him declared that it was ruthless to compel them—the well, the comparatively unsick—to share the groanings and splashings of a diarrhoeic prisoner. They did not wish to spend all their time at the sink. Nor did they wish to be sprayed with juices of the sick man when his explosions overcame him suddenly, unavoidably.
What was Captain Wirz to do about this? Also they were always complaining that the chain gang and stocks were inhuman. Henry responded cuttingly, jeeringly, asking them if they had ever heard of civil prisons and punishments awarded therein.
If you be good once—model prisoners—in those stocks you should not be, in this chain gang!
That made sense to Henry Wirz, why did it not make sense to the prisoners? Because they were bears. Because most of them had not the wits of bears. Could they not understand why they were being punished?
Him with the diarrhoea: he was something to think about. As a physician, Henry deplored the sight or knowledge of men compelled to associate with the ordure of the sick. That was the reason he’d sought to move heaven and earth, that was the reason he’d managed to have the hospital taken outside the stockade months before. But as prison superintendent he must maintain discipline. Once committed to an act he should not falter, for any change would be interpreted promptly as a demonstration of weakness. The prisoners must not
believe him weak. Suppose he yielded to their importuning and allowed the diarrhoeic Yankee to be separated from the others? They would feel that they had won a victory. They were not victors, they were prisoners. How should he decide? His arm hurt him so.
A hot wind came from the northwest, suggesting a shower to follow, and blowing before it the smell of Andersonville which had penetrated across dark low hills even as far as the Boss house. Pine branches were soughing, cardboard leaves of magnolia racketed. So, upon the high hurtful fence laced around a valley of sleep which he fought to enter— Perched on this indeterminate palisade, Henry Wirz had the notion that he was hearing waves, hearing a sea creasing under the bow of a blockade runner. Again an officer said to him, I’m sorry, Captain, we think the Yanks are chasing us, we’ve got to get up more speed, we’ve got to lighten ship. That’s the reason those sailors are dumping out the cabin furniture. That chest of yours, Captain—
It was a handsome chest, carved—purchased in an old shop near the Seine, said to be of Italian origin. He was fetching it as a present to Elizabeth. It had not cost much, but his wife would think it beautiful.
Your chest’s got to go, Captain. That’s the order: every heavy object overboard that can be spared.
He did not protest for long, he saw the sense of the thing. They must lighten ship, so he must contribute his mite. He had no wish to be overhauled by a Federal cruiser. Only after the handsome old black cube (black as ebony, perhaps it was ebony) had gone tumbling into spray, heaved across the bulwark by two brawny sailors— Only after some small objects had scattered in the wind did Henry Wirz strike his right hand across his left and leap and sicken with the pain of it, and call himself a Verfluchter Hund. His chess set! The beautiful figures, the knights with ornate manes— How could he have done such a thing? Oh, old yellow ivory. He had left the chess set packed in the heavy carved chest. He could have taken pieces out and stowed them in his clothing one by one. He had loved chess when he was young; often he’d promised that he would teach Elizabeth to play; so when he saw this ivory set offered (the Jew who sold it declared upon his faith that it was stolen; thus he would let it go cheap, and to a foreigner, because he feared the police) Henry had envisioned contented hours when he sat beside his wife and taught her—first, the principle of the thing—later perhaps she might understand some fine points as well. Such relaxation it would be for him after a demanding day. Now the Atlantic had it.
Wind faltered, no rain came, magnolia leaves thrashed less noisily. Still Henry Wirz was not asleep: he ranged along that boundary which it seemed he could not pass.
A doll for Cora: that had been saved. It was in his big leather pouch (he was not requested to throw the leather pouch overboard). Also there were gloves for his stepdaughters, bottles of perfumery to be appreciated by Elizabeth, lockets for the older girls. Small things, old things, mostly secondhand, shopped for, bargained for with zeal. Henry Wirz had so little money, and the plantation he’d owned in Louisiana was gobbled by invading Federal troops during the Vicksburg campaign. He had managed to buy also a coral necklace for his small daughter: a coral necklace naturally, since her name was Coralie.
He passed into the haunted fen of sleep. He fastened the coral necklace around Cora’s miniature neck. But, Gott, he found that he was fastening instead a metallic collar; from it would depend an iron ball, Cora would have a struggle to lift the ponderous orb whenever she moved.
He told himself, Now will I employ the sulphate of morphia. He had only one dose left, he did not know how soon he should be able to obtain more. The situation as to drugs and medicines was growing worse and worse.
Elizabeth awakened and found his shadow brooding. She hoisted herself on her elbow with a moan of sympathy and alarm. Oh, poor husband! Henry, can you not sleep at all?
Now maybe I get some sleep, he said heavily. He stumbled back to the bed, forgetting to put out the candle; so his round-shouldered parched body shone like a shadowgraph against candlelight, a desiccated body draped in false folds of the voluminous nightshirt.
Elizabeth, tomorrow to Augusta I go. I get things put together, I leave that damn Davis in charge. Maybe I am gone a week, maybe more.
But, Henry, why up to Augusta?
It is for the sake of mein arm, Ilse. I hear this week there is that Surgeon Greenaway in Augusta, and better he is with bones, better nor that damn Bucheton. I talk with one colonel, and he show me where he was wounded, and a bad wound from the scars; it is that Surgeon Greenaway fix him, and now he is well. In the arm, like me, but with him it is the left arm. He show me: his fist he clinch—clanch— how you say? Himmel, he punch a bag of meal with his fist, he punch hard, this I could not do! So now I ask leave. I go—tomorrow, next day—I report sick—
Husband, you didn’t put out the candle.
Now I have my morphia I put him out. So.
No longer did the big bird flap his wings or crouch or move, there was only darkness, and wind growing.
XXXVII
The report which Colonel Chandler inscribed was conceived and projected with earnest intelligence and in contempt of human weakness, human blundering. Hatred he must put aside, hatred would render his pen insecure and detract from cogency. But he sat so astounded that he could not even write the dateline without error. Andersonville, July 5, 1864. It was August, and he wrote July; he did not realize his mistake, not even when he’d finished the report and sealed it. July had been a weary crowded month; in various tasks which he was ordered to perform, Chandler had written July a dozen times daily, thus he wrote the word of the wrong month now. Having, in obedience to instructions of the 25th ultimo, carefully inspected the prison for Federal prisoners of war and post at this place, I respectfully submit the following report. He went on to describe the dimensions of the pen, the deadline. He erred in his calculation as to the number of square feet available to each prisoner, and then discussed the stockade’s creek. Excepting the edges of this stream, the soil is sandy and easily drained, but from 30 to 50 yards on each side of it the ground is a muddy marsh, totally unfit for occupation, and having been constantly used as a sink since the prison was first established, it is now in a shocking condition and cannot fail to breed pestilence.
He despised what he’d found here—disorganization, frailty, deliberate intent—because it reflected upon the Confederacy which he had embraced and which he had served with heart and body. He saw the Confederate lake which might have been pure (fed as it was by noble patriotic springs), muddied. He sat with ink upon his fingers, keen gaze turned against sheets of paper before him. He was aware of an awful truth while his pen scratched dutifully: the bravery of a Nation’s men may resist the attack of outsiders, but what defense can be managed against creeping diseases within? Guard your legs with leggings (snakes cannot bite through them), glove your hands, helmet your head, wrap your belly and vitals to keep out cold . . . or even put armor outside to withstand blades and bullets. But an unseen worm will find its way down your gullet and make nuisance inside you until you sicken and fail; what will you drink for purge or tonic?
As Alexander Persons had put his own good head upon the block, so Chandler was laying himself open to censure with every curl of script, every indited comma. There were too many people of grade superior to his who would not countenance implied criticism. Yet Colonel Chilton had instructed him to make this inspection; by the eternal God he would set down exactly what he had seen.
He mentioned the efforts of Henry Wirz, his attempts to construct sluice and sinks, he told why this had not been done successfully. No shelter whatever, nor material for constructing any has been provided by the prison authorities, and the ground being entirely bare of trees, none is within reach of the prisoners, nor has it been possible, from the overcrowded state of the enclosure, to arrange the camp with any system. Each man has been permitted to protect himself as best he can, stretching his blanket, or whatever he may have, above him on such sticks as
he can procure, thatches of pine or whatever his ingenuity may suggest and his cleverness supply. Of other shelter there is and has been none.
He discussed Nineties and Detachments. But one Confederate States officer, Captain Wirz, is assigned to the supervision and control of the whole. He spoke of the turmoil which had prevailed, and mentioned the sentencing and hanging of raiders as it had been described to him. He told of the absence of medical attendants within the stockade, and the parade which went creeping to the South Gate each morning, and the squeeze ensuing. The hospital accommodations are so limited that though the beds (so-called) have all or nearly all two occupants each, large numbers who would otherwise be received are necessarily sent back to the stockade. Many—twenty yesterday—are carted out daily, who have died from unknown causes, and whom the medical officers have never seen.
The face of John Winder seemed staring fixedly at Colonel Chandler across the field desk, the colonel’s hand began to quiver. Desperately he sought to master vibration, to control his pen as he recounted the final horror observed that day. It was strange to entertain the apparition of Winder now, since the old general could not have been directly responsible for this particular wickedness—only indirectly responsible, only indirectly. The dead are hauled out daily by the wagonload and buried without coffins, their hands in many instances being first mutilated with an axe in the removal of any finger rings they may have.
Control was vanished. Chandler let the pen slide, and arose and went to the tent’s door and lifted the rotten canvas and felt it tear bedraggledly under its own soiled weight as he held the folds. He peered out through stench and heard the faint voices of guards crying from the stockade’s rim. Low in the west a bent flake of moon was receding and would soon be gone.
The colonel mastered his nervousness after a while and returned to discuss the condition of the hospital, the sick, the utter confusion of the medical staff. Most of this latter knowledge had been gained necessarily from secondhand sources; he was wary of it. But he put down a statistical summary: the rate of death has been steadily increased from 37 4-10 per mil. during the month of March last to 62 7-10 per mil. in July.
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