Andersonville

by MacKinlay Kantor

  This is a desert place, came the words of that later Chapter, and now the time is far passed. Andersonville? It could be, could be. They have nothing to eat. And what had the Master said to that? He answered and said unto them, Give ye them to eat.

  Effie, said Cato in the dawn, what of our green corn?

  Yon patch is past roasting, dry in the husk. We’ve a bit left in rows past the woodshed.

  Where might we get green corn in any quantity, roasting ears still soft and green?

  Effie ceased her tinkling into the slop-jar, slid the cover into place (the knitted cap over the pottery cover prevented any clanking, there was only the dull koom of the jar’s closing) and adjusted her skirts carefully before she stepped from behind a little screen of woven bull-grass which modesty dictated should be placed in its three unsteady sections to shield the commode.

  From Brother Ira Claffey, man! He plants long, he plants late as well as early; his maize will no be dried to crispness yet—not all, to be sure. But what want you with green corn?

  Roasting ears, said Cato. He slid his spotted old legs out of bed and removed his nightcap.

  For whom?

  Yankee prisoners.

  Cate, you’re daft.

  He replied with that geniality coming easily to those who feel that they have arrived at righteous decision, Were I daft as often you’ve described me to be, woman, I’d have populated a dozen crazy-houses e’er now.

  But what want yon Yankees with green corn?

  They’d wish to eat it, don’t you believe?

  But— Cate— Would it be fair to our own grandchildren? Our brave boys in the field—?

  Have you never become acquainted with the Sixth Chapter of the Gospel According To St. Mark?

  Away with you. Those were—Disciples—

  Five thousand Disciples? he asked archly.

  Twas a congregation of The Just.

  He mused pleasantly as he pulled on his stockings. Not only corn in roasting. But also root vegetables: we’ve turnips in plenty, carrots, beets—

  Yon cabbages are rising into seed and waste, cried Effie in spite of herself.

  Enthusiastically Cato wrote to Ira Claffey, telling him of his plan and inviting Ira’s assistance and generosity. The minister had not been informed of Lucy’s little march with wenches and baskets, and her inability to reach the stockade. He thought, as many well-intentioned people have often thought, that he had conceived of a particularly glossy charity—a bounteous impulse instigated by God, no doubt, but still a personal mercy. He wrote: If a brother or sister be naked, and destitute of daily food— The General Epistle of James eludes me for the moment, Brother Ira. Puss is asleep upon my Bible, and I shall not disturb her, since she may be dropping kits before nightfall. Last time she had them in the drawer containing my drawers and stockings! But what think you of the proposal? Neighbor Stancil has promised the lend of his big wagon, with a four-mule team; and he a Methodist! The Dennards, Lindsays and Nunns all express themselves as willing to give; and I should think a few bushels might also be got from the Lockridges and others, perhaps more than a mere few bushels; they might donate plenteously. Have you green corn enough and to spare? What of your cabbages and the general collard situation? I have set Buff to pulling turnips that they may be scrubbed. A further suggestion comes from Mrs. McCrary: her own dear child languished last year on an isle at the North, without sufficient coverings for his poor body; and she has sat with me, and we have explored God’s opinion, or have attempted. Since the lad is now among The Blest (but they did have shelter; he died in a barracks, twas said) the lady has possessed an overpowering intent to find favor Aloft by exhibiting true Christian mercy to his enemies. She is assembling his entire stock of shirts, jackets, pantaloons and the like, to be offered to destitute Northrons. As we have observed, there is prevailing raggedness at Anderson, in some cases amounting to nakedness and resulting indecency. Poor as we have become in this struggle for Independence, and to repel invading hordes, I should think a goodly supply of serviceable clothing might be gotten together if each gave his mite. I myself am contributing boots—which pinch me, I admit, but might not pinch some shoe-less Yankee. But the wisdom that is from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and easy to be intreated, full of mercy and good fruits, without partiality, and without hypocrisy. Mrs. Dillard goes flying about, attempting to collect medicines; and such a small stock can be assembled; and she dare not rob her own closet too grievously, since her attention is demanded by many ailing persons now and again. But boots, potions, turnips, green corn, undershirts or melons: all seem of value, all I should believe would be received thankfully by the lads there, misguided into cruelty though they have been. Now, dear Brother, what of the military who are in command? Will they see fit to admit of our charity? I grow alarmed at considering what has come to me of the superintendent and the general commanding: both obstreperously and insistently profane, tis said. I have not heard that either is addicted to The Bottle, but that they take a particular delight in cursing; and also this is reported of the troops under them. However, I should think that if we were to seek not permission in advance, but were to appear bag and baggage and basket, they would be bound to accept our small offering for the unfortunates perforce. Since many of the items are spoilable. Ah, also: Mr. Marshall has promised a pig. Though I had to fling Testament at him for an hour to get it! The pig must be butchered promptly before our departure. One cannot speculate as to the weather; but I should hazard an opinion that, all things being equal, and you receiving no advices to the contrary, our little caravan might arrive by Friday midday. If not on Friday, look to see us on Saturday. Mrs. Dillard is bound to come on for the distribution, and shall be accompanied by a few other ladies, I make little doubt. Do not feel that you must feed them, Brother, or the rest of us; but we shall pay our respects, and hope to gather up your own donation. Word has reached us of the miraculous spring bursting forth there. Could it be the same spring where you were wont to wander, and where we have sat many times; and where I told you of the Highland Presbyterians at Darien; and where in turn you told me of the so-called Dorchester Puritans, your own kinfolk in Liberty County, of more than a century since? Behold, I will stand before thee there upon the rock in Horeb; and thou shalt smite the rock, and there shall come water out of it, that the people may drink. Puss is still upon the Bible, but I need no reference. As a mere child I was enamored of Exodus, and all the dramatic events therein, and the building of the tabernacle, and what was a cubit? Theology should be awarded early to a youth, that he remember; but often I was naughty and put aside my Catechism, and loved to watch the Hebrews at their fights. Ah, me. My pen has been trailing about; but should that not be the privilege of an old man’s pen? I wish it were yam time. Then we might assemble a quantity. Perhaps we can perform further philanthropy in the autumn. I have neglected to tell you that Neighbor Pace (Baptist) is giving carrots; and little Neddy Hinchley has just made an errand to inform me that his mother will contribute what fruit is left to her in all this hotness. Sakes, as your Lucy would say, what a scorcher is today! Heaven be praised that our dear Sister Veronica is no longer called upon to endure Earthly miseries; but sleeps, knowing no misfortune, and in fully justified hope, I am convinced, of a Glorious Resurrection. I pray for you daily, Brother, and please to include me in your prayers. Until the oncoming of our charitable migration, then. In Brotherly Faith & Hope, Yrs, C. Dillard.

  Post Script. Will wonders never cease? I must have been inspired, truly, in getting my plot a-going. This missive was folded, I was seeking for wax to seal it, when appeared Mrs. Banister from across the way. You know her: an Episcopalian. She’d come for a Seidlitz powder, if Mrs. Dillard possessed any. (She did not.) Am informed by Mrs. Banister that General J. Winder is a Communicant. Their church here in Americus is new in organization; and the rector observed that he had seen General Winder, when in Richmond, partaking of the Holy Eu
charist. They have been busy recently selecting their vestrymen and church wardens; and Gen. Winder was named to be a warden. Now certainly we have nothing to fear. A church warden could never refuse us permission. The tales borne to me of his profane utterances must have been made up out of whole cloth. Or were in error, since both names begin with a W; and only the Switzer must have been the sinner. C.P.D.

  This letter was carried to Anderson on the cars next morning, and lay for three days in an old salt box at Uncle Arch Yeoman’s, where mail intended for citizens of the community was left until neighbors or slaves distributed it. Jonas brought the letter in to Ira while the Claffeys were at breakfast with Harrell Elkins. The project was discussed with animation. Cousin Harry, so often gone into taciturnity these days and so often oblivious of them both, sat with spectacles shining . . . Lucy had the sly thought that the glass lenses were burnished by inner blaze stoked by brain and heart. Oh, and how he does need a joy, she thought. Would that I might afford it for him! He sees hospital, thinks hospital, will recognize nothing but hospital and wrongs contained there.

  Cousin Harry talked constantly, with spirit; he’d interrupted Ira’s reading several times with approving comments, with further suggestions. Now that the letter was put next to Ira’s plate, Elkins discoursed on vinegar.

  They appear to have forgotten it. Few other adjuncts to the diet could be more efficacious in treatment of scurvy. If you could get word to those Americus folks, they might fetch some barrels of it.

  Our own supply is limited, said Lucy.

  Elkins stared at her, watery eyes flicking rapidly in magnification. Surely you’re mistaken, Cousin Lucy. You have that great cask on the roofed gallery beside your kitchen—

  But it diminishes so rapidly.

  However could we use much vinegar? asked her father. Solely for salads, and a trifle for spicing. Daughter, have you been making pickles in quantity?

  Not I, not in this heat. And most of your gherkins were burnt by the sun, Poppy. But still there’s less and less vinegar each day.

  Have some of the black people developed a thirst?

  I’ve detected no such addiction, said Lucy. She was replying directly to her father, but looking directly at Harrell, who sat with smooth face reddened and who made a great business of picking a muffin to pieces.

  Lucy lifted her voice slightly, meaningly. It is as if some person came by day or night with a flask, opened the bung, and drew off vinegar.

  For a moment the implied accusation and the expression of guilt held Ira perplexed, and he regarded the younger pair with amazement. Then, as the surgeon put his big hand to his forehead and concealed his face, Ira began to chuckle. Merriment spread among the three; Lucy collapsed in giggles; Elkins’s shoulders were shaking, though it seemed that he might have been moved by sobs as well as by mirth; in fact he was close to sobbing.

  Have you the tell-tale bottle about you? asked the girl.

  Still refusing to face her, Elkins put his other hand down into his pocket and brought the flask forth. His voice shook as he confessed. A very small bottle, you see. A mere brandy flask.

  Ring for more coffee, my dear, said Ira. Then, to Harry: Did you think we’d refuse you, Cousin?

  Elkins removed his spectacles, wiped his eyes (He is almost comely, thought Lucy, without those great glaring things. I wish that I could see him more often thus) and managed to compose himself for confession. It was only— The first time the thought occurred to me— You see, none of you were about. I observed Naomi at the keg, filling a cruet, so of course I knew that it contained vinegar— I didn’t wish to trouble anyone.

  Have your depredations been confined solely to vinegar? asked Ira.

  Elkins stared owlishly. Why do you ask that, sir?

  Now that I’m put in mind of it, Jem complained that something had been at the cauliflowers.

  But you have an over-supply of garden truck.

  Not of cauliflowers. We’re far from the seacoast, and enough salt’s not to be had for preparing the beds. Just how have you been conveying cauliflowers to the hospital, Cousin Harry?

  I put them in my pockets. And in corners of my medical kit.

  What—whole cauliflowers?

  You do appear right bulgy at times, said Lucy.

  Not whole cauliflowers. I separate the small flowers, the segments— You see, sir, and Cousin Lucy— I’ve had no wish to run afoul of guards or of the Chief Surgeon. My small benevolence—the result of petty thievery—might not meet with his approbation.

  Naomi had appeared with a steaming pot of grain coffee, to fill their cups, and had been interested and amazed. Miss Lucy, that Mastah Harry, he always asking me for bones.

  Just leftovers, said Elkins weakly.

  And he make me save potato parings.

  Ira shook his head. But we’ve so many other things. Much has gone to waste, all through the summer.

  I—I had no wish to bother you. And I feared to tote a basket. Twould have aroused suspicion, perhaps resentment.

  He sipped the last of his coffee with rapid swallowing, he said that he must be up and away. He pushed back his chair, arose and spoke a thanks for the meal, bowed, and went into the hallway where his kit lay upon a chair. He cried a last goodbye through the open door and turned toward the outside gallery. He was halfway down the steps when the light tap of shoes sounded behind him, and he turned quickly. Lucy walked upon the gallery, she was coming toward him. The young man stood motionless, it was almost as if he knew what to expect; he saw her intent, and stood graven; he wished solemnly, he wished in his entire being to share with her; yet he felt wearily that the wrongs of the world and of this particular day and this particular portion of the world were overwhelming them; he dared yield to nothing but the demand of a task he had set for himself.

  Lucy spoke two words— Dear Harry, she said. She bent forward and flung her arms around his neck and kissed him long on the mouth.

  Do you mean love? he asked, when their faces were apart.

  Twas for your great heart, Harry. I understand so well why Sutherland loved you.

  But do you mean love? For a critter like me?

  I don’t know what I mean, she said softly. I but wished to—award you— Perhaps a kiss from me is nothing—

  Elkins pushed her from him rudely. No, no, he mumbled (and it was odd, but she thought of a squirrel; he reminded her of a squirrel, a great baldish squirrel a-muttering). He said, I can’t bear it. We can’t— Not in this! There’s so much filth and screaming. You should hear the gangrenous! No, no, you should not, I couldn’t bear for you to hear them—

  But I do, Coz.

  You do? Where? Here?

  All the way up here, she said with stoicism. I hear them screaming. My ears are keen.

  May God damn the people who brought on this war. Elkins spoke in a whisper. He went away down the lane toward the first rifle pits, satchel swinging back and forth in accompaniment to his lunging pace. Lucy stood watching, and then tears washed him from her vision.

  At the breakfast table Ira sat with a shred of bacon suspended on his fork, sat motionless and musing, unaware of the tenderness and hurt of this contact on the gallery. He was scarcely aware that Lucy had left the room. He considered his old friend the Reverend Mr. Dillard, and how native sweetness had transcended dry dictates put forth in the Directory for Worship. Very clearly did Ira recall an adjuration to the sick—was it in Chapter Twelve? Thirty-five years earlier Ira Claffey had hoped to become a minister, he had studied with diligence; but eventually saw himself standing before a frosty barrier over which he had no wish to scramble. What would a Presbyterian minister say to the wretched of Andersonville if he felt himself bound by the Directory? He shall instruct the sick out of the Scriptures, that diseases arise not out of the ground, nor do they come by chance; but that they are directed and sent by a wise and holy God, either for correcti
on of sin, for the trial of grace, for improvement in religion, or for other important ends. . . . What wise and holy God had constructed the stockade? Was his name Winder? What sin had been performed by the Northerners? The sin of being Northern? Moses Claffey was born in 1845. . . . Let us select a Moses from Indiana or Vermont. He did not die at Crampton’s Gap; at the age of eighteen or nineteen he finds himself in Andersonville, he lies in the hospital and is tended by Cousin Harry; or perhaps he is less fortunate, he is tended by a contract surgeon. Did not the disease of the Northern Moses rise from a putrid kennel in which he was compelled to crouch? Did it not come from the chance which fetched him into captivity in the first place? Oh, wise and holy God, I bless thee for correcting the sin of this Yankee youngun! I beseech thee to award him an additional and increasing trial of grace. Pray to improve his religion; he whimpers and gapes because you have removed his teeth, puffed his gums, fattened his tongue, put the poison in his belly and his blood. . . . And final admonition to you, you cringing Federal Moses: See that you do not despise God’s chastening hand, see that you do not faint under God’s rebukes! . . .

  Lucy had gone to cool her face. Now she returned to the room, she came in slowly. Ira did not even look at her; he was lost in disgust at the prim and calloused, lost in admiration of a man who could rise above what fusty pettiness he’d been taught.

  Your elderly Uncle Cato Dillard, said Ira. He’s a man.

  Yes, Poppy.

  Daughter, I swear it: with each review of certain pages—in recollection, naturally—I approach agnosticism.

  Yes, Poppy.

  And he had thought to find her shocked. His eyes came up under wiry brows now turning whitish, and he saw that some fresh wrong had been visited upon the one great Love remaining to him.

  But— Heed me. The thought of Mr. Dillard can expunge a variety of sins, it can draw a rusty nail from a wound—

  Yes, Poppy.

  Because he is good, so good that he is beyond precepts set forth by creaking meddlesome little minds.