She muttered, Heavens knows I’m sensitive enough. I’m just a little old sensitive plant.
Forever, Ira told her, people speak of woman’s intuition. But men have intuition also; perhaps they may call it by another name. They say that they observe, evaluate, study the evidence, arrive at conclusions—and half the time tis only intuition! And I’m equally as sensitive as you.
He spoke deliberately. Coz was enchanted by you from the very first moment of his arrival.
I can’t believe that, Poppy.
Then continue being maidenly!
He kissed her hair and went away. It was better to go now. He had planted a seed, she announced that she rejected it; that meant nothing, the seed was there, it would grow.
The rest of the day Ira continued with preparations. He was proud of his vegetables, he saw that baskets were filled liberally. He found a boy’s satisfaction in contemplating how Cato Dillard’s eyes would bulge when he saw this store: pungent roots all scrubbed, carrots glowing orange, turnips with purple scalps, rippled wrapping of cabbages, the grainy opulence of fat squashes.
...How many people would these feed?
...Oh, quite a number.
...But, stay, what have we here? What populations stand milling, awaiting invitation to sit down at our table?
Ira took down his atlas and learned that they were planning to invite to feast the entire population of Columbus, Ohio; or the entire population of Kansas City, Missouri; or of Utica, New York; or of Wilmington, Delaware; or (this was closer to home, it jolted him) Savannah, Georgia.
Granted that permission would not be denied, he wondered how the good things might be divided and distributed. Many times Ira had watched the issuing of rations within the pen; he did not know how they were issued at the hospital; he must ask Cousin Harry about that.
He had stood, garbed with pity that stiffened into a coat of horror, and watched wagons entering the stockade, wheels screaming, drawn by miniature mules (they were mules with sores; and those were the same wagons in which he’d seen The Dead carted away).
...Wagons had their guards. The guards stood watching at the headquarters of each Detachment as that Detachment’s portion was dumped upon the ground: mostly the long hard cards of corn bread, sometimes a portion of old bacon . . . and Ira had seen that bake house: he knew how the mixture was tempered with flies before the slabs were baked. Recently there had been stock peas on occasion, stewed to a mush. Watching through his binoculars, Ira could observe that some masses of the peas appeared half cooked, other masses were burned to blackness. Of course there would be no salt. . . .
So they entered: four-mule teams, a Negro riding on the nigh wheel mule of each team, the complement of four or five guards joining each wagon as it entered.
...Third Detachment sergeants?
The sergeants of the three Nineties stepped forward. Here we be.
Third Detachment rations.
Dry goods boxes dumped, the sound of shovels scraping. Food was ladled upon the ground. The wagon rattled on to headquarters of the Fourth Detachment, and left the three squad sergeants dividing seriously.
...Three Nineties in each Detachment, three Messes in each Ninety.
A prisoner stood with his back to the apportioned piles. Behind him a shaggy man put out a finger to indicate each pile in turn.
Who gets this?
Second Mess.
Who gets this?
First Mess.
Who gets this?
...Already the Third Mess sergeant was claiming the remaining pile.
So it would go in the Messes. One piece of bread about half the size of a brick, for each man—his ration for a day—and sometimes a piece of meat as large as two of his fingers, sometimes a wad of mush or stewed cowpeas such as he could hold in one hand.
Who gets this?
Number Nine.
Who gets this?
Number Fourteen.
Who gets this?
Number Five.
Ah, lucky Thompson! That was the biggest pile. . . .
Hell, he can’t eat it, Bruce. Jaws won’t work. . . .
Ira arose earlier than usual on Friday. It was a fair day, so he directed that the vegetables be fetched from the shed where they had been locked up to guard against thievery. There was a rough platform of planks in the side yard; Ira decreed that the baskets should be piled there, with room for Mr. Stancil’s wagon to back and turn.
The gaunt Harry Elkins came down to observe the arrangement with interest. Harry went to fill his vinegar bottle, he went off to the hospital with pockets stuffed with parsnips and onions. Ira watched him depart. Come what may, he thought, there are a few vegetables which will in fact go down the gullets of the sick.
Ira lived in the high humor of a kindly man doing a kindly deed, and well aware of it. He admitted as much to Lucy when they breakfasted.
Poppy, I’ve been thinking. What about the chests upstairs?
(No one had touched them since Veronica’s death.)
Would it pain you to open them, Daughter?
Everything hurts, she said. But I was so distraught yesterday that the notion didn’t occur to me. . . . There’s so many things of the boys’. Do you agree with me that it would be Christian in us to offer them?
Ira thought of jackets in which his boys had strolled and hunted, he thought of precious boots left behind them when they went a-soldiering. He considered Moses’s cambric shirts, fluffy rolls of well-darned home-knit stockings. Let us give some, Lucy—not all. In our little neighborhood we’re now the sole family who can manage a charity. So many people are impoverished; also we know not what our own needs will be in the future.
He smiled. I may be reduced to wearing Badger’s jeans. Although I fear I’d split them apart! And what of Cousin Harry? His old military clothing is worn thin.
Then will you help me to select, Poppy?
After I’ve parceled work to the hands.
There were delays. A farrowing sow accounted for much of the delay; then it was discovered that Old Leander was sick abed and must be tended. . . . A fence was down: rails stolen by Georgia Reserves or by paroled Yankee prisoners detailed on a wood squad.
It was close to high noon before the clothing chests were closed and shoved to their places again. A sad dreadful illusion of Veronica Claffey was locked inside each chest. Shoes and clothing had scarcely been prepared for distribution, along with the freight of vegetables, when the Americus procession ambled down the lane from the west. It consisted of three vehicles: the Dillards ahead in their gig, followed by a carriage containing three ladies of Americus; also young Dr. Pace, with empty sleeve pinned against his coat. He had been struck by a piece of solid shot in 1862. The Stancil wagon brought up the rear. A cluster of Negro boys were riding and driving and making great festivity out of the whole matter . . . some were singing as they came.
(What would it have been like in the old days? Ira wondered . . . August date, mention of a fair morning in the journal, mention of wind east or northeast. Who would have been confined, expecting her baby? How many hands would have been at the gin? . . . No, no, too early, no one would have been at the gin, they would not have started picking cotton yet; not nearly. But how many would have been pulling fodder, how many hauling leaves for manure, how many would have been out with their ploughs? Oh, let dark voices chant a soft chant . . . let simple recollections invoke the day I gave them a treat, and all unexpected . . . the time we killed a small beef and gave the black folks dinner, all because Badger’d won a race! And also I gave them a little bacon, and some syrup to go with it.)
Cries and compliments arose from the Americus contingent when they saw the outlay of the Claffeys. Cato Dillard beamed, his tufts of white whisker were frothy. So they did eat, he declared, and were filled: and they took up of the broken meat that was left seven baskets.
>
I doubt, Ira told him, that there will be any broken meat or loaves or digestibles to be taken up on this occasion.
He asked in a whisper, while slaves were stowing this additional treasure aboard the Stancil wagon, Have you received any news to indicate that your sanguine hope is justified?
The minister’s chunky face was a wrinkling smile. We need no further word, Brother Ira! General Winder is a communicant of the church, as I advised you.
We might run into a stumbling block in the shape of subordinates.
Surely he will be able to override them!
Perhaps the general is not here? He goes away at times on other duties, or so I am told.
Twould be no fatal delay! Most of these things will keep, except for the hog; and that we could take to the hospital.
In some fashion Ira felt his own anticipation diminishing in proportion to the Reverend Mr. Dillard’s enthusiasm. Ira thought now that he should have taken the bull by the horns, he should have made judicious inquiries in advance. Well, no help for it: they were committed, they must be off to deliver. Lucy would not accompany them. She should remain at home to oversee a dinner for all.
Ira climbed aboard the wagon and stood in the rear, green corn ears sliding around his legs. The little parade jolted west on the lane once more, but with the wagon ahead. Ira pointed out to the driver: this road intersecting at the right . . . turn back on it, past the next intersection . . . swing left. He thought it wise to aim first for Wirz’s headquarters, although gossip had it that the superintendent was absent. Also that road was closest to the stockade’s entrance. There might be no need for journeying across the railroad to the Winder house.
Wagon advanced, gig and carriage followed on behind. As they approached the south camps, pickets stepped into the road to halt them. Ira Claffey got down to confer. Senior among these pickets was an elderly sergeant who came often to the Claffey place for garden truck.
Ira sought to bribe him with cabbages.
Mr. Claffey, sir, you could pass—no trouble bout that. But I can’t let all these other folks through. And this here wagon . . . I got to send for the Officer of the Day. Maybe he’ll admit you all past these posts.
The Officer of the Day never arrived. Instead came a chaise driven by a frightened gray-clad youth, and with General Winder’s sagging face pressed out of it.
What the God damn hell’s happening here?
Again Ira swung down from the big wagon. Sir, he said, there are some ladies in our party. . . .
I don’t give a good God damn how many ladies there are! Tell them to go way! What are you people up to?
General Winder, we have here a load of green things, together with some clothing, to be distributed to needy prisoners. This is a contribution from the people of Americus.
Where do you think you’re proceeding, and by whose authority?
Cato Dillard came from his gig, the wounded Dr. Pace followed with dignity. General, said Dillard, I have learned that you are warden of the newly-established Episcopal church in Americus.
I’m no such thing!
They named you to be one, sir.
What’s that got to do with a wagonload of corn?
Not only corn: we are laden with fresh vegetables—a great variety of them. People have denuded their closets, sir, to furnish some clothing for the sick and ragged.
Winder climbed out of the chaise, grunting with the effort. He stood with folded arms, scowling first at the trio before him, then at slaves who watched white-eyed on their wagon perches. He stepped to the edge of the narrow road, and glared at the women in vehicles behind. He turned back.
You mean to tell me that you people are fetching these things to the prisoners? Not to the Confederate guards?
Cato told him, I have observed that the prisoners are in dire need.
Turn around, cried John Winder explosively. Go way! Drive back! Get out of here!
Dillard’s voice was shaking; Ira knew that the quaver did not come from fear. General Winder, this is a gift, offered free out of hand. Please to let us pass.
I’ll see you in hell first. You’re a damn Yankee sympathizer, and so are all the rest of you!
The quiet sickly Dr. Pace had crept forward until there were but inches between his face and the old general’s. Do you know where I left my arm, sir? In the Valley of Virginia.
I don’t give a hoot in hell where you left your arm! I wish that all damn Yankee sympathizers—and every God damn Yankee prisoner too—were all in hell together!
Ira Claffey closed his eyes for a moment. He was biting his lips, finally he could speak. I do not believe, sir, that it is any evidence of Union sympathies to exhibit humanity. Nor do the rest of these people. Nor the ladies behind. . . . All of us have been bereaved by the war. Some still have young relatives at the front.
Winder howled, I know you, Mr. Claffey! You live right over there. You’re always poking round—up on the sentry shacks. I’ve seen you with my own eyes. Well, by God, you’ll poke no longer! I’ll see to that.
He went waddling back to his chaise and stood muttering under his breath. Then he turned once again. You talk humanity, you citizens. There’s no humanity about it. When you bring this stuff up here, it’s intended as a slur upon the Confederate States’ Government. And, by God—also an undercover attack on me!
Winder got into the chaise, then thrust his face out for a last cry. I’d as lief the damn Yankees would die here as anywhere else! By God, upon the whole, I don’t know that it’s not better for them. Now you folks vamoose!
Dr. Pace had turned back toward the carriage, his face chalked by this encounter. Cato Dillard was making strange breathless sounds, Ira did not know whether he was weeping or praying.
Ira gritted his teeth in final effort. He approached Winder’s vehicle. One final request. The provisions are here, they’re in the wagon; we shall promise to make no further attempt to convey things to the prisoners. But since these provisions have already come thus far, will you allow them to be taken inside the stockade, and distributed?
The pulpy face pushed toward him again. Not the first damn morsel shall go in! I only wish that I could issue an order to confiscate these goods. I haven’t authority to do that; but I have got the power to prevent any damn Yankee prisoner from having them. By God, they shan’t get them!
He yelled to pickets while the chaise was being turned: You heard me! You’re not to let these folks move an inch further toward the stockade. . . .
Mr. Dillard and Ira went to rejoin the others. Some of the women were crying, Mrs. McCrary had her head on Mrs. Lindsay’s shoulder. For him to say that I was a Yankee sympathizer! she sobbed. Mrs. Effie Dillard sat with fury of the Covenanters frozen in her pocked face. Her rage was so great that she could not yet begin to spout; presently she would spout.
Someone touched Ira’s sleeve hesitantly. It was the old sergeant of the guards.
Mr. Claffey, sir. Wistfully. Since you can’t take them things in to the Yanks, would you mind terrible if us folks got a little of the truck? Rations are mighty poor in these parts. Always have been.
...Clothing they took back with them, the vegetables and meat they gave to the guards.
XLIII
Old Tom Gusset, Saddler, Ninth Ohio Cavalry, lingered far past the time which might have been allotted regularly to men of fifty-eight in Andersonville. His enforced retreat to a den filled with fellow Ohioans, when he fled from the wrath of the Irishman called Pay, wrought no change for the better. These were people from the Forty-fifth Volunteer Infantry, they were dying fast. Tom took the place made vacant by the demise of the ex-mule-driver, but the ex-miner and the ex-baggage-handler were in final disgusting stages of scurvy. The gums of the latter were sloughing away, he spat out wads of rotten membranes, it was feared that he swallowed other wads when he grew too weak to expel them. Only the ex-book-agent-who
-longed-to-be-a-writer-of-novels was in fair shape, perhaps because he was slight and elastic to begin with. Once again this was an object lesson in the waning of the mighty athlete, the survival of the stringy and undersized.
Soon Tom Gusset let his implements lie idle, he lost ambition, he had no taste for the puny rations which his industry might have purchased. He did not wish to repair boots or straps, he said that he was too busy or too tired when customers approached. The ex-book-agent, one Woolstock, counseled and warned. Woolstock had imagination, together with a great affection for the human race and an ardent interest therein. He knew that apathy was as destructive as any of the identifiable diseases which erased the population like a sponge in the Devil’s own hand. Indeed he had manufactured this metaphor and made use of it, but Tom Gusset was not impressed.
Use your tools, old fellow! Don’t just sit.
Wooly, I feel too sickly.
You’ll really be sickly, too, if you don’t perk up.
Don’t feel like perking.
Think of your folks at home, Tom. Think of the glorious day of return, think of banners flying in the wind, and ladies strewing garlands, and—
Hell, young fellow. I’m old and I’m plain tired.
Tom had been vigorous previously, had done a young man’s job in a young man’s army, had held his own with people less than half his age. Now he sat and stared. Strangely he seemed suffering from no scurvy; diarrhoea did not wreck him; if he endured gripings he did not complain about them. He shook with no coughing, his eyes did not blaze, malarial fever did not shiver his frame. But suddenly he was become a vessel so empty that it seemed that vessel could never have contained the sauce of abounding life. Since he would not work he acquired no extra necessaries such as rice, salt, beans or bones. If he had owned any more candy he would not have had the energy to bottle it safely in a length of hollow cane. Certainly he would not have had the strength to chase a fleet young thief among the shebangs, punishing him (and thus killing him eventually; killing the shaggy Pay as well) with a belt buckle.
Andersonville Page 69
