There will be a smell and blush of haws upon the hillside, if I can but survive to reach the hillside. . . .
Brother, I believe a brief service should be held.
A service should be held indeed; but I should say not necessarily brief, Brother Frank!
And now Brother Boston has prayed.
And now we shall read: The wilderness of the solitary place shall be glad for them; and the desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose. . . . And the sound and rumble of response, the muted chant of response, congregational response, all in a lower worshipful key. It shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice even with joy and singing. . . . And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads: they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.
The first detachments were marched out of the stockade on September seventh. Ira Claffey was busy with his Negroes constructing a log bridge across a branch of Little Sweetwater at the farther boundary of the plantation where August storms had left destruction. So he did not see the prisoners go, he did not know that any were leaving definitely, he had heard only rumors.
At midnight his light slumber was disturbed by an unprecedented screaming of engine whistles at the Anderson station, where the side track switch was jammed; a train waiting there could not enter upon the main line until repairs were effected. Ira went to his window. The valley glowed red with those same baleful flames which had shone in February, though tonight flames were fewer. It was one thing to guard prisoners being fetched into Andersonville, quite another thing to watch and guard them on their way to be Exchanged. . . .
Ira put on his clothes and hung a shawl around his shoulders; the night was unseasonably chilly. He went through woods and past the south camps and stood close to watch the exodus, then moved nearer the South Gate.
Some of these were the identical goblins who had marched in their Belle Isle rags half a year earlier. Their rags were worse now: many Yankees were nearly naked, their grimy skeletal limbs were sticks. Ira wished to cry a hosanna because these people were being taken away, yet he could only grieve at their plight. He did not know the men and boys, he did not know their names. They were enemies reduced beyond the point of enmity because suffering made men brothers, and made brutes into men to be pitied. Undoubtedly there were raiders, or their one-time sycophants, in the halting collapsing throng. Starvation they’d shared with the rest. It divested them of monstrosity.
...Here marched Eben Dolliver, with one other survivor of the Moon Hotel mess. Here walked the sergeant named Colony, who had once been a member of the same household in which the dead Edward Blamey was numbered. The Wingate brothers lay on the hill toward the north. . . .
A queer shape moved in torchlit gloom beside Ira, and he saw that it was the Confederate sergeant with the twisted neck, whom often Ira had observed on duty.
How many are they taking, Sergeant?
Reckon bout ten detachments left already, Mister. Reckon there’s about seven coming out tonight. They’re only letting the well ones go.
Would you call these prisoners well?
Leastways they can walk. They won’t let no crawlers go. Nobody that has to be carried.
...Here moved the wraith named Private Allen who had shared the shebang with Nathan Dreyfoos; and Tyke, the drummer boy who had wept in a crowded box car last spring. There were the Vermonters, Garrett and Appleby, and somewhere ahead of them staggered their neighbor from Maine. In the herd was a soldier named Malachi Plover, and another named Willie Mann (one day, before many months had passed, Willie would press his clipped scarred head into the pink cambric lap of Katrine Christine Ernestine Fiedenbruster). . . .
The boy who’d kept a diary, John Ransom, was just coming through the gate. Ira did not know him, he knew none of them, yet his heart went out. He thought, Only the well may go, that lad is unwell, he can scarcely walk. Actually he can’t walk: that big Indian is holding him. The edged voice of an officer clipped through the shadows: Hold on there. Wait! That man can’t walk. He can’t go Out—
Such a press of smelly bodies crowding. The officer ran for a few steps on the outskirts of the column, gesticulating. He turned, seeking a guard. The shaggy-haired Indian leered in pine knots’ flare, his hard face grinned, his teeth shone. Yes, yes, he walk all right, he go. Still he had his arm wrapped around the sagging bent scurvy-ridden puppet whom he loved and carried. Other prisoners bawled and muttered, they seemed shaking in mass hysteria, a disbelieving delight . . . more pushed out through the gate. The officer had to run back to his post again, he could not prevent this violation.
...Here were numbers of the Regulators who had crushed raider bands. Some of them walked crying, there were prayers being said. A weak voice was heard: Annapolis, here we come . . . hellfire, Ned, probably just go to another stockade . . . can’t be as bad as this one. . . .
Their weakness claimed Ira Claffey and made him their relative. He turned and limped into darkness. He stumbled against a stump, stumbled again over exposed roots. He could not see because of his tears. Behind him the angular form of the Galena printer, Seneca MacBean, was just strolling through the gate. His friend Nathan Dreyfoos was not with him. The horrid thing which had been Nathan Dreyfoos lay wormy beneath a yard of loose soil on that distant hilltop. The shot fired by Floral Tebbs had drilled his gracious brain.
L
About two o’clock in a white night Ira Claffey was awakened by a persistent pounding at the front door on the gallery below his room. Seldom had he been routed out at unearthly hours except as a prelude to catastrophe. There was the time the quarters burned at the McWhorter place, the time a black child was snake-bitten while walking in her sleep, the time Uncle Arch Yeoman’s simple-minded daughter put her right hand into the hot stove because she had stolen money from her father’s purse with that right hand, and she recollected a Biblical injunction she’d heard preached. Veronica Claffey walked to doom in nighttime. The news of Moses Claffey’s death had come at night. Also a train was wrecked at night on the line north of Anderson with several people killed and many injured. Ira took up no robe but hurried down in his nightshirt. Apprehensively he drew back the two bolts.
Coral Tebbs was poised outside the door, dark eyes glistening in the candle’s flame. Nowadays he traveled on two crutches; long ago he had shaped a rude crutch himself to match the one whittled out by Flory.
Mr. Claffey, sir. It’s Laurel.
What say, my boy? Ah—your half-sister—
She’s took bad. The old lady asked me would I traipse over here and seek that there surgeon.
I fear he’s at the prison hospital.
What about Miss Lucy, sir? Hain’t she good at tending the sick?
Come into the house, Coral. I’ll fetch my daughter. What seems to ail your sister?
Reckon it’s a kind of fever. She’s clean out of her wits, and talks foolish like. Seems like she’s griped in the belly or something. She just keeps a-clutching and a-moaning. Ma’s scairt to death.
Ira went up to Lucy; her door was not latched; he tapped and then opened the door and called softly until Lucy sat up in response. He gave her the message and then went down and sent Coral on his way; the lame boy would travel slowly. Ira dressed quickly, and sipped cold okra coffee until Lucy appeared, gowned. She had brought down some necessaries which she fancied might be of use. Most of the things were packed already in a basket which stood always above her wash-stand, ready for emergencies; this was her Florence Nightmare basket, it was traditional in the household. Ira carried the basket as they trudged through moonlight to the Tebbs cottage. They spoke of the moon, of its aloofness, of the drama inherent in its very placidity because of the marvels it had witnessed for so long.
On such a night as this, said Ira.
I know, I know. Did I ever tell you, Poppy? Once I ran away in the moonlight, and no one ever knew
that I had gone. I rose—well, I reckon you can guess: to use the vessel—and then I looked out. The night was just plain mad—like this—cream all over everywhere. So I snuck, Poppy, just plain snuck. Mother would have perished.
How did you get out?
Remember the magnolia which used to grow beside my window, and it grew sickly, and you took it down?
Climbing down trees in your night-rail. Ha.
I did get scratched a teentsie. Then I ran and ran and ran. Accompanied by Deuce. Met with no disaster whatsoever, but I felt wild. Oh, might the Lord make me young again!
You crone, said Ira. They walked on in silence, chuckling a little, and then growing more serious as the Tebbs place could be seen directly ahead with lights burning in the two rooms; they thought of the sick girl waiting there.
Whatever can be the matter with that child, Poppy?
I trust it’s nothing catching.
Don’t be selfish and cruel, sir. Poppy, does her mother— Does she still— I mean, do all those men—?
All the time, said Ira shortly. He shuddered within, thinking of how his disturbed lust had nearly sent him into the widow’s bed many months before. Am I dried, he thought, dried up and old before my time? At least I feel that I’m commanding myself better than I did. The long sadness has been a disciplining factor.
Coral was just entering the dooryard ahead of them, and the Widow Tebbs hurried out to the stoop on hearing their approach. She was fully dressed, twisting her hands in her apron, her plump face sticky with tears. Did you fetch the surgeon, sonny? Oh, she’s bad took—my poor little Laurel—
Ira explained that Harrell Elkins was at the prison hospital. Lucy took her basket and sped into the room beyond, with Mag following her. Before she closed the door Ira had a glimpse of Laurel’s face in the low lamplight; she was discolored, her abnormally thin face seemed now abnormally bloated, her lips hung apart, she gave forth alternate grunts and whinnyings.
Coral dragged out a chair for Ira and sat across the table from him.
Mr. Claffey, sir. You got a chaw tobacco on you?
I’m sorry, Coral. I use tobacco but infrequently, and have none now. Sometimes I enjoy a pipe. Ever smoke a pipe?
Little bit, when I was soldiering. Ruther chew.
How does Floral get on with his soldiering?
Little cuss, said Coral. He shot a Yankee, killed him dead. He hadn’t no call to go firing like that. God knows I hate Yankees—got good reason to hate them—but I wouldn’t go around blasting right and left the way he done.
Oh, he was too young to go for a soldier!
Well, he hain’t got sense enough to bell a buzzard. Ma says Flory’s daddy was easy-tongued as they come—just a real charmer, so she says—but Flory hain’t got cat sense. He’s in the calaboose; been there ever since the day he shot the damn Yankee, and I reckon he’ll be there sixty days. They come over here and fetched him back, a squad of them.
Coral tittered scornfully. He was under Ma’s bed, and little Zoral he pointed him out to the squad.
Where is Baby Zoral now?
Coral jerked his elbow toward the door. Asleep in that old hen-coop out there. Ma said she couldn’t have him sleeping in yonder, with Laurel laying sickly, and I was fetched if I’d have him sleeping alongside of me, count of he wets the bed so bad. So he’s got a kind of bed in the old chicken-coop. Reckon he likes it tolerable.
Through this conversation there had sounded a murmur of voices in the room beyond, punctuated—to Ira’s pain and fears—by the wailing of the sick girl. The door opened and Lucy appeared with her face paler than it had been. Poppy. May I speak with you? Outside.
They went into the wonderland of moonlight which could enrich every object, which enriched even the tumbled dooryard and made each grotesquerie a prettiness.
Oh, Poppy. It’s dreadful! You must go for Cousin Harry.
Child, Coz can’t be two places at once; he’ll feel that the sick need him over there, as indeed they do, and he’ll be distraught. Nevertheless I’ll try to fetch him. What ails Laurel?
That woman— The widow told me most artlessly. She’s such a simpleton! Poppy, I dislike to speak of such matters to you, but know that I’ll be forgiven. The girl—Laurel—was going to have a baby. Her mother discovered this when some time had elapsed since the girl asked for— These are womanly matters. But for—cloths. Well, the widow undertook to interrupt the pregnancy; she employed a wooden knitting needle, of all things. And this is the result.
Ira exclaimed sharply and hurried toward the lane, but turned back before he had reached the corner. Lucy, do you go inside and do whatever you can—doubtless there’s little you can do—until I get hold of Harry. But Laurel will require constant nursing, constant attendance, if indeed she survives until morning. There’s a train at the depot, disgorging prisoners or perhaps taking them to Blackshears—the Lord knows. I mean to send a note to Americus for Mrs. Dillard, by the engine-driver. I’ve no writing materials in my pockets.
Lucy flew into the cottage. Coral obliged by finding a stub of pencil in the old clock, and a torn envelope of patriotic pattern. (This relic had been discarded by some visitor of Mag’s, and depicted an embattled female Confederacy, complete with helmet, sword and flowing robes, who had just given the quietus to a writhing dragon. Mag said, That’s right pretty, and pinned the thing upon the wall as a picture to admire; but Coral hated it always and was glad to be rid of it. Coral said that war was no business for a woman; if there was dragon-killing to be done then let the menfolks go do it.) Ira put these things in his shirt pocket and fairly ran toward the tracks; he feared that the train might have started already, possibly he could flag it down. But no, the light still glared dully; the train motionless, it turned out that a gang of blacks was wooding-up the engine’s tender. Ira could not actually run because of the tendon which had fastened itself to the femur of his leg, but he hopped along, perspiring, and made very good time. It was odd, he thought . . . now the smell of Andersonville was thick as smoke, yet he and Lucy had forgotten it when they were moving at slower pace through the moon’s beauty. It took but the suggestion of an evil and a stink to bring increased evil, more persistent stink.
He found an amiable bearded engineer who was glad to be of service when he heard that a girl was stricken. It was expected that the train would reach Americus in an hour and a half, and Ira had no longer a fast horse on the plantation—nothing but mules and two feeble pensioners.
Are there not ordinarily some niggers about the depot at Americus, even in nighttime?
Sure to be, Mister. There’s the wood gang, and usually some of their pickaninnies.
Then give one of them this note I’m scribbling and—here, this bit of currency—and send him to Parson Dillard’s with all haste!
Ira crossed the branch and went up through spectral light and shadow to his home. Twice he was challenged by sentries—there were many more of them about since Atlanta fell—but he had no trouble getting past; he was known by sight to practically all the guards except a few recruits newly come.
He awakened Jonas and told him to hitch a mule to a cart. Ira’s wounded leg was plaguing him because of unaccustomed exertion, and also he could imagine Elkins’s weariness (but it was a steady exhaustion which the younger man would never admit in so many words). Ira started east along what was left of the lane. At this spot once he had scented decay and had held a fear indefinable . . . the battering of a lifetime had slugged against him and his since then. . . . Bordering wild shrubbery was gone, the area was gashed by a thousand heavy wheel-rollings, the lane ended in an embankment with rifle pits strung beside. Out of milk and mist ahead came a lone figure with skull face ashine: if a child had seen it the child would have run squawking. This spook was Surgeon Elkins who had given the shreds of strength remaining to him and was now ordered to bed by the surgeon commanding.
Violets, said
Harry distinctly.
Ira Claffey reached through the pale light and put his big hand around Elkins’s arm, and shook him slightly. Did you say violets?
I thought of them, not far from here, said the rough high voice. Twas the first time I visited the stockade region. I picked two, for Lucy.
Ah, violets no longer. Naught but exhalations.
The surgeon yielded himself to Ira’s support for a moment only, as if he wanted to be a little boy again, to let an adult take over his charge. Then he pulled loose and straightened his shoulders even while he shrugged them, as he were saying, Come, come, I’m well again, I’m adult, strong once more, I’m still a man.
I dislike to add to your burdens, Coz. But would you be able to come to the bedside of a sick child? A young girl, daughter of our neighbor, the Tebbs woman—
Surely. Did you know that there were two kinds of miasma identified by medical writers?
They were nearing the Claffey gate, and Ira could hear crying wheels of the cart as Jonas brought it up from the stables. He said, The girl is in a desperate condition. I’ve sent to Americus for Mrs. Effie—
Mrs. Prod-Pry! Forever with a question—
You should be flattered, Cousin Harry. Ira tried to laugh about it. She’s vastly respectful of your erudition, and means to learn whatever you can teach her—
I shall teach her, said Elkins as they halted at the gate. Two miasmas thus identified. The kino and the ideo. One consists of exhalations from the human body in a state of disease, the other of exhalations from vegetable decompositions and saturations generally.
Jonas came driving up and leaped from the cart. Bad night air, Mastah. He was firm in the belief that night air was more dangerous than day air, stockade or no stockade.
Then get to your cabin before you catch your death, Jonas. You in your shirt-tail. The slave hastened off, a tatterdemalion under the serene moon. Ira demanded abruptly of Harrell Elkins whether he felt capable of approaching this new responsibility. You, he said, poor thing, with your babble of violets and miasmas.
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