LX
These were enemies . . . Wirz felt in his pained bones that they had come to take him.
At first hand he had known no uniformed enemies except prisoners. In Paris, in 1863, he had sat alone in a small café, listening idly—then with curiosity, then with bewildered horror and disgust—to the conversation of three men in citizens’ dress who were at a table behind him. From their talk he recognized that they were officers of the Federal navy. Wirz’s dinner was spoiled, dyspepsia or no dyspepsia. His trembling hand spilled coffee from the cup. He paid hastily, left a gratuity out of all proportion to the cost of the meal, hurried away. From a darkened street he peered back through the smoky pane and saw Them, Them, Them; saw their faces, heard faintly their laughter. Enemies. But they were not in uniform. . . . Frogs imprisoned in his arm hopped desperately that night.
These men at his door in noontime were enemies, with all the gaud of cloth, buttons, belts.
Is your name Wirz?
Ja, I am Henry Wirz.
You have been in command of this place, commanding Rebel troops?
Wirz tried to straighten his sagging shoulders. He lifted his voice, cords tense and visible at his throat. Nein! The troops I have not commanded. I have been superintendent of the stockade only.
The man with bars on his shoulder straps said, I am Captain Henry E. Noyes, Fourth United States Cavalry. Acting as aide-de-camp to General Wilson. I regret to inform you that you are under arrest. Will you please instruct me as to your rank, so that I may know how to address you?
Henry said, of promotion I was informed, before I hear the news of surrender. So now I am a major.
Have you received your commission?
It has not come. It is somewhere. . . .
In that case I shall address you as Captain.
Wirz retreated into the small parlor ahead of Noyes. Noyes called over his shoulder, Where are Ewing and Nevis?
A cavalryman said, At the rear of the house, Captain. We were taking precautions.
It’s obvious that we don’t need to, Sergeant. . . . Then again, to Henry: Captain Wirz, may I trouble you for your sidearms?
Wirz’s glance flicked toward the window, back to the officer’s face. He lifted his left hand to tug at the beard around his lips.
Mein arms, they hang in the entry yonder. Also a pepperbox revolver I got. Not truly a pepperbox—but from Europe he was—
I’m supposed to take your arms. Where is the revolver?
In the bed chamber I keep him.
Any other arms, or weapons of any sort?
...No, no, no, he had no other weapons.
Is any member of your family in the chamber at this time?
Henry Wirz shook his head violently. It seemed that this fierce shaking might rid him of veils gathering in his fogged weary brain, veils gathering before his eyes. My wife, my girls, they are in the garden. Back. They make the garden there. His voice broke in a hysterical titter.
Which chamber is yours?
It is above us. That revolver— I have hanging by the bed—
Sergeant Howe, go up and get the weapon and remove it with other sidearms to the verandah. Wait there until Nevis and Ewing join you. I trust these troops haven’t terrified your family, Captain Wirz.
They would not be afraid, said Wirz. We have so many troops here. I mean prisoners, of the Yankees. Some Paroles. They work for me about the place, they brought wood. Ja, very good I treat them: double rations.
His voice rose shriller. Why is it I should be under arrest?
The heavy tread of Sergeant Howe returned down the stair. He carried the revolver in its holster. Already he had unfastened the flap in order to draw the ammunition.
Better do that outside, Sergeant. . . . Captain Wirz, will you invite me to sit down?
Ja, ja. . . . They sat, one at either end of the settee. Wirz was sitting chiefly upon his left buttock turned so far out of the seat that he was in a half-crouching position. Why am I under arrest, Captain Noyes? There has been the surrender. Troops you do not arrest after surrender!
I have my orders directly from General Wilson. There seems to be a feeling at Macon that you are subject to examination of your conduct as prison superintendent.
Henry said dryly, as if to himself: This I do not understand.
His thin face brightened for a moment as he looked up into Noyes’s solemn gaze. Captain, is it possible that you speak the German? My English is—
Sorry, no German. However we seem to be getting on tolerably well.
But I do not understand! Again Wirz’s voice went near a shriek, a cry which broke in two and seemed to leave a ruptured piece of the sound hanging in air before it fell.
See here, said Noyes. He tried to make his speech as smooth and reassuring as possible. The sum and substance of my conversation with the general can be reported. To begin with, about the first of this month, General Wilson sent me to Alabama on a task concerning our forces at Eufaula. On my way I passed through this village of Andersonville, and the train stopped to wood up. Some of our Federal sick were at the station. I observed you there also, Captain Wirz. Wasn’t there some business about trying to parole the Northerners? Some of your troops were there with you, and you were presenting little pieces of paper to those sick men, to sign. You should have known very well, sir, that it was unnecessary for them to sign anything! General Wilson’s orders had been that all the sick should be brought to Macon as rapidly as possible, and that was that. . . . I heard a voice, Captain Wirz. It was to this effect: Hurry up; sign these paroles or you’ll die here anyhow. I can’t swear that you made that remark, Captain. But today I have heard your voice, and I think it was your voice that I heard at the depot. What business had you paroling our sick men, after the surrender? Certainly it would have been impossible for you to hear that the armistice was repudiated!
Wirz was swallowing rapidly. Nein, nothing do I hear of that.
Matter of fact, said Noyes, I was on the point of going to remonstrate with you. Just then the train whistle blew, and I had to get on and travel. But when I returned to Macon I reported the circumstances immediately to my superior, and was ordered to proceed to this destination, and bring you back under arrest. That’s the story.
Wirz spoke in a coarse crawling whisper (certainly, mused Captain Noyes, he must be thinking of stocks and chain gangs). What— What should they do to me?
I presume that if General Wilson is satisfied that you have only been performing your duty, and acting in accordance with orders, you will probably be released.
Wirz lifted his china face with eagerness. He began to nod. That is true, Captain. That is what I do, all the times: I carry out orders! They tell me to be superintendent of the stockade, so I serve. I am superintendent. I do my duty, Captain. You are a soldier. That you should know.
For a minute or two it was very quiet in the small hot room, with little sound except the breathing of Henry Wirz.
You spoke of giving double rations to men who were paroled to work for you, said Noyes. What about the prisoners who remained in the stockade? Did they receive double rations? Did they receive any adequate rations?
Wirz shook his head briskly, put his left hand over his face, pressed his face down toward his knee. Captain—
His voice was forced out between spread fingers.
—I tell you, only my duty I have done! That General Winder, he give me nothing, nothing. I do what I can. That Sid Winder: adjutant, he was. That Dick Winder: quartermaster. He is bad. I think he steal much from the food. I think maybe they steal money, those Winders! No help do I receive from them. I am a poor man.
His face came up again, his hollow eyes tried to implore Captain Noyes, to tell him of woes, to make the captain believe how very poor Henry Wirz was indeed.
In the campaign west, Captain, they take my place. I have a small plantati
on, I have a house in Louisiana. All is gone. I am ruined. Now we are in defeat! What do I do? I ask you that. How feed I mein wife and children? Three children I have by this house. I mean, one is ours, the two elder girls are of my wife. . . . See you this arm?
He shook the relic within its sling, and made a face, and squealed again in the shaking.
This I get at Fair Oaks, what you call Seven Pines. It is very bad. The surgeons, they are no good, nothing can they do. So much pain I have. Always, always—
Sorry about your wound, said Noyes. Sorry about the whole blame business, the whole blame war. Who isn’t? Thank God it’s over now.
Wirz said softly, Is it not odd? I was thinking. My name, it is Henry; and now you come to put me in arrest. And you too—your name is Henry. Is it not odd?
Very odd, said Henry Noyes, and again there was silence. Silence gave way before the racket of a door being opened and closed at the rear of the house . . . spasm of high-pitched voices all a-whisper, the rapid treading of light feet. Pale and glassy of eye, Elizabeth Wirz rushed into the room. She stopped short when she saw the Federal captain with her husband.
Noyes arose quickly, Wirz got up with labor.
Elizabeth’s three daughters were behind her; they pushed together, staring with terrified gaze. Susie had a hat of plaited straw (she had plaited it herself) tied on her head. The bonnets of Cornelia and Coralie were hanging on their shoulders. The two elder girls wore old gloves for gardening, but the child’s hands were grubby. Elizabeth Wirz herself held a wooden trowel, and somehow to Captain Henry Noyes that whittled implement spoke volumes. He thought of manufactories at the North. The wife of this Southern officer had no trowel such as his own wife might have used in her garden. There it was: cumbersome, stained, the edge worn blunt, a split up the middle; what slave had fashioned it? Or perhaps even Henry Wirz? No, no, certainly not Wirz, with his arm in a sling, and a pyramid of prisoners atop his shoulders.
Husband— Is it true—what those Yankee soldiers told me?
This captain, said Wirz. He has told me that with him now I must go.
But husband— Henry, you’ve done nothing wrong!
This captain, said Wirz. His name also it is Henry. In the Old Country, Heinrich it would be. Again his weak giggle crept out.
The plump woman came closer, confronting the Union officer. He looked down to observe and identify and contend against the defiance in her gaze.
Have you arrested my husband? Pray on what grounds?
Madam, I’m merely obeying orders! As, no doubt, your husband obeyed orders given to him. As I have just told Captain Wirz: I presume that he will be released, if he but make it clear to General Wilson that he was proceeding according to orders. I mean to say—fulfilling the duties of command.
Where must you take him?
The general is at Macon. I was instructed to fetch your husband there.
Tomorrow night I should be home, said Wirz hopefully.
Little Cora had thrown her arms around his thin body. She cried distinctly over her shoulder, Don’t you hurt my Pa!
I shan’t hurt your Papa the least bit, Noyes told her. He must soothe these people, he must avoid a display of hysteria. What is your name, my dear?
They chorused her name. Wirz and his wife said Coralie, the girls said Cora.
Noyes reached out with strong tanned fingers. There is something very pretty around your neck. Is it a locket?
No, tis a Bible. . . .
Wirz addressed the child in a stuttering whisper.
No, sir, tis a Bible. . . .
Never before did I see a Bible worn around the neck!
Cora murmured, although she feared to look at the man. Made out of bone. A prisoner gave it to me, and he made it his own self, and he said to my Papa, Give it to your baby.
Noyes drew gently on the creased ribbon from which the ornament depended. There was nothing else to do: he wanted no yells when he marched Wirz out of the house. It was a tiny thing: Bible carved on one side, a diamond-shaped hole on the other side filled with red sealing-wax. A hole had been drilled in one end to admit the ribbon. What piece of bone? thought Noyes. Recollection of that putrid tenantless stockade was still cold and strong in him. What bone? A piece from a brute, or a piece from a human? They are neither man nor woman, they are neither brute nor human, they are Ghouls. . . .
And their king it is who tolls.
Who was king of the Ghouls? Wirz? He was unfit to be a king, he must be a courtier.
Noyes left off examining the queer little gaud and stood stroking the child’s hair. Still she would not look at him. Her face was pressed against her father, she had squeezed her eyes shut.
Madam, he said again to the mother. Let me repeat: I know of no particular charges having been filed against your husband—no bill of particulars, so to speak. It is merely that the general wishes to question him concerning his role as superintendent of the prison. Also— He turned back to Wirz. We are to carry along all records in your possession. They must be examined.
Ja. The books, I have them.
And loose papers. All papers. My men brought carpetbags for the purpose.
For many bags it will not be necessary. So few records were kept by me. Many are by the Winders, somewhere— I have copies from my reports—
We have already requested the hospital records, said Noyes, again in the most reassuring tone he could muster. He wrinkled his nose. There is a delicious smell in your house, Madam.
Corn bread, said Wirz behind him. Every day we have him.
Elizabeth’s trowel was shaking. She looked down, saw the trowel, saw her hands a-tremble. Gradually their shaking ceased. She had willed that she make it cease. Noyes felt a sudden respect for the woman. She was made of good stuff.
She said, Our repasts are extremely simple, sir, but I believe things are soon going onto the table. Eve has not yet rung the bell. Will you join us?
I’d be delighted, if I shouldn’t be putting you out.
No, no, said Elizabeth rapidly. There is a sufficiency—I mean for you. I fear we cannot offer your soldiers—
They have their own rations, said Captain Noyes.
The simple luncheon—mainly corn bread and bacon, with a few green things from the garden—was eaten in silence. There was an undercurrent of sniffling from the daughters. Before the end of the meal, Cornelia jumped up suddenly and ran from the table. She burst into tears in the hall; they could hear her tears; they rattled their forks, broke their bread, pretending not to notice the young girl’s departure as she went rushing to the second story.
Wirz felt an inexpressible tenderness for his family. There was nothing now which he could say to Captain Noyes. Oh please, he thought, dear God, do make him understand, make the general understand also, when we arrive in Macon. Make them understand that I am a soldier, I was a soldier. One does one’s duty. When the prisoners were bad, they were like naughty children, and naughty children must be punished. So I punished the prisoners. I am not a bad man. Dear God, make the Yankees who have now triumphed over us, make them understand that I am a good man! I am not wicked, I have done nothing wicked. That old General Winder (and dead he is now, and a good thing for all that he is dead), he would not coöperate. He was relentless; he did not wish to have the hospital moved to the Outside, and it was a very wrong thing to have the hospital on the Inside. Very little food could we get for anybody! Yes, the prisoners were crowded. I could not conduct a neat and efficient prison; all the time they kept sending more prisoners—trainload after trainload. More, more, more! It was wrong of the authorities to do this. Oh, dear God, please to make the Yankees understand how handicapped I was! And my arm: how it pained me constantly; it is paining now, with little hopping monsters therein begging to be freed. I should have let those surgeons lop it off in the first place; but I thought that in time I could be healed; I did not wish to
have but one arm, I wished to serve the South. I was kind to many of the prisoners. Yes, yes, I shall tell the general how kind I was to them! They wanted clubs to hunt down the raiders, so I gave them clubs. They wanted to hold a court; they asked to have attorneys, so it would be a proper trial, and I let them hold court, let them appoint attorneys. They wanted lumber for a gallows; I gave them lumber. And what did they do with it? It melted away as the fence melted away—seven hundred and eighty feet of fence, and all in one night. Most of them could not be trusted, so I did not trust them. Many broke their paroles, they ran away. There was no fair play about it! They ran off, and some of them managed even to elude the dogs. They were devils and they were bears, worse than the bears in Bern! This also shall I tell to the Federal officials, and make them understand the scorn and unfair treatment received by me. The Yankees threw mud, they called me evil names. They were recalcitrant, disobedient; so I was compelled to enforce my discipline with the stocks and the chains. They were dreadful prisoners, those Yankees. They would not submit, they would not obey my rules. They were very, very dirty. They even killed each other! And the Northerners must understand the worthlessness of the guards foisted upon me: old men and little boys. They were no fit soldiers; they did not know how to be soldiers. The Northerners must understand that in my heart I am a very kind person! If I were not a kind person, I would not have been kind to Little Red Cap. I was very good to Little Red Cap, and he, at least, could be trusted not to run away. Why, my Ilse even gave him gingerbread! And little Coralie trotted after him when he came here to my house to perform errands. I have seen them sitting together on the bench yonder—there is the very bench, out through that window, beneath the chinaberry tree—and I have heard Little Red Cap teaching a song to my Cora.
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