by Cathy Gohlke
“Yes, sir. As soon as I find him, or if I don’t.”
That night, once the lights of Laurelea were snuffed, I stole away to the colored cemetery, to William Henry’s grave, and set a blanket next to his marker. It was a peaceful place, a place that kept the world and its troubles outside the gate. I talked things over with William Henry there, just like I’d done all my life, and his. Only more and more I’d start talking to William Henry and end up talking to God. I wondered if sometimes the Lord thought kindly of that roundabout prayer, but figured mostly He’d understand.
“I guess you know about Emily’s letter. I’ve got to go, William Henry—you know I do. And I want to! I want Ma to come home … I’m glad Pa’s not here. I want to be the one to go.” I dug the twig I carried into the ground, worrying it back and forth. “Maybe she’ll come with me, where she wouldn’t come with him… I just hope we can get back through the lines … I promised your ma I’ll be back for my birthday.” I rubbed circles in my temple and sighed. “I’m tired of sitting home while every boy I know is off fighting the secesh. You’d feel the same. I know you would… I just didn’t figure my first trip out would be to a Union prison.” The twig snapped.
It was late, but I sat long, listening to the lonesome call of the hoot owl and the baying of a far-off hound, watching the old man move across the sky.
I leaned back against William Henry’s marker and looked up at the stars dancing, winking in their constellations. Cousin Albert had taught me their names. I remembered how we’d wondered if the Pleiades was really the home of God, like it said in Job. Those four years seemed so long ago. Now he was an officer—a colonel—and my country’s enemy, locked in a Union prison. He was also my blood kin, and except that I resented that Ma had gone south to live near him, near all of them, I knew he was a good and decent man.
“But his view of slavery.” My voice in the night prickled me. “He treats his slaves better than most, but it’s still buying and selling, owning people.” And Cousin Albert was willing to fight and die for the right to do it. I didn’t understand that.
I didn’t know what I’d find at Fort Delaware. I dreaded not finding him—for Emily’s sake. Emily. My heart picked up a beat. I felt the heat travel up my neck at the memory of her, and tried to squelch the rising hope in my chest.
I hadn’t seen Cousin Albert or Emily or her brother, Alex, or even my Grandfather Marcus Ashton since Christmas Eve 1859. That night, as they sang in church, then danced a midnight ball at Mitchell House, I’d run north with Jeremiah, Grandfather’s son by a slave woman.
I could not abide that Grandfather’d planned to sell his own son, like he’d sold Jeremiah’s ma, Ruby. So together we stole away. We were both thirteen at the time. It set my feet on a path, and I’ve never looked back, never been sorry, but for the loss of Emily’s friendship and for wondering if things could have turned out different with Ma.
“Show me the straight path, Lord. Watch over Pa, wherever he is, and Ma, and bring us home again.” I knew God heard me. I also knew His will sometimes ran a mystery to mine.
I traced the letters of William Henry’s name across his marker. “I’ll be back, William Henry. God willing, I’ll be back.”
Two
I rode before first light, not wanting to say more good-byes, not wanting Aunt Sassy’s tear-stained face to be my last memory of home. Loaded down by my bag and Mr. Heath’s gifts of blankets, a set of clothes, spirits, and all the food I could carry, I still made good time.
We’d long heard that Northern prisons ran cold, and prisoners north and south near starved. Fort Delaware’s pox epidemic had killed more than 150 Confederate prisoners, even some Union soldiers. I carried all the supplies I could, but it was little enough.
I reached Elkton as the sun’s rays warmed my face, and made Delaware City long before the light waned. I searched the docks, eager to find a boat to take me across the river to Fort Delaware, Pea Patch Island. The pier bustled with fishing and supply boats, all pulling in.
“You’ll have to wait till morning, son. Nobody’s putting out this time o’ day.” The brawny fisherman looked me over, tossing his torn net ashore. “Fort Delaware, you say?” I nodded. He glanced up and down the pier. “You can likely go over first thing with Tom Ames,” he said, jerking his head toward a boat just pulling in. “He supplies the fort every day or two. I don’t think the Jenny was over today. He’ll probably put out tomorrow or the next.” I thanked him and was about to walk away. “Most people try to get out o’ that fort, not into it.”
“My cousin’s there. I’ve come to see about him,” I answered.
“Union or secesh? That’ll make the difference, you know.” He eyed my bundle, then squinted his suspicion toward the river.
I felt my heat rise. “He’s a prisoner, my ma’s people. But I’m Union, through and through.”
“You ain’t in uniform.” He spit to the water, then turned and eyed me hard. “And you ain’t from around here. I ‘spect I know every family up and down this river.” His mate stood beside him then, and the look between them turned me cold.
“I will be. Soon as I’m of age.” I walked away, feeling the shame I’d felt when boys from church had signed up and left with their regiment, ladies cheering and handkerchiefs waving—the shame and threat I’d felt when I’d returned to our buckboard one Sunday to find the seat tarred and chicken-feathered. Lots of boys had lied about their age to join early. I wished again that I’d not promised Pa I’d wait. I thought hard of him for asking such a thing during war, especially when the Union needed more troops. Well, I’d get there, and soon.
“Mr. Ames?” I called to the gray-haired man climbing ashore from the Jenny. “Captain Ames?” I ran after him.
“No catch today, son. See us tomorrow.” He threw up his hand behind him and shuffled up the pier.
“I’m not wanting fish, sir,” I called, stepping up behind him. “I’ve come to see if you’ll take me across to Fort Delaware.”
He stopped short and eyed me over his spectacles. “Fort Delaware? Why? Why do you want to go?”
I thought about lying to make it easier, but I was no good at that. My face’d heat up like a smithy’s fire. “I need to find my ma’s cousin. He’s a prisoner there.”
“How long?”
“Ten months.”
“Ten months.” He paused. “Gettysburg?” I nodded, and his face softened. “It was a hard time. A lot of those men didn’t make it. You from around here, son?”
“Below Elkton.”
“But he’s your family? Your people?” I nodded again. “Well, a lot of folks have people down south. Different sympathies.” He waited, but I didn’t answer. “He’ll be grateful for the company.” He stroked his beard. “I’d take him food, if I was you.”
“Yes, sir. Will you take me?”
His eyes bored mine, then looked away, as if he tried to decide something.
“First light. Be on the Jenny at first light.”
“Thank you. Thank you, sir!” I stood while he limped, one leg shorter than the other, up the pier. Halfway he paused, and limped back.
“You have a place to stay, boy?”
“Not yet. I came straight to the docks.”
“You might have a speck of trouble if folks know you’re going to the fort for kin.”
I figured he spoke true. “I’ll get my horse and sleep outside town.”
“Wouldn’t do that if I were you.” His eyes traveled to the two at the end of the pier, the two who’d eyed me hard ever since I’d told them I was going to the fort. “There’s a storm brewing and you’ll not want to be caught in it.” He turned his back on the men and took out a paper, scribbling an address with the stump of a pencil. “There’s a boarding house two blocks west from the dock. Couple by the name of Maynard. They’ll take you in and be glad of the business. Got money do you?”
“A little,” I admitted.
“Don’t advertise where you’re staying. Walk off this pier w
ith me, get on your horse, and don’t look back. There’s a stable at the boarding house. Go to the back door. Tell Ida Maynard to send me one of her apple pies.” He shook hands, placing the paper in mine, tipped his cap, and walked away.
I followed on his heels, mounted my horse, and rode off, just as he’d said. A block from the dock I opened the paper. I checked and rechecked the address, then found the house as the first lamps were lit.
“Certainly you’ll stay with us, young man!” The landlady pulled me into the kitchen, calling her husband to stable my horse. I offered to see to him myself, uneasy about turning Mr. Heath’s horse over to a stranger. Mr. Maynard took that in stride and showed me the stable, offering anything I needed.
The Maynards made me welcome, and over supper I felt free to tell my story—at least the part about Cousin Albert and Emily. I could tell from their talk they had a son volunteering for the Confederacy in Virginia. That explained why I was their only boarder. Try as I might, it was hard not to think of them and their son as traitors.
“As you can imagine, we are no longer held in high regard by our neighbors, nor welcome in our church.” Mrs. Maynard spoke quietly. “If they could only realize that we are in as much anxiety and fear for our Stephen as they are for their sons.”
“But they can’t, my dear. War makes everyone shortsighted.” Mr. Maynard lit his pipe. “But you, young man, will be a welcome sight to your cousin. If you think they’ll let you take food, we’ll be glad to send whatever we can—for your cousin or anyone else. We’ve heard those boys are in a sorry state.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ve brought a fair load of supplies, myself. I don’t know what they’ll allow.”
The Maynards exchanged a look I didn’t understand. I put it down to the hard times they’d had with neighbors.
That night, remembering the hard look between the two at the pier, I sorted my bundle. I decided to carry the food and spirits, the blankets and clothes. Cousin Albert would surely need all that, and if he didn’t—if I didn’t find him—other prisoners could make good use of those things. Once I found him I’d pull out Emily’s gifts.
Mrs. Maynard sent me off early next morning with a hearty breakfast and a hot apple pie for Captain Ames.
He grinned ear to ear when I set it in his hands. “A good woman, that Ida Maynard!”
No matter that it was nearly June, the cold river wind ripped through my jacket and trouser legs. It was all I could do to clutch my bundle for Cousin Albert, to keep it dry. That boat rocked and tossed, then dipped through every swell just to make me mind my belly. Each time I thought it might settle, it slapped me awake with an icy spray to start the torment all over again.
“Not one for open water?” Captain Ames chided. I gripped the side rail, slippery from the spray, shaking my head. “Ever been inside the fort?”
“No, sir.” That was all Captain Ames needed to shout a first-rate history lesson into the wind while I heaved my breakfast over the side. “She wasn’t built as a prison at all, but the war changed that. Filthy, overcrowded, a haven for smallpox and dysentery… and just wait till the hot weather steps in—mosquitoes and a whole new breed of the ague …” I tried to listen, but only wanted off that boat. “Officers’ quarters for prisoners stand above the sally port.”
“Sallyport?”
“The fort’s entrance. Enlisted prisoners are kept in those long barracks outside the fort. You can see them from here. Makes escape a little easier than the Federals would like.” My eyes followed his finger to the long yellow buildings.
“Ah! Here we are, then! Land ho!” The captain gave me a friendly slap ashore, chuckling over my weak stomach and probably my green face. It was a relief to set my feet on Pea Patch’s marshy ground—ground that didn’t move. “Boy!”
“Yes, sir?” I stumbled, trying to get my land legs under me.
“God bless you for being merciful to them as can’t repay your kindness.” He eyed the fort, then shook his head. “Poor wretches.” He secured the ropes. “I’ll wait for you when I’m done unloading.”
“Thank you, sir.” I hadn’t expected that much.
I’d never seen a real fort before. I’d pictured it like the wilderness forts out west sketched in the dime novels—hundreds of tree trunks standing tight, side by side. But these were massive, thick gray stone walls, parapets and ramparts, and windows spouting cannon—a solid, monstrous thing and enough to put the fear of God into anybody. I squinted into the morning sun to see the top of it, and couldn’t imagine how such a thing could be built, let alone stand on a marsh island in the middle of a river. Did they cart every stone across by boat?
What looked like a still creek bed ran around the fort. It called to mind tall tales of knights and castles and drawbridges. But the guards standing duty against the stone walls were real enough.
“Visitor?”The private stood near my height, not much older.
“Yes, sir.” I pulled Emily’s letter from my jacket.
“Close kin? We only allow close kin visitors.”
“I’m the closest that could come. I’m looking for Col. Albert Mitchell, 26th North Carolina.”
The boy private raised his eyebrows but ignored the letter. “No officer here by that name.”
I swallowed. “You mean he’s dead?”
“I mean I never heard of him. There’s no officer here goes by that name. I know every one of them.” The private gloated, then looked me up and down. “Sure you got the right prison, Johnny Reb?”
I felt my heat rise. “I’m Union, same as you.”
“You’re here to see a secesh, and you ain’t in uniform. But you’re old enough to be in uniform, ain’t you, boy?”
“I’m seventeen.” I didn’t want to answer him.
“We got us a Johnny Reb in here twelve years old, and we can’t get you Union boys to sign up when you’re near growed.” I wanted to knock the smirk off his face.‘
“Is there trouble here?” A captain, quick and brusque, stepped through the sally port.
“I’m here to see a prisoner, Col. Albert Mitchell, 26th North Carolina. I have a letter from his daughter, my cousin, asking me to come see about her father. He was captured last summer, at Gettysburg, sir.” I rushed it all out in a breath, glad to sidestep the boy private.
“I told him there ain’t nobody here by—” but the officer cut him off.
“Albert Mitchell? Colonel?” The captain raised his eyebrows, read Emily’s letter. He smiled, as though I’d just explained something he knew all along. “Follow me. General Schoepf might wish to see you.”
The boy private glared but stood smartly aside. I stepped light to keep stride with the captain, who was already halfway through the stone entrance tunnel. “Do you know him, sir? Albert Mitchell?” He didn’t answer. I could only trail him across the parade grounds, jumping the night’s rain puddles and black mud churned up by the soldiers’ morning drill.
“Wait here,” the captain barked. Any friendliness I’d fancied disappeared as fast as the heavy wooden door slammed behind him. “Here” was a stone step. But the fort kept me out of the wind, and I leaned against the sun-baked wall. Minutes dragged on. A half hour passed. I wondered if the captain’d forgotten me. I piled my bundle against the wall and sat down, determined to wait.
I tried to bring Cousin Albert to mind. He was taller than Pa. I shifted my seat. I’d never liked the way Ma looked up into his face, or how the lights in their blue eyes caught. His manners were polished fine, and he doted on Ma, stood closer than a first cousin ought, in my mind. I pushed away those memories, knowing that some of that was how they did things in the South, not wanting to think on if it was more.
I’d learned a lot from Cousin Albert. Besides the tutoring, he taught me how to shoot and care for a gun. I had admired the way he ran Mitchell House, his plantation next to Grandfather’s Ashland, and the better way he treated his slaves—until the night I begged him to stop Jed Slocum, Grandfather’s overseer, from beating Jeremiah
for running away. But Cousin Albert refused to step in, no matter that Slocum had just axed the foot off an older slave for running. He said those slaves were Grandfather’s property to do with as he wished.
I realized then that it didn’t matter how well you treated someone, that power of one human being over another is evil looking for a home. And I’d never believe God gave him the right to own another person. That night our paths forked.
If I found Cousin Albert alive, what could I say to him now, five years later? Besides my stand for abolition, besides the fact that my own ma lived next door to him instead of home with Pa and me, we were at war. As a Confederate officer Cousin Albert would be bound to shoot Pa as a spy—or me on the battlefield once I enlisted for the Union. But I’d also be bound to shoot him. I wondered if I could do such a thing. I prayed I’d never need to know.
I must have leaned back and closed my eyes. The door jerked open, and I fell onto the captain’s boots.
“Up, boy!” he fairly shouted. I scrambled to my feet, pulling my bundle together. “General Schoepf’s given permission to escort you through the prison barracks. We want you to identify your cousin.”
My hopes stood up. “Thank you, sir.” But something about that didn’t ring right. “You mean he’s not listed?”
The captain eyed me sharply, then stared across the parade ground. “Some of our prisoners are wounded and can’t speak. A few have forgotten who they are—shocked from battle. We don’t have a Col. Albert Mitchell on the roll, but you may help us find him among the enlisted men. If he is an officer he is entitled to better quarters, better fare. You’d be doing him a favor by identifying him.”
That sounded fair, good for Cousin Albert. I shifted my load. Maybe that caught the captain’s eye.
“What do you have there?”
“Food, clothing, blankets, spirits for my cousin.”
“All gifts to prisoners must be searched.”
“Yes, sir.” That seemed natural enough, and I’d nothing to hide, save Emily’s bundle sorted into small packets beneath my jacket. We trekked back through the parade grounds and entered the sally port. The same surly boy private stood on duty.
