by Cathy Gohlke
“Jenkins,” the captain barked. “Search this prisoner bundle.”
“Yes, sir!” It was the first time I’d seen a spark to Jenkins. He jerked the bundle from my arms and dumped the contents on the ground before him. The captain marched toward the fort’s entrance.
“Wait! What about my load?”
He stopped, not turning to face me. “It will be searched. What is permissible will be passed to the prisoner. If you’d like to find your kinsman I suggest you follow me.” I looked back and saw Jenkins had made two piles—one of a solitary blanket and some of the food. The second pile was everything else. From the grin on Jenkins’s face I knew which one Cousin Albert would see. It was a mercy I hadn’t pulled out Emily’s gifts.
The captain marched fifteen steps ahead. I hustled after him, across the moat and out to a field covered in a couple dozen long plank buildings. Most were yellow washed, with six windows on a side, none on the end. They didn’t look like houses—no regular chimneys—but didn’t look like barns either—no silos.
The captain signaled two guards, then led me through the door. He pulled the guards aside to speak. I couldn’t hear what he said. I’d never seen such a crowd of men swarming in one place. There must have been more than two hundred scarecrow men packed into that building, bone-thin men in every sort of
filthy, torn, and patched uniform and rags of uniform you could conjure. The smell ran powerful rank, like a twelve-hole outhouse. I pulled my sleeve over my nose and mouth, tried to get hold. Three plank rows, floor to ceiling, ran front to back along both sides of the eighty-foot walls. Men packed row after row, wedged tight, laid like spoons. It made me think of the hold in slave ships I’d heard tell of, only spread out in broad daylight.
“Look into every face and see if you recognize your man.” The captain pushed me along the rows. But I could hardly look at the men, and I couldn’t keep from looking at them. Their eyes were sunken, their faces thin, some yellowed. Those that took notice scratched vermin from their bellies and armpits. None of these men looked anything like I remembered Cousin Albert. And if he was here, how would I know him? “Can you identify him?” The captain kept talking.
“No. No, sir.”
“You realize he might have changed some. These men were in dire shape when captured.”
I didn’t believe they were all in this bad shape when they came here. Even if I found Cousin Albert, I knew he wouldn’t be getting the food and blankets, the clothes Mr. Heath sent. These men didn’t have a solid, warm blanket between them. “He’s not here.”
“We’ll try the next barracks.” The captain led me through three more buildings just like the first one. I’d looked into so many hopeless faces I didn’t think I could look into one more. I didn’t even want to find Cousin Albert there. I didn’t want to imagine he’d ever lived in such a place. Dying on a field of battle would be one thing; rotting in Fort Delaware was another thing, a vile thing. “Look carefully, son.”
“He’s not here. He wouldn’t be here. He’d never be here.” And that is when I saw him on the top row of plank bunks. I saw him, and he saw me. Ma’s deep blue eyes blinked in a man’s hollow face. I started to speak. He looked away, dipped his head, and pulled back. I walked on.
“Did you see someone you know, son?” The captain kept steady, but I sensed his urgency. Why would Cousin Albert pretend not to know me? Why would he turn away? “Well?” the captain snapped.
“What?”
“Did you see someone you know?” Why would this officer care so if I found him? If he’d wanted to help him, he wouldn’t have ordered that boy private to help himself to the bundle I’d brought Cousin Albert.
“Look again.”
“What?”
“Look again,” he growled. “Walk down this row a second time. There are a number of prisoners in this barracks from the 26th. Look carefully.” I had no choice, and I couldn’t help glancing up at him, though I dipped my head and tried not to show it. He was so changed—not only thin and unshaven, but unkempt and bent in ways that Cousin Albert would never be, could never be. I looked away, but was drawn back. And that was telling. “Michaels,” ordered the captain, “stand down.” Nobody moved. “Michaels! Stand down.”
Half a minute passed before Cousin Albert uncurled himself from his place on the top row of plank bunks. Everything in the room stood still. Not a man spoke. Not a man moved, and yet the air crackled like they’d all jumped up and screamed. He took his time climbing down, row beneath row. At last he stood before the captain and stared him in the face. He never once looked at me.
“Is this your cousin?” The captain kept his eyes level with Cousin Albert’s. “Look carefully.” I couldn’t catch my voice. I didn’t understand why Cousin Albert wouldn’t look at me. “Col. Albert Mitchell, didn’t you say? Speak up boy!”
“Yes, sir. I mean it looks like him, but—”
“How about it, Col. Mitchell? Do you recognize this boy? Says he’s your cousin, come to visit you. How sociable.” Cousin Albert didn’t blink. He raised his chin and glared in the captain’s face. The captain pulled a piece of paper from his coat and waited. Nobody breathed. “He carries a letter from a young lady, a young lady with a fine hand.” The captain unfolded the letter and flaunted its signature in Cousin Albert’s face. “Your daughter, I believe, Michaels. Do you have a daughter at home, all alone? Emily Michaels. Or is it Mitchell?” The captain smiled, taunting him. “Miss Emily Mitchell?” That is when Cousin Albert broke.
“Put this man in irons.” The captain smirked. The order wasn’t out of his mouth before the barracks exploded.
“Leave him! He ain’t done nothing!”
“Get out! Get out, you filthy Yankee—!”
“You got no call—” The men who’d looked too weak to stir swarmed from the bunks to the floor, angry and cursing, shouting threats at the officer and his men. Two prisoners pushed between Cousin Albert and the guard, a living shield. A shot rang out, then another. Prisoners fell back. The two who’d shielded him lay dead on the floor.
Cousin Albert raised his hand. The room fell silent, as if they all, Northern and Southern, answered his command. He dropped beside the dead men on the floor, but the captain jerked him to his feet.
“Get back to your bunks!” the captain barked again. Two prisoners stepped up to flank Cousin Albert. “Confine those men!” the captain shouted, but he was shaken. “Get Mitchell out of here!”The guards shoved Cousin Albert forward with the barrels of their guns, and me behind them.
“Traitor! Yellow belly! Spy!” Men from the bunks hurled their hate on me.
“You’d best move now if you value your neck,” the captain warned.
I spun on the captain. “You said he’d be treated better! You said—”
“And he will… once he’s out of solitary.” He pushed past me.
“Solitary? For what? How long?”
“That’s up to Gen. Schoepf, who, by the way, will see you now.”
Three
I’d no idea where they were taking Cousin Albert, but I trailed, close on. We passed Jenkins, the boy private, through the sally port, smirking like he’d just told the best joke behind the barn, then cornered sharp left. Cousin Albert’s eyes found mine, just as a door marked “Quarter Master” slammed between us. I saw in that second anger, sadness, blame, resignation, and more I couldn’t lay a name to.
“Follow me.” The captain, smug, still barked orders.
“You lied. You used me,” I nearly shouted.
“General Schoepf will tell you what you need to know.” He stopped short. “I might remind you this is the army. In case you’d not noticed, we are at war. I don’t know if you’re a spy or a godsend, but you’ve served your purpose as far as I can see.” His eyes smiled coldly. “And apparently you’ve found your cousin.”
This time I stayed on his heels. When he pushed through the heavy wooden door, I pushed too into what looked like a mail room. Soldiers sorted letters and packages;
two more sat reading from the stack of letters, blacking through lines. Before I got my bearings the captain had crossed the room and barred another door between us. “Wait here!”
He was back in less than a minute. “General Schoepf has been detained. His orders are that you be escorted from the fort. You may return to visit your kinsman in thirty days.”
“Thirty days! I don’t have thirty days!” Soldiers sorting mail looked up, astounded that I’d dared to challenge the officer. “What are you going to do to him?”
“He is in solitary confinement for those thirty days.”
“But why? You said he’d be treated better if I found him—because he’s an officer!”
The captain glanced at the mail sorters, who busied themselves at their work, then gripped my elbow and shoved me through the door. “I’ll tell you more than General Schoepf would bother to tell you. There is every reason to believe Col. Mitchell organized a number of recent attempted prisoner escapes—and that he was planning to lead a grand-scale escape himself within the next forty-eight hours.
“We knew there was an officer among those enlisted men, organizing, planning. We just didn’t know who until you showed up with your letter and identified our man. Col. Mitchell has successfully played the simpleminded Tar Heel private—Private Amos Michaels—to the hilt.
“Because he is an officer he will be spared a lashing, or worse. But he will serve thirty days solitary—little enough for the trouble he’s caused. Then he will be imprisoned with other officers, where he will, consequently—and not to my liking-receive better food and clothing, better housing. He will no longer be allowed to communicate with his men.
“You have saved us a great deal of trouble and embarrassment, young man, and have served the Union well.” He as good as sneered. “General Schoepf has offered that should you desire to be assigned to Fort Delaware when you enlist he will put in a request for you.”
That was it. He ordered two guards to march me to the dock and see that I boarded the next boat back to shore. I barely remember the march, but I remember feeling like a prisoner.
Id found Cousin Albert alive, but my finding him had made things worse for him. What would thirty days of solitary do? Would they starve him during that time, more than they had already? What word could I send to Emily?
And what about Ma and Emily? I couldn’t wait thirty days before going south to them! I worried those questions over and over, across the river, not caring that Captain Ames kept a watchful eye on me.
In my anger and humiliation, in my fear for Cousin Albert and frustration about it all, I poured my whole long story to the Maynards over supper that night. “I thought we treated prisoners better than that. I know we’re at war, but those prisoners were nearly starved and half-naked. I don’t know what the officers looked like—I didn’t see them. I don’t trust those Union soldiers worth a dime.” I spat out every word.
“It’s disgraceful!” Mrs. Maynard was nearly beside herself.
But Mr. Maynard shook his head. “They’re victims of the war too. I’m sure they’re not all bad—good and bad everywhere. It’s human nature. I hear those prison guards don’t live much better than the men they’re guarding—except for the officers.”
“I can’t stay here thirty days! I’ve got to get South to my Ma and my cousin. Emily said they need me—Ma needs me!” I worried the back of my neck. “But I don’t see how I can take off the way things stand.”
The Maynards exchanged their peculiar look, that language I didn’t understand. Mr. Maynard cleared his throat. “There may be something we can do, a way we can find out about your cousin.”
“How?” I sat up. “They won’t let anybody near him.”
Mrs. Maynard poured hot chicory into our cups. Mr. Maynard cleared his throat again. “We know a person or two who works at the fort. We’ll ask them to learn what they can. In the meantime you stay here with us.”
“We won’t take another penny from you, Robert,” Mrs. Maynard soothed.
“I can’t do that, and that’s not the problem.”
She reached for my hand. “You must understand. You’ll need your money for your trip south. And helping you and your cousin will be the next best thing to helping our boy.” She sat back. “I only hope some Southern woman is as kind to him.”
Five days passed. We didn’t hear a word, though Mr. Maynard went out each day to question I don’t know who. I helped with chores and ran errands for them, cleaned stalls, and chopped kindling. I brushed Mr. Heath’s horse until his coat shone like silk, walked him round the yard, but didn’t ride him through the streets. No sense calling more attention to us. I could feel the neighbors peering out their windows every time I passed. I guessed boarding with Southern sympathizers looked nearly as bad as carrying the stars and bars through their streets. But I didn’t see as I had much choice, and the Maynards were more than kind to me.
When a week passed I wrote Mr. Heath, telling him all that had happened, that I felt I had to wait to see what became of Cousin Albert, and as soon as I knew I’d be on my way to Ashland.
But the waiting was hard. That night I lay, staring into the ceiling, trying to remember Ma and Grandfather, Emily and Nanny Sara. As I tried to recall their faces, I was left wondering how four years of war had changed them, aged them. I wondered what welcome they’d give me. I wondered if Emilyd told Ma that she wrote, and, if she did, what Ma’d said.
I rolled over. I dreaded falling asleep. Sometimes I dreamed Ma was dead. Then I’d wake up, remember the truth of why she’d left, and the pain would flood me, nearly drown me all over again. If Ma’d died, sick and full of years like Miz Laura Heath, I could’ve understood. If she’d been killed, snatched out of her time like William Henry, I would have ached, like I ached for the loss of him, but I’d have known she had no choice going.
But she’d left Pa and me of her own accord, saying she was going to Ashland for a visit. Only the visit never ended, and she never came home. She’d written that without Miz Laura life was just too harsh at Laurelea and that Grandfather needed her in North Carolina. She “trusted” we’d “understand.” I didn’t understand, and I wondered that she didn’t love Pa or me anymore.
Pa urged me to write her, to love her, to think well of her, to be glad she’d stayed at Laurelea as long as she had, as long as she could. I did write, and God knew I loved Ma, but thinking well of her didn’t come easy.
On the tenth day I sat in the parlor when Mr. Maynard hurried through the kitchen door, breathless, and full of whispered news for his wife. They both took on new energy, and I heard the words “Pea Patch” and “officer.” I thought it might have something to do with Cousin Albert. But when they saw me standing in the doorway they glanced up, stopped quickly, and eyed me hard. “You listen at our door?” Mr. Maynard’s tone turned me cold.
“No, sir.” I was taken aback. “I thought you might have word of Col. Mitchell.” I could see Mr. Maynard trying to get hold of himself. Mrs. Maynard pressed her hand on his arm. He gentled like a skittish colt, but his tone kept its bite.
“Of course.” He hung his hat on the peg by the door. “As a matter of fact I’ve just had word. Your cousin’s not well.”
I stepped inside the kitchen, steadying my hand on the doorpost. “Not well? What do you mean? Did they beat him?” It was the thing I’d feared.
“He’s out of solitary—the good news.” He turned to face me. “But he’s gravely ill. He’s in hospital—the hospital at the fort. I don’t think they expect him to pull through.”
I must have paled or dizzied. Mr. Maynard changed of a sudden and pulled a chair out for me. “Sit down, son. I’m sorry to bring you bad news. But you’ll be able to see him now. They’ll let kin visit the hospital.”
“I’ll send him some broth.” Mrs. Maynard took charge.
Once again I sorted Emily’s small parcels, separated the bits and pieces. I wouldn’t risk a bulge in my jacket or Private Jenkins pilfering the things she’d intended fo
r her pa. They were little gifts, tokens of comfort Emily’d collected or made. There was a soldier’s housewife made of needles and thread in an embroidered case. I ran my fingers over the stitching and imagined Emily, her head bent to her needlework. I wondered if her forehead still wrinkled, if she still bit her lower lip when she concentrated. I felt the heat begin to creep up my neck again and pushed those thoughts away. She’d also sent a tin of shelled pecans, another that was now full of now-rancid and broken sweetmeats—that last I threw out for the birds—a half pound of real coffee, a hand-knit muffler, a small tin of lucifer matches, some fine writing paper, a pen and inkwell, two pencils, and a Testament, with a thick, sealed letter tucked inside.
I fingered the thick muffler, knowing Emily’d probably knitted it herself “I’ll be lucky to get any of this past that guard if he looks close,” I said out loud. But inside a voice whispered, “We just got to be smarter than him. That can’t be too hard, now, can it?” It was the voice of William Henry, plain as I’d heard it that last day we tried to outsmart Jake Tulley I knew what I needed to do.
The next morning I wound the muffler around my neck and under my shirt, no matter that the weather had turned and the June heat was early rising. I tucked the Testament with Emily’s letter inside my vest, tacked the lucifers inside the housewife and the housewife inside my pants leg. I strapped a flask of brandy around my calf. The pecans I wrapped in a handkerchief and stuffed in my pocket. The writing paper and inkwell were hardest to hide. But I figured they’d be the least likely to matter, even if they were taken away, so I carried them in hand, like I’d nothing to hide.
Mrs. Maynard sent me off, after a good breakfast, with another pie for Capt. Ames and a crock of broth for Cousin Albert. The wind was down and the water no worse than a river current could demand. We made Pea Patch with breakfast still in my belly.
