During the last week, as the Union army retreated, it left behind some three thousand of its wounded to be captured. That number of additional prisoners stretched the already inadequate Confederate Prisoner of War Bureau and the facilities of Belle Isle beyond the breaking point. The smell of death and corruption attracted flies, vultures, crows and rodents, to make it a hellish place.
A grim-faced Confederate colonel and captain rode across the ford onto Belle Isle. The colonel gestured toward a shack with the words Camp Commander stenciled above the door. Neither spoke as they observed the wretched conditions. The colonel dismounted, handed his reins to the captain and pushed open the flimsy door.
“Didn’t anybody ever teach you to knock?” an overweight captain snarled from behind his desk. A small plaque on the front of the desk proclaimed him to be the camp commander, Captain Breedlove.
“I’m Colonel Thomas Van Buskirk, Captain Breedlove.” In Richmond, Thomas had learned that Breedlove was a former jailer from Manassas who had earned favor from a Confederate Senator, and thus he knew better than to try to pull rank on the man. “I’ve come searching for a prisoner that was erroneously captured on the battlefield.”
“What exactly do you mean by he was erroneously captured?” Breedlove asked, slightly less annoyed now.
“He’s a Confederate officer who was mistaken for a Yankee.”
“We don’t have any officers here.”
“As I said, it was a mistake.”
“How did a mistake like that happen?”
“He was wounded during the Battle of White Oak Swamp, captured by the Yankees and then recaptured by Confederate troops who thought he was a Yankee enlisted man when they overran the hospital. He was apparently not in uniform and got caught up in the flood of Union casualties from Savage’s Station.”
“What’s his name?” Breedlove began thumbing through a stack of forms.
“Paul Van Buskirk.”
Breedlove looked up. “A relative of yours?”
Thomas nodded. “He’s my son.”
“Wounded you say?”
“Yes. I don’t know how seriously.”
“I’ve got two thousand prisoners and half that many records.”
“Meaning you don’t know if he’s here?”
Breedlove looked up at him once again angrily. “It’s not my fault.”
“I didn’t say it was, but I don’t want my son to suffer because some clerk didn’t do his paperwork. Perhaps I could look for him.”
“Be my guest.” Breedlove dropped the stack of forms and waved his hand. “Don’t get too close to any of ‘em. They’re crawling with lice.”
“Thank you.”
“Start with the field hospital. If he’s wounded and alive, that’s where he’ll be.”
“Where is it?”
“It’s in the third big tent. Look for the swarms of flies.”
“Thank you.” Thomas walked outside and took his horse’s bridle from John Buford, who was wearing one of Johnny Van Buskirk’s spare uniforms. “There’s no record of him here, but the warden is going to let us look.”
“This place is a disgrace,” Buford said.
“No argument.” Thomas began leading his horse toward the tents through the crowds of prisoners who were lying or sitting on the muddy ground. “Any chance of you being recognized?”
Buford shrugged. “There’s always a chance. I guess if it happens you could act surprised and shoot me.”
“Good idea.”
“Jesus wept.” Buford wrinkled his nose in disgust. “The stench of this place is enough, all by itself, to make being imprisoned here cruel and unusual punishment.”
Thomas didn’t answer.
When they reached the field hospital, they tied their horses outside and went into the foul-smelling tent. Thomas found a doctor and asked if he could look for his son. The man nodded and went back to work.
Thomas led the way around a pile of amputated limbs. “Ninety percent of these amputations are performed to avoid infection,” he said, as they began to systematically work their way through the rows of cots. “Ninety percent of the amputees will die from postoperative infection. That may be the height of stupidity.”
“Yeah,” Buford said. He looked pale.
“If you’re going to vomit, do it outside, John,” Thomas said.
“I’m okay.”
“My sister-in-law says that basic hygiene would eliminate half the deaths and that there are potions that will stave off infection.”
Buford was looking from face to face and had stopped listening to Thomas. “There’s gonna be so much hatred after this war that it’ll be impossible to rejoin the States.”
“Don’t worry,” Thomas replied. “There will be no rejoining after we win our independence.”
“Here he is, Tom.” Buford knelt by a cot. “Pea. Can you hear me?”
Paul opened his eyes and smiled. “Major?”
“Your father’s here.” Buford stood up. “I’ll get the boat.”
“No. Just a minute.” Thomas caught Paul’s hand and bent over him. “I need you to listen closely, Pea,” he whispered. “Major Buford is masquerading as Johnny. You must call him Johnny and if asked you must say that he’s your older brother. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Paul squeezed his hand.
Thomas squeezed back, then stood up and looked at Buford. “Your credentials are flimsy,” he murmured. “Anyone with half a brain will see through them. You stay here while I get the boat.”
Buford nodded.
“I’ll be back soon, Pea.” Thomas hurried through the cluttered beds and out the door.
“Give me your derringer,” Paul said to Buford.
Buford knelt beside him again. “Shh. What for? You’re weak as a kitten.”
“If we’re discovered, I’m not going to let them take me alive.”
Buford took the derringer from his boot and put it in Paul’s hand. “Don’t shoot yourself until you’re sure I’m dead. The guards here are old men and boys and I might be able to get enough help from the prisoners to overcome them. If it comes to that.”
“Where’s the squadron?”
“Retreating with McClellan. Sergeant Major Kemper’s in command. General Stoneman and General Porter both know what I’m doing. How bad are you?”
“I’ve got a Minié ball in my thigh. The surgeons wanted to take my leg below the hip but I fought them. They’re so busy that they just left me here to die.”
“Can you walk at all?”
“No. But my mind’s clear and I can pull a trigger.”
July 3, 1862
Hampton Roads, Virginia
A ship’s bell rang four, and a match flared briefly in the nearly opaque darkness. “There,” Thomas Van Buskirk whispered. The four Union Navy sailors in fisherman’s togs who were rowing the skiff pulled on their oars. A nearby buoy rang in response. Ahead of the skiff, the shape of a fishing boat and the low silhouette of an ironclad appeared from the fog.
“The Reb gunboat that the Navy’s after’s anchored right beside them,” Buford whispered.
“We should take the Reb out first,” one of the sailors muttered.
“No,” Thomas replied. “We agreed to get my son safely onto the fishing boat first. I’m holding you to your end of the agreement.” He lit a match and then immediately threw it into the bay.
The sailors pulled gently, moving into the lee of the fishing boat on the side away from the Confederate ship. The bow of the skiff bumping into the side of the bigger vessel sounded like a bass drum.
“I can climb the net,” Paul said softly.
“No,” Buford hissed. “Let me get on deck and I’ll take your hands while Tom lifts you.” He scrambled up the rope net that was hanging from the ship’s rail.
“Give me your hands, Pea,” Thomas said.
Paul offered his hands to Thomas. “Thank you, Dad. Be careful.”
Thomas pulled him up onto his uninjured leg and hugged him
. “Turn around and get your good leg under you.”
On the deck of the fishing boat, two men had joined Buford and they easily pulled Paul over the rail and laid him gently on a waiting stretcher. Buford waved to Thomas, then followed the two men and the stretcher down a ladder to the dark hold.
“Stinks like dead fish,” Paul said.
“Shh.” Anna Van Buskirk appeared, lighting a candle. “Close that door, Major.”
Buford went back up the ladder, pulled the water-tight door shut and dogged it. As he came back down, he saw that the hold had been partially converted to a hospital room. Anna and a woman with red hair that Buford didn’t know were already cutting away the remnants of Paul’s filthy clothes while the two men that had carried the stretcher washed their hands.
“Do you remember me, Major Buford?” Anna asked, looking at him for a moment.
“Yes, Ma’am. Of course.”
“This is my dear friend Georgia Van Buskirk.”
“Call me Ginger,” the redheaded woman said, smiling at Buford. “We thank you for bringing Pea out.”
“My pleasure, Ma’am,” Buford replied.
“These two gentlemen are French-Canadian physicians who prefer not to be named,” Anna continued. “Neither of them speaks English. We’ll put them ashore before we reach Washington.”
Buford nodded to the men and turned back to Anna. “What can I do to help?”
“Nothing,” Anna said. “Just stay out of the way. We won’t be sailing until after dawn.”
“Why’s that?” Buford asked.
Anna glanced at him curiously. “Wasn’t that Confederate gunboat out there?”
“Oh. Yeah, it was out there. But it won’t be for much longer.” Buford walked to a coil of rope and sat down. “I might just take a little nap. I can’t remember when I slept last.”
Ginger pointed. “There are blankets, food and cold tea in that chest. The sail locker would make a better bed than that rope.”
“Thank you.” He got up and knelt by the chest. “Your brother asked me to thank you, Mrs. Lagrange.”
“Silly man,” Anna replied. “Pea’s as precious to me as my own son.”
Buford looked up at Ginger. “Don’t take this wrong, Ma’am, but if things go wrong and the Rebs board us, you might want to jump over the side and swim for shore. You’ll be better treated by the civilians in town than by Reb soldiers.”
Ginger glanced at him and smiled. “I gather you don’t think that I can pass for white.”
“You might could with your hair fixed different and in different clothes.”
“If we’re boarded we’ve agreed to fight to our deaths,” Anna said. “All of us, including the captain and his crew.”
“That works fine for me,” Buford said, selecting a chicken leg and two biscuits from the chest. “After seein’ that so-called prisoner of war camp where they had Pea, I’d rather be dead than caged up in there.”
“Did you have any trouble getting him out?” Anna asked.
“Not a bit. Went so easy that it scared me.” Buford stuffed a biscuit in his mouth.
One of the men said something in French and Anna answered.
“Take that into the sail locker and get some rest,” Ginger said to Buford. “This is going to take a long time.”
Buford’s mouth was too full to answer and he just nodded, but made no move toward the locker.
“Are you going to take my leg?” Paul asked in a small voice.
“Both these gentlemen and Ginger have experience with antiseptic techniques,” Anna replied. “If your leg can be saved, they can save it.”
Ginger patted Paul’s hand. “When the hospital in Newark wanted to take Samuel’s leg, Johnny helped Abe and me bring him home. Samuel limps some, but he’s got both legs. Your leg’s not half as bad as Samuel’s was.”
“Oh, I remember hearing about that,” Paul said, a bit uncertainly. “Where are we going?” he asked Anna.
“After we put our Canadian friends ashore, we’ll stop briefly in Washington so that Major Buford can rejoin his squadron, then you, Ginger and I will sail to Van Buskirk Point.” She offered him a small bottle. “Drink all of this. It will put you to sleep.”
“I’d rather stay awake,” Paul replied.
“If you stay awake you’ll scream,” Anna said, still holding the bottle toward him. “The Confederate gunboat crew will hear you and we’ll all die.”
“Uh…” Buford began.
Paul took the bottle and drank.
“Yes, Major?” Anna asked.
“He’s got a bullet wound in his left arm too,” Buford said. “It went clear through but it bled like the dickens.”
Anna turned toward Buford. “We’ll take good care of him, Major. Go get some rest. We’re very grateful to you.” She cringed at the sound of a nearby explosion. “God’s teeth. What was that?”
Buford yawned. “With a little luck, the Confederate gunboat next to us was just sunk by the sailors that rowed us out here.”
“What have you done to my brother?” Anna accused.
“Tom’s fine. He had to agree to it in order to get the Navy’s cooperation.” Buford yawned again. “When you’re done with your operating, you might tell the captain to get underway. At dawn the guns at Fort Monroe are gonna open up on any Confederate vessel within range and the Union fleet is gonna attack in full force. By noon Hampton Roads is gonna be in control of the United States.”
“Men,” Anna grumbled.
July 5, 1862
Washington, D.C.
Buford looked stunned. “A general? Me? I was expecting a court-martial, not a promotion.”
General Stoneman chuckled. “You underestimated your value.”
Clearly uncomfortable with discussing his own merits, Buford changed the subject. “Any word on Hampton Roads, sir?”
“A victory. The Confederate navy withdrew. We now have complete control of the entire port and the surrounding waterfront.”
Buford smiled. “That’s good news, sir.”
“Yes.” Stoneman handed Buford a copy of his written orders. “Controlling Hampton Roads will make deployment of the new Army of Virginia much easier.”
“Army of Virginia?” Buford took the documents and looked at Stoneman expectantly.
“The Army of Virginia’s being created from General John C. Frémont’s Mountain Department, General Irvin McDowell’s Department of the Rappahannock, General Nathaniel P. Banks’s Department of the Shenandoah, and General Samuel D. Sturgis’s brigade from the Military District of Washington,” Stoneman said. “Oh, and your cavalry, of course, which will be reinforced and re-designated as a brigade.”
Buford read from the orders. “General Orders Number one-oh-three unsigned and undated. Is this a sure thing, sir, or just high-level gossip like before Virginia seceded?”
“I’m told that President Lincoln has signed the orders, but that there’s a slight delay. Something to do with who’ll be in command.” He pointed to the packet of documents. “But your appointment to Brigadier General is signed, sealed and approved. The original is on Secretary’s Stanton’s desk, waiting for you to formally accept it.”
“Stanton?” Buford rolled his eyes. “If he finds out where I’ve been he’ll have me court-martialed.”
Stoneman shook his head. “Stanton’s not the same man that he once was. For one thing, he’s become a staunch supporter of President Lincoln. I think he genuinely likes him.”
“How does that keep my bacon out of the fire?”
“Lincoln knows where you were. He’s known from the beginning. Anna Van Buskirk is an unofficial advisor of his.”
“Ah.” Buford nodded. “I knew that.” He grinned. “She’s quite a woman. You should have seen her onboard the boat. When she snapped her fingers everybody from salty old fishermen to tough old Army officers jumped.”
“You being the tough old Army officer?”
“Damn right. I’d rather go toe-to-toe with a grizzly bear than
that woman. She’s still good lookin’ too, and she must be fifty.”
“I think she must be older than that. Robert’s fifty-three and she’s his older sister.”
“She had a light-skinned, red-headed, colored woman with her whose name was Van Buskirk. Do you know anything about that?”
“No. But you might keep that to yourself.”
“Yes, sir. I was just curious and thought you might know.”
“No. Other than a passing acquaintance with Robert, I really don’t know the family.”
“Now why did I think you did?”
“You have me confused with General Porter. He’s a cousin of theirs.”
Buford ducked his head in embarrassment. “Yes, sir, you’re right. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. There’s nobody that I’d rather be confused with than Fitz John Porter.”
“Weren’t you in his class at West Point?”
“No. He was a year ahead of me.”
“Oh that’s right.” Buford bobbed his head. “You were in the same class as George McClellan.”
Stoneman saw the look in Buford’s eyes. “Not your favorite general?”
“Sorry. My view of General McClellan’s probably distorted from when we were cadets at West Point.”
Stoneman nodded. “I remember that he and Thomas Jackson both rode you unreasonably hard.”
“Jackson didn’t like my cussing and he had me walking tours every time he heard me say a cussword. I deserved that and didn’t mind. But McClellan used to make up infractions and downright lie.”
“Really? You should have reported that to the honors committee.”
“That would have felt too much like whining. But I guess I’ll never forget it. West Point shaped who I am, for better and for worse.”
“There are a lot of our West Point classmates over there with Lee: Thomas Jackson, George Pickett, A.P. Hill and Harry Heth.”
Buford nodded. “Jackson was your roommate, as I recall.”
Stoneman nodded. “But we were never friends. He was too devout and a bit strange – if you know what I mean.”
“Well.” Buford stood up. “I’ve taken up enough of your time, sir. I hope that you get back in the cavalry soon.”
The Way of All Soldiers (Gone For Soldiers) Page 17
