“Sure it is.” Peggy patted her hand and then stepped out the door, leaving Annabelle alone with an ache in her chest she could not ignore.
“Good new at last. Mrs. S has arrived at our house from Richmond. She brought dispatches from that city for the Confederate agents in Canada.”
John Surratt
Elmira Prison
March 15, 1865
George Daniels pulled his Yankee overcoat tight over what remained of his ragged Confederate uniform and rose from his makeshift bunk constructed of two discarded crates. He hardly noticed the men’s groans anymore, so he wondered what had roused him from his fitful sleep. Light was just beginning to break up the darkness, and he didn’t have much by which to see. He should probably just go back to sleep until roll call, but something had prodded him fully awake, and he never did abide by men wasting away in their misery by lounging about.
He made his way through the tent he shared with seven others. That was four too many crammed into a space this size, and he had to step over their huddled forms to make his way to the flap.
Outside, the camp was quiet. The only movement came from the guard on duty as he swung his weapon in George’s direction. Daft man. Did he really think George was stupid enough to try to run when he was the only body moving around? He simply nodded to the guard, who frowned in return, and continued on his way.
Some had escaped, though. The men talked often enough about the three—or was it four?—who had dug a tunnel under the wall and actually managed to get free. But that had been months ago, when the prison was still new. Maybe they just didn’t watch it as well then as they did now. Or maybe it was just lies the men told themselves in order to find a measure of hope among the misery. As he passed along the bank of the river, he cut his eyes up to the observation deck across the way.
As if the guards trailing their every move weren’t enough, apparently the citizens of Elmira had volunteered prison watch as well. All hours of the day they could be seen up there, spying down on the despondent captives below. Some said the thing was purely for entertainment, but George could not fathom how observing men at their worst could be a diversion. He would think those lucky enough to move about of their own free will would find better things to do with their time. So he held to the idea that the Elmira citizens took turns keeping watch to be sure no stray Rebel found his way out to contaminate their fair city.
George trudged to the trees at the end of the rows of tents and did his business by the edge of Ford’s pond, which had been designated as their latrine. Disgusting. Did the Yanks have no ideas on sanitation? At least they had dug these trenches before he’d gotten here. Some of the fellows who had been here longer said before that, so many were sick from the waste that they were dropping too fast for the burial crews to keep up with. Not that they were keeping up now.
George finished and turned to walk back up the row to the opposite end of camp, to the place he’d gone every morning. A lone sapling standing too far from its brothers had become George’s way of holding onto sanity. Bill said it would be better not to torture himself with knowing how many days he’d been here, but George disagreed. Knowing made him feel like there could be an end. He couldn’t get trapped in an endless cycle of days with nothing to cling to in this pitiful existence that could not even be called life.
If he’d had a blade, his morning ritual wouldn’t have been so difficult. But as it was, all he possessed was his ragged thumbnail. It worked well enough for him to scratch another line in the place where he’d pried the bark free. Someone had told him you could eat that inner bark, and the men in his tent had been starving enough to bloody their fingers in trying. But George found that chewing on bark did him little good, and it wasn’t worth the effort. But the open spot had made a good place for George to keep his records. He put his nail into the soft bark and pressed, working it back and forth until he had made a little indention in the tree.
There. His little scratch-spot was growing full already. When the Yanks had captured him, he’d expected that he’d be carted along with the Blues for a while. That would have given him a chance to break free. At least, that had been his hasty plan when he’d up and surrendered. Not that he regretted the choice. He had offered Matthew a chance to get away. He did what had to be done.
George ran his finger over each of the little indentions, standing like tiny soldiers in a row. Instead of bringing him along, though, the Yanks had immediately loaded him and several others they’d already collected onto train cars and sent them all here. The days ran together in the cramped confines of those rail cars, and he still wasn’t quite sure how long he’d been forced to endure the smells of men locked inside without the mercy of having anywhere to do their business. However bad he’d thought the train, at least it was warm.
When he rubbed the last mark in the bottom row, George traced his finger back to the beginning and counted all the marks on his tree. Then he wished he hadn’t.
Thirty-one! Despair clawed at him. Only a month? He’d already lost so much weight that he’d had to scavenge some twine to keep his pants up. How much longer could he make it on one meal a day?
Could boiled water with a few beans floating in it and a chunk of stale bread even be called a meal? How much longer would it take before he was down with scurvy? By his estimation, it took men around here about a week—two if he were especially strong willed—to die once sickness hit. Trying not to let his mood turn too sour, George gave one last look at his marks and turned to trudge back to his tent. Maybe Bill spoke true. Knowing might have only made things worse.
Just as George returned to the lines of tents flapping in the wind, the bugle sounded and men began to stumble out into the daylight. You didn’t sleep past bugle, if you were healthy enough to rise. They had only a few moments to see to personal business after morning call before they fell into the line, and no one wanted to be caught missing when the corporal gave the count.
George nodded to some of the prisoners as he passed, but most ignored him. Several held up their hands against bright light they had grown unaccustomed to seeing as they scurried this way and that. George turned his face to the sky, having been too consumed with his thoughts to notice how bright the morning had become. Clear and blue, the sky offered cheer they could not feel and a promise of warmth it would not deliver.
Nonetheless, he’d choose the blue over the drab gray. His gaze roamed over the gaunt faces of the men, most still clad in bits of ragged Confederate uniforms as they began to fall into their places in line. George stepped into the line and looked at the men standing on both sides of him. Their vacant expressions, tinged with a faint ray of hope, drew his own gaze back heavenward where they stared.
How long had it been since a day dawned free from a heavy layer of clouds? Long enough that any scraps of wood they had tried to gather and burn for warmth were too soaked to even take a spark. They’d quit trying three days ago. Perhaps if they were lucky, the sun would be bright enough today to dry out some tinder, and they could warm their feet by the flames tonight.
The hope of a warm fire soothed some of George’s festering despair, so he tried to keep his focus on blue skies and warm feet as he waited at attention for the corporal to pass by and finish his counting.
George remembered his first week at Elmira; they’d called out each man on the line by name. Now, they didn’t bother. They were likely only counting now to see how many remained alive. They would check the tents for the sick and the dead once they completed the count.
After they were dismissed, George fell into step beside Bill as they made their daily walk to the wall.
“Wonder how many more is going to need boxes today,” Bill said, pulling his patched gray cap low on his head. His shaggy beard swayed in the wind and bobbed with his jaw.
“I don’t know,” George said. “Hopefully not as many as yesterday.”
Bill snorted. “You say that every day, and every day there’s more than the day before.”
&nbs
p; “So, why do you always ask?”
Bill lifted his scrawny shoulders. “Just making conversation. We should make a game out of it, you know. See who can guess the right amount of boxes.”
George gave him a sour look. “That’s disturbing.”
They approached the guards at the gate and were gestured through to the inner section of the prison.
“Why?” Bill said as they stepped through the iron gates and onto the primary road leading through the center of the prison. “Man needs a little entertainment around here.”
George eyed the poor souls crammed inside as he turned to the left to follow the wall. They might not have as much protection from the wind inside their tents along the river, but the men in here appeared sicker. And that was worse.
George’s gaze lingered on the sickly faces of the men lining the inside of the wall as they passed. Some of the dirty faces of the Hopeless turned pleading eyes on him, but most had given up entirely. If a man were conscious, they added him to the line running from the hospital building all the way down to the gate. If he was lucky, a doctor might check him on his way to the hospital barrack—a place reserved for only the worst among them.
George suppressed a shiver. He didn’t want to be one of the Hopeless on the wall. Too sick to make it to shelter on their own, but not quite sick enough to be taken inside. They were lining up for the reaper, they were.
“So, what do you say?” Bill prodded, jabbing him in the ribs and breaking into his thoughts. “Let’s make a wager out of it. Whichever man gets the closest to the right number wins.”
George frowned. “Wins what?”
Bill stroked his beard and stepped over the legs of a man slumped against the wall. “Well, now, let’s see. I’ve got three apples.”
They turned past the hospital building and under the guns of the men on the corner tower. “You do not,” George mocked. “You’re spinning tales.”
Bill grinned. “Says you. I snuck them out of the sack and hid them in my pants. I’ve eaten two already, but I’ve got three left.”
George stopped and stared at Bill, dropping his voice to a whisper. “You stole from the guard’s rations?”
Bill had a glint in his eyes. “How else do you think I’ve lasted this long?”
George’s stomach growled at the thought. Eating something other than bean water was enough to tempt a man to set aside his convictions about such a game. “Fine. If I win, I get your apples.”
Bill started walking again. “Nope. One. I ain’t giving them all up for some foolish game. They’s right hard to come by, you know.”
George cast an incredulous glance at Bill, but didn’t point out that the foolish game had been his idea. “Fine. One.”
“And if I win, I get that fancy coat of yours.” His gaze flared with jealousy.
George couldn’t really blame him. The guards had brought in crates of supplies about a week into his stay at Elmira Prison. George had to fight off two weaker men to get this coat. Shame over how he’d turned on his own countrymen still panged him, but this blue wool was the only thing keeping him from freezing at night.
He hadn’t received a blanket when he arrived, since they’d been out of those. Those first nights he’d been too cold to sleep, and on the fifth night three of his toes had started to turn black. So when the guards gathered the river’s edge prisoners and tossed out the contents of the crates, men who had tried to maintain a sense of Confederate comradery had been reduced to nothing more than a pack of dogs fighting over a bone. The guards seemed to find that a more entertaining method of distributing supplies than handing them out.
George still wasn’t sure how he’d managed such a find, and couldn’t help but think that the Union coat had mistakenly been put in with the stacks of threadbare blankets and used civilian jackets. For a week he’d expected for one of the guards to take it from him, but they never did. Some of the men still sneered at him and called him “Yank” or “Guard,” but George didn’t care. No more of his toes had turned black with frostbite. A few slurs were an easy enough price to pay.
“Well, you going to take the bet or not? You done thought on it long enough,” Bill said, slapping George on the back.
George shook his head. “Sorry. I won’t risk this overcoat for an apple.”
“Where’s the thrill of the risk if the stakes aren’t high?” Bill prodded.
They stepped into the rear corner of the prison used as the lumber area and picked up their saws from the pile. The guard motioned them away with the muzzle of his rifle. George had volunteered for sawing detail on account of the men sawing got an extra chunk of bread if they got their quota of planks cut. It was the only way they were able to keep the prisoners on coffin duty alive long enough to build the boxes they would eventually find themselves buried in. A man used up too much energy sawing not to need another few bites. And at least the work kept his muscles moving. They didn’t get as cold that way.
They took their place by the stone wall. The sun had risen enough to shine on their little corner and chased some of the bitter chill from the wind. “So,” Bill said as he made his mark on the first plank and started sawing. “I guess twenty today.”
George ignored him and examined the edge of his saw. Would the guard let him sharpen it?
“What’s your guess?” Bill prodded.
George sighed. The man wouldn’t leave him alone until he answered. “I don’t know. It’s not right to make guesses on how many men died and are going to need these poorly constructed coffins.”
“Ain’t poorly constructed,” Bill said with a snort. “I know my way around a saw.”
George lowered the tool. Why bother asking if he could sharpen the saw? They would just tell him to get back to work and stop looking for excuses to be idle. He positioned the blade on the edge of the plank and let the teeth sink into the wood. Bill mumbled something and George turned to look at him. “What?”
“Are you going to make your guess or not?”
George started sawing, the familiar scent of sawdust a pleasant distraction from the stench that always lingered around the prison. “I am not betting my coat,” he said loudly enough for Bill to hear. “And you won’t goad me into it by insulting my pride, my honor, or my manhood, so don’t try.”
Bill grinned, tilting his hat back. “Well, now. Good for you. Fellow needs to stick to his guns.” He laughed and leaned back over his plank. “Naw, we won’t wager. Just guess.”
Knowing the man wouldn’t let it go until he did, George sighed. “Ten.”
Bill grinned and renewed his sawing. “No wonder you didn’t want to wage your coat. Done made fifteen yesterday, and I know for sure it’s going to be even more poor souls heading out to the holes today.”
George set his jaw. At least he wasn’t digging the holes. Grave duty was worse than saw detail. “I still say ten.”
“Suit yourself,” Bill said with a grunt and then finally fell silent.
George turned his focus on his saw and prayed that he wouldn’t soon find himself on the finished end of one of his boxes.
“There was no time to be lost, and if the South ever hoped to succeed, it was with the belief that we would faithfully carry out the plans she brought with her.”
John Surratt
Matthew and Annabelle sat quietly at a table at the inn and waited for their breakfast. He pulled three Union coins from his pocket. How was he going to keep their room here and take care of the women if he ran out of money? He needed to get George out and return to Westerly, and soon.
He drummed his fingers on the table and absentmindedly watched the inn’s serving girl walk away as he tried to sort out his plans. He’d spent half the night wandering the town trying to figure out every possible way to get past the guards. A few ideas seemed plausible, but he kept getting stuck. Even if he got in the prison, how would he find George and get back out? He couldn’t risk getting caught and find himself a captive as well. Who would be left to take care of Annabelle?
He glanced over at her and found her staring at him, face flushed. She lifted her chin and turned her gaze away. Matthew frowned.
What? Had he missed something? He glanced at Peggy, who stood behind her mistress with her back against the wall. She gave a small shake of her head and then turned her gaze on the serving girl who was scuttling back up to the table with plates of food.
She plopped Annabelle’s plate down in front of her without a word, then smiled sweetly at Matthew. “Here you go, love. Got you an extra two eggs, I did.” She winked at him. “Big fellow like you needs a hearty breakfast.”
Matthew nodded in thanks. She lingered a moment, but when he said nothing, she lightly brushed her fingers across his sleeve. “Well, if you need anything more, you just call for Betty. I can give you anything you’re looking for.”
She swished off with an exaggerated sway in her hips. What had she meant by that? He looked back to Annabelle, and the rosy tint to her cheeks told him he wasn’t the only one who caught the undercurrent of the server’s words. He cleared his throat and turned his attention to his food, where it was safe.
He glanced up at Annabelle and watched her push her eggs around on her plate, her shoulders stiff. A small smile tugged up the corner of Matthew’s mouth, and he finally sat back in his chair. Could Annabelle be jealous of the attention the server had shown him? He crossed his arms and waited, but she wouldn’t look at him. “Well?”
She looked up sharply. “Well, what?”
Matthew lifted his brows. “Oh, I don’t know,” he drawled. “You look like you have something you want to say that’s nigh on bursting out of you. Why don’t you go ahead and let it loose before your ears pop off?”
Annabelle gasped and Peggy let out a sound that seemed half snort, half contained laugh. Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “I have nothing to say.”
“Oh. Well, my mistake then.” He picked up his fork and began shoveling browned potatoes into his mouth. She lasted longer than he expected. He’d nearly finished off the eggs, too, before she could no longer stand it.
The Liberator Series Box Set: Christian Historical Civil War Novels Page 32
