Stephen didn’t know the diplomatic ins and outs of the prisoner exchange system utilized by the Federal government and their Rebel counterparts. Exchange seemed a haphazard happenstance; there was no guarantee it would ever happen. Those who were paroled were free to make their way back home after taking an oath of allegiance, a way of lessening the burden on the whole system. Enlisted men were seldom paroled.
Those who had been there longest and those who were the strongest willed were in charge. Some who were lucky enough to have been captured as a group were able to protect themselves from the predations of the former inmates, but most had brought individually and had no connection with their fellow prisoners. Forming alliances was difficult, as one had to rely on those who were already under the thumb of the more aggressive.
Food was the primary system of power and barter in the camp hierarchy, as few possessed money, and though the food was not of a particularly poor kind, it was always limited and unequally distributed. For some, hunger drove them to acts of desperation. The men who did have money could exchange at the camp sutlers for matches, tobacco, tin cups, and dice.
Stephen just hoped his turn to be exchanged would come. His messmates tried to horde what they were given each day, but it did not always work out that they could keep it. With everyone out for himself, it was hard to keep control.
“They took Samuel to the hospital this morning; bloody bowels,” Peter said.
Peter Pritchert, a boy of seventeen, worked on his chess piece. Pritchert had been captured at New Madrid. He had been in Camp Chase the longest of Stephen’s little group. His uniform hung about him as if he had been issued one that was far too large for his frame. The hems of his trousers were fraying, and any new clothing from home had long ago been stolen by a few of the stronger souls in the camp. His face was overgrown with teenage whiskers, and his brown hair sat in unruly waves upon his brow, pressed down by a dirty kepi. He was the best at finding new places to hide their food. When he smiled, which was often, he showed his dirty, crooked teeth. Peter had also spent the least amount of time in the service, having been sent to New Madrid soon after his regiment, the heavy artillery unit, was mustered. All he’d known of army life was garrison duty and the brief siege conducted by Union General Pope ending in his surrender.
“We’ll ne’er see him again; hospital here is only a way stop before the River Styx.”
Fredrick Lester was a schoolteacher and a member of Company E, 6th Mississippi. He was fond of lacing conversation with literary references that few of his companions understood. Lester had been captured charging up the hill that decimated the 6th Mississippi, where Stephen’s best friend had been mortally wounded. He was the oldest of the group at thirty-five.
“Not many come back from the hospital once they are in there. It’s a more comfortable place for those waiting to die, a temporary stop before the boneyard.”
Lewis Hopewell was a thin and a freakishly tall man from Tennessee who stood at six foot five and towered above most men when standing in line of battle and company front. He was always in the rear row and had led a charmed life up to the point of being captured at Shiloh. He knew the sound a minié ball makes as it whizzes by. He had found himself surrounded on the second day of the battle with nothing to do but surrender. As is often the case when maneuvering a regiment, the tail-end companies had been separated and then gobbled up, leaving the men in a state of high dudgeon but helpless to affect any other result. Dejected and lost from the sudden reversal, all fifteen of the men in his company who were left had laid down their arms. Now, there were only five left. The others, like Samuel Ambrose, had been taken ill and then to the hospital where they were never seen again. It was rumored that two men were still alive after having limbs amputated and had been paroled. The others had all died of intestinal diseases. Lewis merely shrugged at the news; one less man to complicate their plans.
“If this works, we won’t none of us end up in that boneyard,” Lewis said as he put the finishing touches on a chess piece.
Stephen nodded in agreement. They might just all avoid the hospital.
“They brought in fresh fish a while ago,” Fredrick Lester said as he paused from his whittling.
Fresh fish is what Stephen had been in early May as he and Fredrick were herded down the streets of Cincinnati in a long march to Columbus and the stockade. Getting used to army life after a family home had been shock; getting used to POW life was more so. There was no order and little reliance on the common good. The army engendered a sense of regimented right and wrong, and after a period of time, the men in one’s company bonded to become a unit with a reputation and common good obtained by adherence to rules. In the stockade, all of that faded quickly.
“Any go into our barracks?” Lewis asked.
“Don’t know, didn’t watch.” Stephen replied, getting uneasy at the look in Lewis’s eyes. Stephen had been fortunate to make Hopewell’s acquaintance early on, as he had found himself at the mercy of thieves who had soon relieved him of all he possessed and left him with little ability to get redress. The guards stayed out of the affairs of the prisoners. The officers were kept in a different enclosure that shared a common exercise area with the enlisted men and kept to themselves for the most part.
Of his companions, Pritchert was the one who required the most protection, for he was easy prey. Stephen and Lester tolerated him well enough, but Stephen knew the lad would be wise not to get complacent around Lewis. Peter was simple and like a much younger version of Stephen, with an innocence that had been too early stripped away by war and volunteering. There had been times when Stephen was sure Lewis was going to rip Peter’s head off for some small annoyance.
“Go check our things, will you?” Lewis asked Stephen.
Getting up, Stephen walked to their barracks. The compound was equipped with a dozen single-room barracks with hard wood bunks built into each wall and a stack of the same standing in the middle of the common bay. Everyone was issued a blanket upon entering, and that was it besides food rations. At any time of the day, prisoners were sitting on their bunks or at the long tables that stood at the entrance for common meals. Men at the front of the barracks knew to keep a watch for any strangers who might be nosing around looking for something to rifle. The fresh fish who’d entered the gates earlier were indeed nosing around, looking for a vacant place to call home. One man was getting a little too nosy with their place, where they had food and other possessions squirreled away.
“This place is taken.” Stephen confronted the man, a burly sergeant.
“I think that it is now taken by me,” the sergeant replied.
Stephen glanced around—no one else would help him. Most of the prisoners respected but hated Lewis and by default anyone associated with him.
“Just leave the spot alone.” Stephen tried to sound menacing but wasn’t carrying it.
“Leave before I thrash you,” the man snarled.
Other prisoners merely watched, not saying anything.
Stephen walked back to his pards, a trembling in his gut. “One of the fresh fish has taken our spot.”
Lewis strode away in a huff, followed by Fredrick, Peter, and Stephen. He swore at those sitting nearest the entrance, threatening one in terms that only a sailor could appreciate, and walked up to the sergeant. The newcomer was busy tossing things onto the floor.
“What the hell are you doing?” Lewis asked.
“Making a spot fer myself,” the sergeant said confidently.
“Seems someone fergot to explain to you the rules; rank don’t mean a hill of beans here, and you don’t rifle through someone’s stuff unless you intend to dig your own grave.”
The sergeant’s expression shifted from confident to worried as he took in Lewis’s height and the dangerous expression in his eyes, coupled with the presence of Peter, Lester, and Stephen.
“Yes, that’s right, Sergeant. They be no privilege of rank in these walls, so unless you be prepared to whop all four of us,
you’d best step away—after you’ve put things to right, that is.”
The sergeant looked from Lewis to Peter to Stephen and then Fredrick before pushing by Peter and storming out of the barracks. Lewis stood a moment and looked at the mess the man had left behind before charging after. The barracks cleared out behind him as he caught up to the man, and there let fly a tussle that sent both men into the dirt.
The other fresh fish, men who’d been captured with the sergeant, tried to interfere but were prevented by other prisoners. Stephen found himself standing on the inside of the circle as Lewis commenced to braining the sergeant repeatedly with his fists. He might have continued until the man was dead had not a detail of camp guards, attracted by the commotion, interfered. Stephen had witnessed this before: some poor soul run afoul of another group’s territory beaten within an inch of his life. He knew it was wrong, but doing something about it required a force of character he lacked. Several men carried the bleeding sergeant to the hospital while the crowd dispersed. The guards stood back a distance but warily watched.
“You showed him, huh, Lewis?” panted Peter in an excited state.
Lewis just fumed and ignored him.
Stephen and Fredrick exchanged glances, and Stephen felt a pang of conscience gnawing at him.
“You there, Prisoner.” A camp guard approached and motioned to Lewis. “Commere.”
“That’s Oliver, the barracks keeper,” Fredrick whispered to Stephen.
Oliver, flanked by two other soldiers, waited for Lewis to move. All were armed with muskets and looking nervous.
“Prisoner, Colonel Moody’s orders. You … you’re coming with us … now,” Oliver said, his voice quivering.
Lewis pushed past Stephen and approached Oliver. “What’d you want me fer?”
“Colonel Moody don’t like prisoners fighting; you’re coming to report to him,” Oliver replied.
There were minor fights all the time, and Lewis had been in his share of them. It was clear he wasn’t excited about taking heat for this one.
“This just a brawl; no concern o’ his,” Lewis replied petulantly. Standing with his hands on his hips, he towered over Oliver and the other two guards.
“Come along, Prisoner.” Oliver brandished his musket at port arms, swinging the business end with bayonet affixed in Lewis’s direction.
Lewis started forward followed by the three guards, leaving the crowd of prisoners wondering what was going to happen.
“What if they separate us?” Peter asked.
“Don’t know,” Stephen replied.
“What if they find out?” Peter said loudly.
“Peter, keep it down,” Fredrick whispered.
Lewis was ushered out the main gate. It was like waking from a dream and encountering a different world. No high walls blocking the horizon, no crowds of dingy, disheveled greybacks, but neat and tidy rows of barracks, Union soldiers on parade and drill, and the flagpole rising high into the sky to flutter the Stars and Stripes just above the high walls, reminding the prisoners of who was in charge. He’d only been on this side of the walls once, before marching through the gate.
He was directed to a building ten feet from the flagpole. It was the center of attention for soldiers of every stripe coming and going. The one called Oliver entered first and then, stepping back out, motioned for the other two to escort Lewis inside. There was the strong smell of coffee and cigars, and several enlisted men seated at desks were busily writing. Lewis was pushed through another doorway, and he stumbled. Seated behind a plain-looking desk was a man with colonel’s boards on his shoulders.
“I hear there has been some trouble,” the man asked. He was of medium build with bushy eyebrows and a stern countenance, a look that suited the famous orator and teacher in the Methodist Episcopal Church. His eyes were soft brown, however, and his voice gentle.
“Weren’t no trouble; jus’ someone not where he supposed to be.”
“I beg to differ, Prisoner. Further, you will find yourself transferred to Johnson’s Island. I won’t tolerate this kind of disturbance in my camp,” Colonel Granville Moody stated.
“Now what kind o’ Christian charity would that be?” Lewis asked.
Moody smiled. “Don’t let my former vocation fool you. I’ll execute a murderer and punish a prisoner for infractions and do it all under God’s grace. I’ll send you to Johnson’s Island just to make an example of you. The keepers tell me you’ve caused several disturbances. I will have you moved then, just to make sure the peace is kept. Yes, I think I will do that.”
Lewis bit his lower lip. “That place is a death sentence, Colonel.” Lewis looked at Moody hard.
“A death sentence, hardly. A hard place and a secure one, and I’ll make a good example out of you,” Moody replied.
Lewis clenched his fists and pursed his lips. He wasn’t going to be sent to Johnson’s Island if he could help it.
“Take him back to his barracks,” Moody said with a wave of his hand.
Lewis stood a moment more glaring at the colonel before turning swiftly on his heel and brushing past the two guards.
“Lieutenant Pierce, kindly send to General Smith a request to transfer several prisoners to Johnson’s.” Colonel Moody called.
A bespectacled young man appeared in the doorway. “Sir, I believe the next transfers are ready to leave now. General Smith wants all officers captain and above transferred to Johnson’s. We’ve thirty in camp.”
“Requisition transportation for thirty one and rations for two days, Have they been informed?”
“No sir.”
“Good, let’s not until all are ready to go. Do not want any more disturbances.”
Chapter 12
Camp Chase, Ohio, August 10, 1862
“Sir, Colonel Moody?” Lieutenant Pierce stepped back into Moody’s office door. “There’s a visitor here to see you, a new chaplain to draw equipment.”
“Send him in,” Moody replied and rubbed his eyes, his spectacles falling low on his nose.
“Colonel? I’ve just come from Governor Tod, who informed me I should call on you and see about drawing equipment,” Philip Pearson said as he stood in the doorway.
“Come in. Just get your commission?”
“Yes sir, just up from his honor’s mansion. He said I might purchase some of my needs from your stores. I also wanted to come and see you, as your reputation for the Word runs far and wide and what has been published are personal favorites of mine,” Philip said as he crossed to the desk and took an empty chair.
“What regiment?”
“Twenty-first Ohio. I was a private in the 24th Ohio until two months ago, and I’ve been waiting for my commission to be finalized. I was surprised to learn that you had not requested a chaplaincy.”
“Plenty of chaplains to fill the regiments with; I wanted to do something more for the cause. Didn’t expect to be given a commission as a colonel, but I am in a position to lead God’s armies both in battle and in spirit.” Moody smiled.
“Has the 75th Ohio marched?”
“They have, they have indeed, and yet I cannot escape the confines of this desk and this camp,” Moody said sourly. “I petition Governor Tod and General Hill for permission to join my regiment, but alas I cannot escape God’s gifts of management.”
“Doing too well of a job?”
“You can say that. I was brought here to quell a disturbance in the camp and have not been able to leave since then. I suppose I should take it as a compliment to my skills, but I did not seek a commission to command a desk and papers or take care of several hundred Confederate prisoners of war.”
“My father will be extremely jealous to know that I’ve had opportunity to speak with you,” Philip said with a grin. “He has led the Germantown Methodist churches now for thirty years.”
“Ahhh, now I recognize the name,” Moody said and nodded. “I suppose you are the one who caused somewhat of a stir within the societies.”
Philip blushed.
“Not the kind of notoriety one hopes to have.”
“But I take it, since you have a commission for a chaplaincy, that you’ve taken care of any questions of duty and responsibility. The goings on were not that infamous, but enough that those in the council knew about it. So, what has you back in the fold?”
“Chance to serve both God and my fellow man with my own talents. Shiloh cured me of any thought of being away from the collar again.”
“We all read about Shiloh eagerly, hoping for an outcome that would decide the war, but alas it was just another bloody engagement that led to another one and so on. I know of several families from my church who lost loved ones in that engagement. Several more came home broken men. You look no worse for wear,” Moody said as he leaned back in his chair and studied Philip.
“The good Lord protected me and my pards from harm throughout the battle, but not so lucky were many from the regiment. It was the biggest engagement we had been in. It was terrible to behold.” Philip looked away.
“I am more eager to catch up with my regiment than I am to enter into an engagement, but that is what we are in uniform for, to represent our cause and defeat rebellion. I know my wife is happy I am behind a desk, but that cannot last if I am to carry on with what I am made for. It does take all one can do to keep the peace here, what with all of the loyal Democrats in Columbus clambering to give aid and comfort to our enemies.” Moody emphasized this last with a snort.
“Would people openly give aid to the enemy?” Philip asked, surprised.
“Those who have power try, and I’m here to turn them back from the gates. You may have noticed all of the Confederate officers lolling around Columbus; parolees living it up at the expense of those who are willing to curry favor with a cause they are sympathetic with. I’ve made some enemies,” Moody said and smiled.
“Dangerous?”
Moody shrugged. “Enough to prevent me going about Columbus without an escort. But let’s talk about your chaplaincy. You know that you have a commission and are going to be paid as a captain of cavalry, but you have no field grade responsibilities. There are a few regulations for uniform, but they are lax. Your equipment is up to you, but if I were you, I would not entirely go without some adornments and uniform trim. I would also arm myself.” Moody leaned forward on the desk.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 47
