by Marc Graham
As amens echoed around the room, the dozen men began our daily routine on this most non-routine of days. I swung my legs—one bare, the other wrapped in a heavy plaster cast—over the side of the bed. I leaned on my crutches as I made my way to the corner privy and wash basin, then down the hall to the dining room. With practiced clumsiness, I balanced my food tray and hobbled through the serving line.
Between bites of runny egg, lumpy grits and gristly ham I studied the faces around the room. All the patients wore plain white robes, but it was easy to see who had formerly worn blue and who, grey. The Union veterans were almost giddy, and their gazes flitted about the room as they looked for others to share their joy. The Confederates, for the most part, kept their eyes on their food, each man sinking into himself to cope with defeat.
Those hardest hit seemed to be the higher-ranking Southern officers. These were the men who had issued the orders that sent hundreds, thousands to their deaths—deaths that, now, it would seem, were entirely in vain. A few of the men sipped their coffee or gnawed on stale crusts of bread, but all seemed to stare through their trays to distant horrors no one else could see.
I felt a twinge of guilt as I wolfed down my meal. To be sure, I felt some sense of loss, but it was more for the wasted years, years that could have been spent making a home with Gina. My war had been to protect that home, or the hope of it, and to avenge Bull and Izzy and the others killed by men that prized ideals above human life.
I’d not heard from Gina since Matt and I left Britton to join up, but most men had to endure through the war without word from home. I tempered my concern with the fact that the war had long been settled in northwest Arkansas. Now, with Lee’s surrender, I looked forward to crossing the five hundred miles that separated me from my future.
I finished breakfast, returned my tray and limped to the courtyard of the hospital. Not wanting to offend the other prisoner-patients’ grieving with my hopeful anticipation, I avoided their eyes. I breathed deeply to purge the staleness of the ward from my lungs, and the fresh spring air had a taste of freedom mixed with it.
“Mind if I join you, Captain?” The now familiar voice came from behind as I started my daily hobble around the courtyard.
“Feel free, Corporal,” I said without turning. “But it’s not Captain anymore. At least, I don’t suspect it will be for much longer.”
“True enough,” Dave allowed as he came alongside me and matched his healthy gait to my hobbled one. “Any word when you’ll be released?”
“Too soon for that, I imagine,” I said. “Must be a passel of details yet to work out. Hell, it may not even really be over. Lee’s was the largest army we had left, but there’s no word of a formal peace yet.”
“Let’s not even look down that road,” Dave said. “Oh, and it’s not Corporal anymore, either. Leastways, not after tomorrow. Our company’s being mustered out in the morning—just in time, looks like. From now on, it’s just plain old Mister Perkins.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “So you’ll be heading back to Ohio?”
“Indiana,” he corrected me with a scowl. “And, no, I thought I might stay down in these parts for a while longer. Much nicer company than the girls back home.”
“Well, you just mind yourself,” I warned him in the tone of an older brother. “On corporal’s pay—ex-corporal’s pay, at that—you won’t be able to afford too much companionship.”
During the course of the war, Nashville had been garrisoned by thousands of permanent troops, with thousands more passing through from the Northern states to the southwest theater. The swelling male population had been matched by a similar increase in the number of prostitutes and bawdy houses. An epidemic of syphilis among both soldiers and civilians had forced the city’s military governor to take action.
His first attempt had been to round up and export the enterprising women. The effort was in vain as the exiles slowly returned, or others rose up—or lay down, as it were—to take their places. After the failure of that policy, Governor Johnson took the opposite measure of legalizing the trade, requiring licenses and routine physical exams. Like many other wide-eyed country boys, Dave had become a frequent and eager patron of the industry.
“Oh, it ain’t like that,” he said with a boyish grin. “Well, not all like that, anyway. And the Higgins sisters always cut a fair deal for us boys in blue, especially since I kept them in venison most of the winter.”
I couldn’t help but grin at that. Even in the confines of the hospital, tales of the largest brothel in Nashville were the stuff of legend. With nearly thirty mouths to feed—including more than a half-dozen children—I could see how Dave’s hunting skills would turn a fair barter.
“I got nothing waiting for me back home, anyway,” he went on. “Hell, it ain’t even home, really—just the place I’m from. No, I figure I’m brought to this place for a reason and I might as well stick with the ride, see where it takes me.”
We paced around the yard a few more turns before a warder caught my attention and waved me back inside.
“Looks like that’s it for me,” I said, and extended my hand to Dave. “You take care of yourself.”
“I’ll see you around,” he promised, shook my hand firmly, then headed for the outer gate while I hobbled back to the prisoners’ ward.
I was two pages into a new letter to Gina when a young major stepped in and cleared his throat.
“Inasmuch as the Army of Northern Virginia has capitulated to the United States’ Army of the Potomac,” he read from an official document, “all convalescent prisoners of war under the jurisdiction of the provost-marshall of the City of Nashville, and below the rank of colonel, shall be paroled on their honor, upon their release by competent medical authority and pursuant to their taking an oath of non-belligerence to the United States.”
He handed the document to Lieutenant Colonel Randolph for his inspection.
“Colonel Hodges will be by this afternoon,” the major added, referring to the provost’s adjutant. “Godspeed, gentlemen.”
He came smartly to attention, turned and left the room.
“ ‘Except the Lord build the house, they labor in vain that build it,’ ” Randolph quoted from Psalms before handing the document to the major in the adjacent bed. “Our labor is ended, gentlemen.”
Two days later, the doctor cut away my cast and pronounced me fit for release. I dressed in my uniform—now patched and cleaner than I could remember its ever having been before— and gathered up my few personal effects. I hobbled around the ward on a single crutch to bid farewell to the other men, then followed a corporal, who ushered me to a small office.
“Have a seat, Captain. Robbins, is it? I’m Major Arthur,” the officer greeted me, and pointed me to a chair.
“Yes, sir. Thank you,” I replied, and lowered myself awkwardly into the chair.
“How’s the leg?”
“It’s still there,” I said as I rubbed the aching knee. “I’m glad enough for that.”
“Indeed. Here’s the drill, then,” he said as he placed a document in front of me. “Your parole states that you will not take up arms nor serve in any capacity against the United States of America, nor render aid to the enemies of the same, until such a time as you shall have been duly and properly exchanged.”
I gathered he’d recited those words more than a few times in the past couple of days.
“Or . . .” He placed another form atop the parole.
“Or?”
“Given the state of things,” he said, “it’s only a matter of time until it’s all over for good. Lee’s done, Sherman’s cut off any possibility of resupply for the remaining troops. Within a couple of weeks—a month at the outside—it’ll all be finished. The president wants reunification to be as quick and painless as possible. Have you read his inaugural address?”
“I did.” Several times, in fact. “ ‘With malice toward none, with charity for all . . .’ ”
“Exactly,” Arthur sai
d with a nod. “Chances are there’ll be a general amnesty—certainly for the junior officers and enlisted men, at any rate. When that comes, you’ll most likely be required to trade this,” he indicated the parole form, “for this.” He tapped the second form, which had Oath of Allegiance printed boldly at the top. “Sign this now, and you walk out the door free and clear.”
“That’s it?” I asked, skeptical it could be over so easily.
“Not quite,” the major acknowledged. His chair creaked as he leaned back and steepled his fingers under his chin. “In consequence of your oath of allegiance, you will be provided with a pass for free conduct back home, along with two months of pay in grade. Let’s see,” he figured, leaning forward to review the documents. “As a captain, that would come to two hundred thirty-one dollars.”
I sat dumbfounded as I searched the other man’s face for some sign of a joke. There was none.
“You’re serious?”
He nodded.
“I made one-thirty a month, though,” I said, chancing a grin.
“Different army, different pay,” he allowed. “But I think you’ll find greenbacks a bit more valuable than Confederate scrip.”
“True enough,” I agreed, figuring I could do without the extra twenty-nine dollars. “Where do I sign?”
“How’s it feel?”
Dave Perkins leaned against the heavy marble baluster at the base of the hospital’s stairs. I smiled at the familiar greeting in a world suddenly foreign to me.
“Good,” I said. “Strange, but good.”
“I know what you mean. It’s nice to be out of that itchy wool,” he said, and theatrically shook out his arms and smoothed the collar of a new jacket.
“Nice suit.”
“Brand new, right off the rack,” he boasted. “Got four months’ back pay when they mustered me out. More’n fifty dollars,” he added in a low voice, after looking about to make sure no one else was in earshot.
I gave a whistle. “Impressive. Uncle Sam must’ve been mighty pleased with your soldiering.”
Dave grinned and bobbed his head humbly. “Well enough, I suppose. How about you? Any bounty for the Godless Rebel heathen brought back into the fold?”
“A bit,” I allowed with a grin. “Main thing is, I’m out, free and clear. Plus passage home.” I patted my breast pocket where the pass lay.
“That’s right good news, Cap’n.”
“Jim,” I corrected him. “My army—hell, my country—doesn’t exist anymore, except on paper. Nope, now I’m just a lowly civilian like yourself.”
“Well then, Jim,” he said, emphasizing my name for effect, “what are your plans?”
“Beg, borrow or steal a way to get home.”
“That safe-conduct ought to make things a mite easier.” He scratched the peach fuzz on his chin for moment. “Alabama, right?”
“Arkansas,” I growled.
“Right, right. That’s somewhere west of here, yeah?”
“About five hundred miles that way,” I confirmed, pointing homeward.
“Riverboat’s probably your best bet, then.” He picked up his rucksack and rifle. “Come on. I’ll show you the way to the landing. There’s one stop I’d like to make on the way, though,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.
The stop was a surprisingly brief one as he led me to a large house on Front Street, facing the bank of the Cumberland River. I waited awkwardly in the parlor as Eliza and Rebecca Higgins, mistresses of the house, tried to make me at home.
“Call me Becca,” the elder sister offered.
My mind reeled back to the too few and far distant memories of my own Becca. I sipped at my tea as images of loved ones lost paraded through my mind. I clung to the hope of the one, grand love that remained, and stepped back from the edge of despair.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, and did my best to play the part of gracious guest.
Dave adjusted his jacket as he swaggered down the stairs. He paid his respects—along with his fee—to the ladies, then led me to the riverboat landing. I studied the map nailed to the agent’s booth and traced the meander of the Cumberland as far as Clarksville, where the Louisville & Nashville Railroad intersected the river for a nearly straight shot to Memphis. The Little Rock & Memphis line would carry me from there, and it’d be a simple matter to board a riverboat up the Arkansas to Van Buren. To home.
“We’d best hop to it,” Dave advised. “Looks like the Baldwin leaves in about an hour. Best stock up here—I know a good outfitter just down the way.”
“Hold on a second,” I said as he started up the street. “We?”
“Well, sure,” he replied with a shrug. “I figure I’ve seen enough of this burg. I get a mite itchy if I set in one place too long. I got nothing particular in mind, so I thought I’d tag along with you, if that’s all right. Besides, with that bum leg of yours, you could probably use a little looking out for. ‘On foot and out of my way to assist and serve a worthy brother,’ and all that.”
I stared blankly at him for several seconds, then finally gave a shrug.
“Suit yourself,” I said. “Lead on, Corporal.”
Within a half hour we’d bought ten days’ worth of food and supplies—more than enough to see us to Van Buren, I figured. I planned to stop in on the Warrens at Little Rock, so we’d have a chance to resupply there if need be. My pass got us aboard the Baldwin without any fuss, and by noon the dank, musky air of the river was gently blowing in my face.
Nothing much happened on the downriver trip, other than the ugly stares from men in blue uniforms. I quickly decided it’d be best to strip the rank and insignia off my uniform. There was no helping the grey of the woolen jacket or the red felt of my artilleryman’s cap. The less I could make myself look like an officer of gunnery, though, the better.
Word of President Lincoln’s assassination reached us while we waited on the train at Clarksville. A few diehard Rebels— older men and younger boys who, I figured, had never been witness to combat or violent death—cheered the news, only to be shouted down by Unionists. Even more arguments erupted over the nature of Andrew Johnson, Lincoln’s successor and the man—traitor, the Rebels insisted—who’d been the military governor of Tennessee during most of the war.
By day’s end, we’d witnessed a half dozen fights ranging from little scuffles to an all-out gun battle. With such violent reactions to the war’s end in this little river town in a border state, I feared the reunification and healing of the nation as a whole would be neither quick nor painless.
A week after leaving Nashville, we reached the gate on the walk that led to the Warrens’ door. The cast iron was blotched with rust spots where the black paint had peeled away. The hinges made a mournful racket as I forced the gate open. The lawn, always so well kept, was patchy and knee-high with weeds. Crabgrass sprouted from the flagstone walk and the pavers heaved and wobbled where roots forced them from their bed.
Several of the majestic walnut and oak trees that once anchored the lawn were gone now, only their ragged, blackened stumps remaining. As we neared the veranda, we could see the paint here, too, was flaking off. The porch rail was loose, and the warped steps and floorboards creaked as I hobbled clumsily up to the porch. One screen door hung drunkenly on a single hinge while the other leaned against the wall beside the door frame. The ornate lead glass of the main door was gone, replaced by knotty boards that had been scavenged from the far end of the porch.
I knocked on the door and it swung open behind my knuckles.
“Hello?” I called out as I stepped tentatively across the threshold.
My voice echoed strangely in the high-ceilinged space, and I realized it was due to the lack of any furniture in the foyer that had once been so richly decorated. Cobwebs hung where drapery and tapestries had once been, and the carpeting had been replaced by a thick layer of dust.
Trails in the dust led from the sitting room to the stairs and from the stairs to the kitchen, suggesting the house hadn’t been aban
doned all that long ago.
“Hello,” I tried again, and led Dave into the sitting room.
The half-light through the shuttered windows revealed scattered stacks of books piled carelessly around the floor, the bookcases stripped of their shelves and trim. Even the mantel that once held the beautiful pendulum clock was missing, and the fireplace looked like it hadn’t housed a flame in years.
I was about to turn and explore the rest of the house when the ominous clack of a gun’s hammer froze me in my tracks.
“Hands out to the side,” a gruff voice ordered, “and turn slowly around.”
Dave and I both put our hands out, and I squeezed the crutch in my armpit as I hopped around on my good foot. The double-barrel shotgun had seen better days, but the business end still looked plenty serious as it traced from me to Dave and back again. The man who held it had a long, trim frame. His loose-fleshed face was clean-shaven and framed by a thick shock of white hair. The deep creases in his forehead were strangers to me, but the intelligent gleam of the soft brown eyes was unmistakable.
“Uncle Cy?” I said.
The man stiffened. His expressive eyes narrowed at the familiar greeting. He craned his head to examine me in the failing light, then pulled the shotgun tighter to his shoulder.
“You’re not Matt,” he growled. “The poor boy’s long dead.”
“I know, Uncle Cy,” I said softly. “I was there when it happened. It’s Jim—JD.”
“JD?” he repeated.
He appraised me with another long gaze before the lined face cracked into a grin and revealed the familiar creases around his laughing eyes. He lowered the gun and stepped toward me, clapped his free hand behind my neck to study my face more closely, then pulled me into a tight bear hug.
“Welcome back, boy,” he said as he pounded my back. “Thank God you’ve come through safe.”
“Thank you, sir,” I wheezed from crushed lungs. “It’s good to see you, too. This is Dave Perkins,” I said when I’d recovered my breath from the rib-cracking welcome.
