“We’re up to it, Major!” August yells.
A whoop erupts from the crowd as men remove their hats and wave them in the air.
“We’ll see,” Major Lilly says. “It takes two years to properly train cavalrymen. From looking at you, it’ll take three. Hell, the war may be over by then, and we want to get in there and do our part. I can tell that you’re a sorry lot, but we are going to get this training done in four or five months. By early summer we’ll head out of Indianapolis.”
Five months? That seems so far away. Yet, at the same time, too soon.
“Where are my musicians?” Major Lilly asks.
Henry Dorman, August, and I raise our hands. Two other hands go up nearby.
Major Lilly points to a building off to his left. “Report to Private Alfred M. Thornburgh inside the building with the smokestacks. He’s Indiana Ninth’s chief bugler, and he’s waiting for you there. You’ll be under his care for the next few weeks. Buglers only, dismissed!” he shouts.
I gather my belongings and head to the far side of the camp with August and Henry.
* * *
Private Alfred M. Thornburgh, nearly as wide as he is tall, greets us in a well-heated room. He’s so round that if he lost his balance at the top of a hill, he’d roll all the way to the bottom before stopping. “When I call your company, say your name so I’ll know you’re here,” he instructs. “Company A?”
“Charles Evans, sir.”
“I’m not a ‘sir,’ Evans,” Private Thornburgh says. “Call me Chief. Who’s the second bugler with Company A?”
“William Peacock, sir. . . . I mean . . . William Peacock,
Chief.”
Thornburg glares at Peacock. “Company B?”
“John W. Sherill!” a man yells.
“August Smith.”
* * *
I study the faces of the men around me and wonder how many will return home alive. William Peacock is strapping strong and looks like he could handle himself real well, even in hand-to-hand action. His shoulders are square, and his chin looks strong enough to be on a statue. Most of the men have full bushy beards. Although I’m tall, I feel naked without scruff on my face; I haven’t shaved yet.
“Company K?”
Henry Dorman elbows me in the side.
“Who is the second bugler from Company K?” Chief yells.
“Stephen M. Gaston,” I say, coming out of my daydream.
After calling roll, Thornburgh points to a cabinet off to the side. “If you brought your horn, use it. If not, get one from that cabinet.”
Several men retrieve horns and return to the group. “Men, you have all the power in the army. You wake soldiers in the morning, tell them when to eat, how fast to march, when to drill, and how to drill. Bugles are a camp’s timepiece. . . .”
For the rest of Thornburgh’s talk my mind drifts from bugling to Camp Morton and the prisoners there. I begin thinking of a reason to make my way to the prison and see those responsible for taking Robert’s life in Kentucky. I want to look them in the eye and tell them what they did to my family. I want them to know that they are the reason I have to go off to war so Mother has a room to sleep in and food to eat.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
December 22, 1864
Buglers from the same company are assigned to sleep in the same tent. Late the next afternoon, Dorman and I are settling into our two-man tent. I take a pair of documents from between the pages of David Copperfield and lay them side by side on the ground. Then I tap Dorman’s leg and ask, “What do you think? Take a look at these.”
He turns and crouches to study the letters, his eyes darting back and forth between the two pieces of paper. “What do you mean what do I think? They’re two letters from the governor is what I think. What are you doing with them?”
“Do the signatures look the same to you?” I ask.
“Yeah, exactly the same. Why?”
I shake my head, afraid to tell him that I forged one of the documents this morning. The bogus letter states that at the governor’s request I am to speak to a hometown prisoner who left Centerville to fight for the Confederacy. I hope it gets us into Camp Morton, but the less Dorman knows right now, the better. “Hurry up. It’ll be dark in an hour,” I plead.
“I’m almost done,” he says while pushing a button through the last hole in his shirt. Where are we going anyways?”
“You’ll see. Just hurry,” I insist. “It’s my rotation, so I have to be back in time to play taps.”
Henry tucks his shirt into his pants.
“Stop frettin’ with your gall-darn shirttail, Henry, and put on your coat. We’re not going far.”
We walk briskly out the gate, turn north, and cover the three blocks in silence. We approach a stern-looking man at a gate. A sign, in three-inch-high letters above the gate reads, CAMP MORTON.
“Let me do the talking,” I say in a low voice.
A man with a dimpled chin raises his hand to stop us. The two gold stripes on the side of his arm represent the rank of corporal. “Where do you two think you’re going in such a hurry?”
“Yes, good afternoon . . .” I begin. The words sound awkward, over-rehearsed. I may not have planned this out enough. “Governor Morton sent us to talk to . . . talk to . . . a prisoner. . . .” My voice trails off. I reach in my pocket and pull out the forged piece of paper. “John Williams,” I say, looking at the forgery. “Yes, that’s who we need to see.”
“Governor Morton sent the two of you to talk to one of the prisoners here?”
“Exactly,” I say, handing the paper to the guard. I think of Uncle Clem and hope he has taught me how to lie well enough to get inside.
The guard scratches his dimple with his finger as he studies the paper. “The governor sent the two of you?”
I nod.
Henry stands beside me, wide-eyed.
The guard reviews the paper and turns it over in his hand to look at the back. “Why would the governor send you two to speak to Mr. Williams?”
I glance at Henry, who looks as lost as a goose in a snowstorm. His vacant stare tells me I’m on my own. “He sent us . . . because Williams . . . uhh . . . the name on that paper, is a no-good Secesh.” I spit on the ground.
“He’s a copperhead,” Henry chimes in, and spits on the same spot.
“Williams is from Centerville, where the governor, my pard here, and I live,” I say. Now Henry knows something is up, because he’s from Rushville. I hate to drag him into the lie without him knowing, but there is no way I’m going into a prison camp alone. And I know he never would have come along if I had told him earlier. “Williams lived in Centerville and ended up fighting for the South down in Tennessee. The governor wants me to ask him something.”
The guard raises both eyebrows. “Ask him what?”
“I am not at liberty to tell you that,” I say. “I’m just doing what I’m told to do. What the governor asked me to find out is between Governor Morton, John Williams, my pard, and me.”
There’s a moment of silence as the guard looks down at the paper again. I reach over the edge. “That’s the governor’s signature right there,” I say, tapping at the bottom.
“I know what the governor’s signature looks like,” the guard growls. “I’ve seen it hundreds of times.” He shouts over his shoulder to a man talking to a lady near the street. “Sergeant Whitson!”
“And that’s his signature,” I say, tapping the paper again.
“The governor sent you?” the guard asks Henry, whose eyes are now the size of silver dollars.
“Ahhh, yes, sir. He sent me, indeed. I mean . . .” He looks at me. “The governor, that is, sent the two of us. He sent the two of us to find, ahhh, Williams.”
“Why did he send you?” the guard asks.
I have to bail Henry out. “I told you. Because I know John Williams. . . . Well . . . I know of him. He’s a tad bit older than me, and we went to school together . . . well . . . at the same time. . . . Him bei
ng older than me, I don’t really know him. Look, I don’t have time to explain all this to you. It’s right there on the paper, and it’s an order from the governor for me to come here to find Williams and ask him one simple question. And it’s almost dark,” I insist.
“And you know Williams?” the guard asks Henry.
“Ahhhh, no, sir, I don’t know him at all. Never laid eyes on him . . . ever,” Henry answers.
“I kinda know Williams,” I say, stressing the word “I.” “We went to school together. Look, nobody likes him on account that he’s a no-good copperhead.” I spit on the ground. “The whole family’s a bunch of copperheads.” I spit again.
Henry shakes his head quickly. “No-good copperheads,” he repeats, and spits, appearing a bit more confident, too.
“Actually, I know the governor better than I know Williams. Governor Morton invited me to his house back in Centerville to give me a gift,” I add for dramatic effect. “Lovely house he and Mrs. Lucinda have.”
While the guard looks down to examine the paper, Henry taps me on the shoulder and points to a sergeant approaching.
“I’d hate to be in your boots if I don’t see Williams and get his answer back to the governor before dark,” I say in a rush.
The guard folds the paper, hands it back to me, and waves off the sergeant. “I’ve got it taken care of, Sarge.”
“When you walk in, don’t stop before crossing the deadline,” he warns.
I look at Henry, then back to the guard. “Deadline?”
“There’s a line on the ground twenty feet from the wall,” he says. “You’ll know it when you see it. Anytime somebody is between the wall and the deadline, the guards have authority to shoot. They may give a warning shot . . . but odds are they won’t. It doesn’t matter if you’re a prisoner or Governor Morton himself—you’re liable to wake up dead.”
“Wake up dead. That’s funny,” I say to the guard. “I like that.”
The guard does not react. “When I open the gate, walk quickly into the compound. Don’t stop until you’ve crossed the deadline.”
“Crossed the deadline,” Henry repeats, nodding.
The guard walks back a few steps to the wooden gate. He raises the latch, and we walk into Camp Morton.
* * *
Once inside, we take twenty quick paces before stopping just past a white line on the ground.
“You never said we were going inside a prison camp,” Henry says sternly.
“So, what are you ’fraid of?”
“Afraid of?” he says in disbelief. “Stephen, we’re inside a prison.”
The enclosure is surrounded by a plank wall as tall as a house. Nearby, a long line of crude buildings that look like they were built as sheds extends away from us. A small ravine, narrow enough to throw a rock across, slopes down and ends at a shallow stream. The slope rises on the other side to another row of buildings. The wooden structures and a few randomly placed tents keep us from seeing how far the prison goes beyond that.
Henry stares out at the sea of people. “We’ll never find what’s-his-name. There’s got to be a couple thousand men in here.”
“Don’t worry, Henry,” I say. “There is no John Williams.”
“What do you mean?”
I shake my head. “There’s no John Williams.”
“Are you crazy? What about the paper you showed the guard?”
“It’s a forgery. I made all that up.”
“Did the governor sign the paper?”
“No. Governor Morton doesn’t know we’re here.”
“How did his signature get on the paper?”
“He signed a book for me. A gift. I studied his hand. It’s not exact, but close enough, I guess. It fooled you and the guard.”
Henry stares at me and shakes his head slowly.
“What?” I ask.
“I can’t tell when you’re lying or telling the truth,” he
confesses. “What are we doing here, then?” “Gotta see somebody.”
“But not Williams,” he says, catching on. “Who?”
I clench my fist and furrow my brow. “The men who killed my brother.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Henry Dorman and I walk toward a group of five men gathered near the edge of the ravine. They’re thin, dirty, disheveled, and inadequately dressed for a northern winter. They encircle a small fire, keeping their backs to anybody approaching. “Soldiers, I’m looking for men from the Army of Kentucky,” I announce.
Without lifting his head, a tall man with sharp fingers motions toward the stream. He says in a frail voice, “Kentucky men are on the other side.” The man wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
The two of us make our way to the bottom of the ravine, weaving past groups of men clustered around fires, some with their palms out, catching elusive warmth. We step across a thin stream of filthy water and climb the other bank. We pass men sitting frozen like carved figurines. Their empty stares reveal their bodies are in Indianapolis, but their minds are elsewhere. Henry skims their faces and asks, “This is what we’ll be fighting down South? They look near death.”
“Dorman, I doubt they mustered in looking like this.”
“My God, this is what prison did to them?” he asks.
Prisoners had constructed clotheslines at the top of the west bank and draped blankets across much of the lines. Just beyond the blankets, five wooden barracks resembling horse stables stand end to end.
“Which one we going in?” Henry asks.
“One’s just as good as the next,” I reply.
After opening the door, we step into almost total darkness. The air is thick with moisture. It smells like rotting cattle and manure. I gag so hard, I feel my stomach trying to come up into my throat. I hear Henry do the same. I use the collar of my coat to cover my nose from the stench and wait for my eyes to adjust.
Along each side wall, a row of beds stacked four bunks high reach from the ground to the eaves. The bottom bunks are inches off a bare earthen floor. Rags stuffed between planks of wood in the wall keep out some of the wind. Men press so close around an object in the middle of the room that it’s hidden from view. A pipe leads from the center of the men to the roof. A stove.
If the meager fire warms the men standing by it, it does little to heat the ends of the building. Too many rags have fallen out, allowing the cold to sweep inside. It’s as frigid where Henry and I stand as it is outside. A moan to the left draws our attention. Although dimly lit, the shape of men huddling under blankets in a bed catches our eyes.
“Look how they’re lying together, trying to keep warm,” Henry whispers. “There’s five or six men under a couple of blankets.”
I walk over to the men on the bunk. “Where you soldiers from?” I ask.
One man raises his head to see who’s asking. “Alabama,” he says.
I kneel down beside his head and see it’s crusted with layers of filth and dirt. “I’m looking for soldiers from Kentucky,’ I say.
The man lifts one finger and points outside. “Tents,” he says.
“The tall tents outside?” I ask.
He nods and lies back down.
* * *
Henry and I rush outside and shut the door behind us. It’s a relief to be leaning against the outside wall, and we take deep breaths to clear our lungs of the stench.
“That was horrific,” Henry says. “My eyes are watering.”
“My uncle Clem’s livery was cleaner,” I tell him. “Even when it needed to be mucked, it smelled better than that.”
I pull open the flap to the first tent we come to. Again, beds line both sides of the canvas walls, creating a pathway down the middle. There’s barely enough room for two people to pass. I walk slowly down the aisle, looking from left to right. I pass each bed slowly, gazing at the men.
Many prisoners shiver beneath blankets, some violently. I lift my nose into the air and flare my nostrils. Henry tilts his head too. “What do you smell?” he as
ks, almost in a whisper.
“There’s a sweet smell in the air,” I say, remembering the overpowering smell of gardenias as Dad died.
“I don’t smell anything sweet,” he answers. “It’s foul in here, too.” Henry tilts his head down and pulls his coat over his nose.
“There’s a sweet smell mingled in,” I insist. “Concentrate. Can you smell it?”
Henry lifts his head and sniffs several times. “No. The only smells I’m getting make me want to vomit.”
“I can tell by the scent, Henry,” I tell him. “Death is here. Somebody’s dying here, right now.”
Henry hits me hard on the shoulder. “Stop it right now, Stephen. You’re scaring me.”
“No, it’s true.” I say.
“You’re lying again.”
“No, I’m not lying this time. When my father died of consumption, I smelled this exact smell. Nobody else in the room mentioned it then. But this is the same smell I noticed just as Dad passed.”
I look at a man lying on a bed to my left, then bend over him, our faces inches apart. “You from Kentucky?” I ask.
The man doesn’t open his eyes or raise his head. He nods slightly.
* * *
I stare at the man, nose to nose, unable to take my eyes off him. I wonder: Was he the one who pulled the trigger? Did he take Robert from us? Is he the one putting Mother through unbearable agony? I wait for hatred to come to the surface, like waiting for water to boil, but it doesn’t. I want every ounce of my pain to turn to joy in seeing him suffer in squalor, thinking of him dying a slow painful death. I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. But neither hatred nor joy appears, so I stand up.
“This has to be the worst way to die, a slow death like this,” Henry whispers. “Can you imagine the pain? When I go, I want it to be fast.”
I walk past Henry and lay my arm against a set of empty bunks. I lean my head against my arm and cry.
Crossing the Deadline Page 6
