Crossing the Deadline

by Michael Shoulders

  The nickname Big Tennessee doesn’t do him justice. Giant Tennessee is more exact. He’s the tallest man I’ve ever seen. “How tall are you?” a man asks as we march.

  “Let me just say Ole Abe himself would have to look up a tad to stare me square in the eyes,” he answers.

  Big Tennessee has a barrel for a chest. His upper arms could serve as legs for most men. He puzzles me in many ways. Men cower from him and keep their distance as if he has a disease. But on the train, he shared his meager portion of rations with several of us. He speaks softly and never takes the name of the Lord in vain. He says “thank you” and “please”.

  “Don’t leave my side till we are at the prison, son,” Big Tennessee whispers to me as we walk. “Most townsfolk are probably not too happy to see us here.”

  * * *

  The people in Cahaba gawk at us from front porches and behind window curtains. A woman grabs children from her yard and hurries them inside when she sees Big Tennessee approaching. Doors slam. Shades are pulled as we pass. One lady, wearing a black armband, walks up to the row of soldiers and spits twice on prisoners walking by. Big Tennessee grabs my shoulders and pulls me to his left, out of her range.

  “Big oaf,” she calls out when she sees Big Tennessee. “Not so big now, are you?” she says, pointing a thin finger toward him. She throws her head back and spits hard in his direction. Big Tennessee nods to her as if to say, “Good day, ma’am.”

  Spit runs down his neck and shirtsleeve. He doesn’t touch it. Several steps down the street, Big Tennessee wipes himself with his sleeve but keeps looking straight ahead as if nothing happened.

  At the next corner, another lady watches us pass. She stands in silence and studies each person traveling by. She’s wearing a dress of sky blue partially covered beneath an apron of white. Her head’s covered with a matching bonnet trimmed in lace. My mother has one just like it. Our eyes meet as I approach. The lady stares, not at Big Tennessee but at me, and never stops looking my way until we pass.

  * * *

  Our lines slow near the banks of a river. The smell of muddy water and fish fills the air. Five tents are set up in a row, and one man at a time walks inside. I think of that day eight months ago in Indianapolis when I entered Camp Morton with Henry Dorman and saw a multitude of men knocking on death’s door. I knew I’d be leaving the prison that same afternoon. Today, I don’t know what to expect. How long will we be confined? A day? A month? A year? Will I smell the scent of death in the air like I did the day my father died and again when I spoke with the prisoners from Kentucky?

  When it’s my time to go into a tent, a man inside barks at me, “Everything out of your pockets and on the table.” His voice is gruff and displeasing. He has a strong chin and is clean-shaven save for a thick mustache sitting above a pair of thin lips.

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Jones to you, Sunday Soldier,” he says. He’s standing beside the table, a private seated to his left. A box filled with large envelopes rests on the table between the private and me. Boxes cover much of the ground inside the tent, most filled with bulging envelopes.

  “This is my pocket watch and two dollars.” I lay them gently on the table.

  “Name?” the private asks.

  “Gaston.”

  “First name?”

  “Stephen.”

  “‘V’ or ‘P’?” The private asks without looking up.

  “What?” I’m confused.

  He looks up at me and taps his pencil on the desk. “How do you spell your first name?” he asks impatiently. “With a ‘V’ or with a ‘P’?”

  “Oh, sorry. S-T-E-P-H-E-N.”

  He writes my name across the envelope with the date, October 5, 1864, under it. “Drop everything in here,” he barks.

  I place the money and watch in the envelope.

  “That book, too,” the colonel says, pointing to the copy of David Copperfield tucked under my arm.

  I’m overcome with fear. Certainly they’ll let me keep the book with me. It can’t be used as a weapon. How will I spend time in the prison? Why do they want it?

  “The book, too, Colonel?” I ask to make certain. “Can’t I keep it?”

  “You’ll get it back when you leave. If you leave,” the colonel says, and laughs.

  I take one final look at the book and lay it gently on the table, sure that this is the last time I’ll ever see it. I think about what the governor said to me in his living room. “Personally, bring this book back to me.” Personally.

  “Anything else in your pockets?” the private asks.

  “N-n-no,” I stammer. “That’s everything I have. My knife was taken back near Athens.”

  “Well, I can’t do anything about that,” the colonel says. He’s trying to rub it in a little. “Git out of here.” He points to the backside of the tent. “And welcome to Castle Morgan.”

  I remember the prison camp in Indianapolis had a similar name. Is that a cruel coincidence? A bad sign? Perhaps Henry was right. Maybe we will all experience a slow death like the prisoners we saw in Indiana.

  Big Tennessee’s waiting outside. Together, we drift toward the prison gates. The river flows off to the left, no more than a stone’s throw away. A narrow walkway, maybe ten feet off the ground, is built into the outside walls of the prison. Armed guards, spaced around the wall, pace back and forth. From their position they have a clear view of the inside and outside of the prison. The guards stare at us as we walk beneath them on our way into Castle Morgan. One guard, chewing a plug of tobacco, spits from his perch. A long line of brown tobacco juice lands on Big Tennessee’s head with a splat.

  “Nice shot,” another guard calls to his friend. “If you was that good with bullets, you’d be up in ’Ginny right now.”

  * * *

  The call of “fresh fish” echoes through the prison as our group enters—I guess that’s us. My first surprise is the sheer number of men crowded into such a tiny space. As soon as we pass through the gate, men surround us and all speak at once, each talking over the other.

  “Where were you fighting, pard?”

  “How’s the war going, pard?”

  “Any sign of it ending soon?”

  “Where’s General Grant?”

  Pockets of men fan out, answering rapid-fire questions as best they can. Not that we have much news to give. I’m left alone. Nobody thinks someone as young as me might be in possession of any important information.

  I stare in wonder at what lies before me, disturbed by the number of men confined here. Castle Morgan’s shockingly tiny and can’t be as wide as the National Road passing through Centerville. It won’t take a full minute to walk from one end of the prison to the other. Men are crowded in so thick, there appears to barely be enough room to stand. It must be impossible for everybody to lie down at the same time. How is this space going to handle the extra men coming from Sulphur Branch?

  A bald-headed fellow approaches me. “What’s your name?”

  “Stephen Gaston,” I say.

  “Grisby’s my name,” he tells me. “I’ll cut your hair for part of your rations.” He looks slightly older than me, but without hair, it’s difficult to tell. His red eyebrows are stretched tall above his unblinking eyes.

  “My hair’s fine,” I say, turning away.

  He taps me on my left shoulder. “Not for long. Come see me when you’re ready. My pocketknife’s sharp enough to cut your hair clean off without nicking your skin.”

  “No, thanks,” I insist.

  “I can’t take care of all the graybacks for you,” he says. “They’re everywhere. I can get them out of your hair, though, but it’ll cost you some food.”

  Most of the men in the prison have very short hair. It’s easy to tell who just arrived and who’s been here awhile by looking at heads. Most are shirtless and so deeply tanned that their skin has turned to leather with deep-set wrinkles.

  “Don’t worry none with Grisby,” a deep voice say
s from behind me.

  I turn around. “Excuse me?”

  “Grisby doesn’t have a knife. We think he’s lost his mind. He’s been here too long, but he’s harmless, really.”

  “What are graybacks? He said they are everywhere here.”

  “Well, he does have a point there,” the man says. “Graybacks are lice. We call ’em that cause we like ’em about as much as we like the gray-coated rebel guards. If you spread your shirt out on the ground, it’ll nearly crawl across the prison. Graybacks will be in your hair thick as bees in a hive by morning,” he says. “Nothing you can do about it, either.”

  He reaches down on his pant leg and grabs something almost too small to see.

  “Can you see him?” he asks, pointing to a small speck on his palm.

  I see a tiny critter crawling toward his thumb. “Yeah.”

  “You probably got ’em on you already,” he says. “How old a boy are you—sixteen, maybe?”

  “Fifteen, in three months.” I try to stand a little taller.

  “Haven’t even shaved yet, have you?” he says, and laughs.

  “Don’t guess that’s what makes a man a man, is it?”

  “Settle down. Settle down. No need to rile up and take offense.”

  A loud explosion causes all the bald-headed men to sit down on the ground. They motion for the fresh fish to do the same.

  “Men, if at any time you hear gunfire, like you just did,” yells a booming voice, “you are to drop immediately.” The words are coming from a man standing above the gate on the outside ledge. He’s visible from the waist up. “My name is Lieutenant Colonel Jones, commander of what we affectionately call Castle Morgan.”

  Some of the guards chuckle when he says “Castle Morgan.”

  “Roll call is at seven thirty a.m. and five p.m. daily,” the colonel continues. He points to a line on the ground parallel to the prison wall. “That there is the deadline. Cross over the deadline and you’ll be shot.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “No warning will be given. The guards shoot to kill.”

  Deadline. I had heard those words before at the prison in Indianapolis. Colonel Jones adjusts his glasses. “This prison is nearly two hundred feet long and over on hundred feet wide.” He paces a few steps to his left and then back to the right. “Today, we brought in a lot of men from northern Alabama. It will be crowded, but we will make it work. Fall in for roll call.”

  Men move with no sense of urgency into groups. Nobody tells the fresh fish where to stand, so we wait to see what part of the compound will hold us. I meander around, looking for men of the Ninth. I notice Big Tennessee standing at attention. It’s hard not to see him; he’s towering over everyone.

  “The Ninth is near the gate,” Big Tennessee says, pointing in the direction of Colonel Jones.

  I hear Sergeant Survant calling my name. “Where’s Stephen Gaston?” I move toward his voice, but men are standing at every turn. I hustle around one group of people, along an open space nearby to get to my company—the only open route I see. A deafening shot rings out. Dirt springs up and pelts my face. I dive for the ground. Everyone in the prison does the same. When I open my eyes, the white line on the ground is directly beneath my face. The shot was fired toward me.

  A hand grabs my trouser leg and pulls me back across the deadline. “Pay attention,” Big Tennessee whispers angrily into my ears. “Always know where you are and what is around you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  September 28, 1864, 3:00 p.m.

  The crazy fellow, Grisby, who greeted me when we first entered Castle Morgan, stands nearby in formation. He points in my direction. You cook, he mouths silently to me.

  “What?”

  He shakes his head rapidly and then squeezes between two men to get closer. “Stephen, you cook tonight,” he says, pointing at me, then heads back to his place.

  I have no idea what he means until the end of roll call when we have to form squads of ten and designate a cook to prepare dinner. The guy’s out of his mind, but when it’s time, I offer to prepare the meal for my squad.

  Guards let the cooks leave prison to collect firewood. Grisby yanks my arm to join him as we pass through the gates to gather firewood. He shows me where to collect a handful of twigs beneath an oak tree. You don’t need much. With as many fires as we have to build, the more we burn, the farther we have to walk to get wood the next time.

  “Get some of that dried grass, Stephen,” he says, pointing to tufts of brown near a fence post. “Dried grass is plentiful, and it helps catch the wood on fire.”

  He motions with his head to return to the prison. As we walk back he says, “Wood that is rotting smokes and won’t heat, so don’t use it. Fresh fish always go for that because it’s big and round. Don’t use pine, either, unless the oaks and hickories haven’t dropped any limbs. Pine doesn’t burn hot enough for a low fire,” he warns. “Most of all, remember coals are hot, flames are not. So don’t get flustered when the flames die out.”

  * * *

  We reach the inside of the cooking area through a small door in the middle of the north wall. This area is surrounded on the other three sides by a board fence. “Rations vary from day to day,” Grisby says. “Often the meat seems unfit for dogs. Don’t worry; it’s fine. All you have to do is roll it in the ashes and brush it off. What’s left adds flavor and makes it almost bearable,” he says. “Best part, the ashes hide the smell.”

  Grisby points out the pots and rations and helps me build my fire. “Always begin with leaves or dried grass for kindling, not wood. Flames from the grass will catch dry wood pretty fast.”

  “You’re pretty smart. Somebody told me you were crazy.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I want ’em to think,” he says. “They leave you alone if they think you’re touched in the head.”

  Soon the cook yard is filled with low fires and smoke. At times, it’s impossible to see from one wall to the other.

  After our fires are going and we have our rations cooking, Grisby says, “With how little meat they give us, it won’t take long for this to cook. Walk near the fence with me.”

  He sees my apprehension and adds, “Don’t worry. There’s no deadline in the cook yard. It’s hardly guarded at all.”

  We walk over to the fence, and Grisby stands, his back to the guards.

  He points to a hole in the fence. “See that hole that’s about the size of a small apple?”

  “The one at eye level?”

  “Yeah. Look out that hole,” he says.

  Looking through the opening, I can easily see the river off to the right.

  “That’s the Alabama River,” Grisby says. “The crapper on the far end of the camp empties dead into it.” He starts laughing. “Some guys escaped out the crapper and into the river about a month ago. I’d advise against that. They were back in four days.”

  “You can see the town from here,” I say, pointing to the left.

  “Stephen, look at that first house,” he says. “It’s about two hundred feet slightly to the left.”

  “Yeah. It’s very close.”

  “Belle lives there.”

  “Who?”

  “Belle. Belle Gardner. If there’s heaven on Earth, it’s Belle Gardner. Purty as flax in spring.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Oh, I do say. I cut that hole in the fence myself with my pocketknife.”

  “I was told you don’t really have—”

  “Have a pocketknife?” he says, finishing my sentence.

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you call this?” he asks, producing a piece of folded metal from his pocket. “That hole started as a rotten knot. I cut a little more every time they let me cook until it finally got that big. Sometimes the smoke is so thick in here, you can’t see your hand in front of your face. That’s when I started whittlin’ on it.”

  “Nobody noticed you?”

  “How could they? I could barely see what I was doing myself.”

 
; When we’re done cooking, Grisby points to the ration table. “Take your pot back there, and we’re almost ready.” He helps me divide the mess into ten equal portions. “Split ’em as equally as possible. Then ask every member in your group if they’re satisfied with the portion sizes. Have a man turn his back to the food. You point to a single portion and ask ‘Who gets this one?’ The person calls a name to whom that portion is given, and there’s no appeal from his decision. Do that every time until the food’s all given out.”

  On the first night it’s obvious that not everyone sleeps at the same time. There is not enough ground to hold this many men. Bunks have been placed in one corner of the compound called the roosts because men resemble chickens in a coop when it’s full. The planks, stacked six tall, with barely enough room to scoot in between each level, are the only covered area in the prison. When it rains, it’s the lone place to keep dry.

  All the men on a single plank lie on their sides, facing the same direction when they sleep. They look like spoons in a drawer. From time to time a member of one roost yells, “Switch!” and everyone on that plank rolls over at the same time and faces the opposite direction. A spot on the ground near the roosts will do fine for my first night in prison. It’s not long before I discover there are more unwanted guests in Castle Morgan than there are humans. I scratch my head and try to go back to sleep. But whatever it is grows in numbers because, soon, both sides of my scalp feel like they’re on fire. Then the rest of my body. I rub my legs against the ground to relieve the itching on my thighs. I flail my arms and wiggle my toes.

  “Cut your hair in the morning, boy, so we can get some sleep,” a man says. “Vermin here are thicker than blackberries in July.”

  He’s right. In the morning, not only is my hair full of lice, so are my clothes. Sergeant Survant gets shears from a guard and soon has a line of fresh fish waiting to get their hair trimmed. When the last snips are done, my hair feels like short bristles on a rough board against my fingers. Sweat skids off my head and cascades down my neck, but at least my head doesn’t itch constantly.