Crossing the Deadline

by Michael Shoulders

  “Can we talk?” I ask my giant friend.

  “Yeah, let’s stroll up the road a mile or two for some privacy,” he jokes.

  I laugh, then quietly say, “I have paper and an envelope. Do you want to write your wife and let her know you’re okay?”

  “Where do you keep getting paper and envelopes?”

  His voice, a bit loud, might bring unwanted ears. “Shhhh, don’t ask,” I whisper. “Do you want to write a letter home?” I ask again.

  Big Tennessee looks down at the ground. “I, uh, I would, only . . . I can’t.”

  “What do you mean you can’t? I told you I got everything you need. I got pencil, paper, envelope, even a stamp.”

  “I can’t write,” he says. “Never learned how.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, I can write it for you. Just tell me what to put down on the paper, and I’ll get it sent to her for you.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, we sit near the corner of the privy with our backs to the prisoners. I use the copy of Great Expectations the guard gave me to support the paper. I write exactly what Big Tennessee whispers.

  Dear Mary,

  Hope you are fine. Doing well here. Last you heard from me we were in Tennessee. Now in Alabama. Being detained awhile. Hope to return to you and the mountains of Tennessee soon. I’ve lost some weight, but you often said my waist has grown a lot since we married.

  Love, your husband

  When I finish the letter, Big Tennessee takes the pencil. “I sign my name with a check mark crossed along the longer side,” he says as he puts the mark at the bottom of the page.

  “She’ll know it’s mine from that,” he says as he taps the X.

  I turn the envelope over. “Where do I send it?”

  “Mary Pierce, Cumberland Gap, Tennessee,” he says.

  “We live a few feet from the Virginia line.”

  “I bet it’s beautiful there.”

  “It is. It is,” he manages to say, a catch in his voice. “And she is too.”

  * * *

  The next day before noon, there’s a terrible row near the gate. Commotions are not unusual, as two or three prisoners will trickle through the gate every other day. The call of “fresh fish” lets everyone know we have company.

  “Don’t go past the deadline!” a guard shouts.

  The reply comes from a female voice. I recognize it immediately as Mrs. Gardner.

  “I’ll go past the deadline if I like. And you can shoot me if you like,” she argues. “You shooting a woman with only shirts to defend herself may not hold up well with General Lee.”

  A man, obviously Captain Henderson, follows her into the compound. She walks quickly to the edge of the deadline.

  “Ma’am. We have procedures to follow,” he pleads.

  “Oh, then shoot me,” she says. “Go right ahead and get it over with.”

  “You know I’m not going to do that, ma’am.”

  “Then make yourself useful and help me pass these clothes out to these men.” She drapes several shirts across the captain’s arms. “Some of the men don’t have a single shirt to wear.”

  The compound is silent as a stone as we wait to see how this scene will end. “Look at these men,” she says in disgust. “Many only have rags for clothing.”

  “Ma’am, there is this thing called a war going on. We don’t have—”

  “A war? Really?” she interrupts him. “You, sir, should not insult my intelligence.” Mrs. Gardner drops a pile of shirts onto the ground. She spins on her heels to face the prisoners. “You,” she says, and points to a bare-chested William Peacock. “Stand up.”

  He does as he’s told.

  Mrs. Gardner looks at him, cocks her head one way, and then the other. She reaches into her mound of clothing and grabs a brown shirt. “Try that one on for size.” She throws it to William. Three weeks ago the shirt would have been too small for Peacock. But he’s so skinny now, it fits perfectly.

  Without skipping a beat, she adds, “So, there’s a war going on, huh, Captain Henderson?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says.

  “A man died here this summer from the heat, and winter’s just weeks away,” she says. “So, instead of killing soldiers with bullets, your plan is to hold them up here and let the weather kill them for you. Is that right?” she asks.

  “Well, no, ma’am,” he says. “This prison has an excellent record.”

  “Sir, you are a man of the cloth. Maybe you can help me out. I don’t know the New Testament very well. What was it Matthew said regarding the naked?”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at, ma’am.”

  “Chapter twenty-five I believe it was. Yes, in chapter twenty-five, Matthew said something about being naked. But it escapes me now just how that part of the Bible goes. Do you remember? Being a man of the cloth and all.”

  The captain studies Mrs. Gardner a long while before a smile creeps onto his face as he realizes what she is getting at. “I was naked and You clothed me.”

  “Ahhh, yes, that’s right. It’s coming back to me now,” she says. “And I’ve missed a Sunday or two in church, but didn’t he say something regarding being in prison?”

  “When I was in prison, You came to me.”

  “So, the Bible says I should clothe the naked and visit those in prison?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it does. But, if you’ll just come outside, we’ll talk it through.”

  Mrs. Gardner lowers her voice to a fake whisper, clearly wanting as many of us to hear her as possible. “My Bible tells me, ‘Jesus said, “What you do for the least of your fellow man, you also do for Me”’ Those are Jesus’s words, Captain Henderson.”

  Sergeant Survant has a thin stream of tears flowing down each cheek. “Why should she care so much about us?” he asks nobody in particular.

  “Just come outside so we can talk,” the captain pleads.

  Mrs. Gardner nods in agreement. “Just a second. Stephen Gaston,” she calls.

  I jump to my feet. “Here, ma’am.”

  “Give me that rag you’re wearing and put this new one on,” she demands.

  I cross several platoons of men to get to where she’s standing, and I unbutton my shirt along the way.

  “Stop right there and turn around,” she orders. I wonder who’s really in charge of the prison now. She walks up behind me and holds the shirt, making it easy to slip my arms into the sleeves. With her back to the captain, she whispers, “Check the pocket later.” I turn to face her and am shocked to be greeted by the smell of Mother as my fingers slip the first button through its hole. It’s one of my shirts from home. I press the right sleeve to my nose and look at Mrs. Gardner. “How did you get my—”

  “Shhhh,” she says softly, and winks.

  I glance into the pocket before returning to my spot. A piece of paper is tucked deep into the folds of the fabric. I feel like a spy, receiving a message slipped to me by a Southern contact.

  The captain helps her hand out the rest of the shirts and motions with his palm faceup toward the gate for her to leave. She nods and leads the way, and they depart.

  I think about heading straight to the privy to see what the paper is, but recent bouts of dysentery keep the doors swinging like flags in the wind. Some unfortunate souls spend half their days in there.

  Cooking time is my best option for seeing what Mrs. Gardner passed me. While gathering wood, I slip into a grove of cedar trees, knowing nobody will come near here for firewood.

  The shirt pocket holds a letter.

  * * *

  Dearest Stephen,

  Centerville and I are proud of you. An angel named Mrs. Amanda Gardner wrote me by way of Governor Morton. She said you were safe, but we should pray for you. Rest assured, we do so every day.

  Mrs. Gardner said she speaks to you from time to time when a relative of hers is on guard. She said you are a gentleman and
that I raised you right. I thought I’d never hurt again as much as I did when Robert died. I was wrong.

  Mrs. Gardner asked if there’s any way to send clothes, especially long-sleeved shirts since winter’s coming on. With war still raging, God only knows if the clothing gathered from neighbors will make it to you. When Governor Morton was in town, I gave him a sack full and asked him to get them to Selma, AL, if he could.

  If you are reading this, it’s a miracle and is with God’s blessing. Everyone in Centerville read your letter. I do mean everyone. Reverend Collins recited it in church. Dutch said you are a hero, and he has something for you when you return. Sorry, I don’t know what it is. He said you’d have to guess.

  Praying for your safe and quick return,

  Mother

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  November 29, 1864

  Amanda Gardner is back in the prison today. I think her talk with Captain Henderson opened the gates of kindness a bit, because she’s carrying a crate of books. She strolls into the compound and sets the box right on the deadline. I think about the time she had to smuggle Great Expectations to me through her nephew. I rush to the box, wanting to be the first to choose a title.

  The collection is as varied as the men inside Castle Morgan. There are books on poetry, religion, and history as well as biographies. “These will do more to take our minds off the lice and bad food than anything else,” I tell a fellow rifling through the selection with me.

  A guard announces, “Want a book, take it. Done with it, put it back. Mrs. Gardner will come on Sundays to check the crate. If there are no books in it, she’ll return with a few more from her house.” In an hour, men are sitting in small circles listening to one or another of them read books by Washington Irving, Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, or Walter Scott.

  * * *

  A week later, after roll call, Captain Henderson directs everyone to sit on the ground. A guard enters the compound, carrying a stack of papers. Nothing like this has happened since I’ve been here, and everyone’s confused. The guard walks to the center of the prison and finds an area with a bit of space. “Sergeant Survant,” he calls. When the sergeant approaches, the guard hands him what looks like an envelope.

  “It’s a letter from home!” he yells, flashing it over his head. He is so overcome that his hands shake violently as he attempts to tear open the envelope without doing too much damage.

  Many men receive letters that afternoon, including some of us captured at Sulphur Branch. Most letters wonder why previous notes haven’t been answered. But if any of us had gotten mail in the past, it never made it into our hands.

  On Sunday I rush to greet Mrs. Gardner at the book box to find out why I got a letter smuggled in my shirt several days before the rest of the men got theirs. The timing seems coincidental.

  “Did you sneak my mother’s letter from the captain’s stash?”

  “Heavens, no, son,” she says. “There’d be no way to do such a thing.”

  “How did you get it to me, then?”

  “That letter came straight to me, mother to mother. Would a sane person then place it in just anybody’s hands to deliver?” she asks. “It would have to be somebody I trusted one hundred percent. The captain never laid eyes on your mother’s dispatch.”

  “What about the letters delivered the other day?” I ask.

  “Perhaps somebody shamed the captain into delivering those.” She gives me a Sunday-morning smile and adds, “Pass the word around that there are pencils in the box for the men to use. They can write on the same letters they received from home, on the backs or perhaps squeeze their writing between the other lines.”

  Stamps are a minor problem because not all families included stamps in what they sent. Some prisoners trade food for stamps, since the guards are not fed much better than we are.

  December 11, 1864

  Cahaba, Alabama

  Dear Mother,

  Some things have improved at Castle Morgan. In more important ways, they’ve gotten worse. My old shirt, the one you sent from home is looser. We have joked there are two ways out of Castle Morgan: lose ninety pounds or die. A few men who weighed less than one hundred pounds have been sent home.

  In June, we got word from General Grant that he would not authorize any more prisoner swaps. He had been trading a general for sixty men, a colonel for fifteen, a lieutenant for four, and a sergeant for two. We were told Lincoln ordered Grant to stop the exchanges. “It’s only extending the war,” we were told were his exact words.

  My paper’s run out. Thanks for the shirt.

  All my love to friends. Save a share for yourself, Stephen

  Sharp pains in my stomach wake me in the middle of the night.

  Sergeant Survant, who is dozing nearby and sees I’m restless, asks, “What’s wrong?”

  “My stomach hurts real bad,” I tell him.

  “It’ll pass,” he says.

  But it doesn’t, and three nights later Sergeant Survant has to wake two men to take turns nursing me through the night. One of them, a private, puts both hands on my arms and feels me trembling. He removes his shirt and drapes it over me to keep me warm. “You’ll freeze,” I warn him.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he replies. “I’ll be fine.”

  The private shakes his head. “Dysentery,” he whispers to Sergeant Survant. “When I had it, the privy was my only friend for three days.”

  Somebody dips a cloth in water and wipes a cold swath across my forehead. “We need to keep you bundled and warm, but this will cool your fever down a bit,” he promises. He holds a cup to my mouth.

  “No,” I say, and turn my head away.

  “Drink it. You need to drink.”

  I’m shaking so hard that when my lips touch the tin, half the water spills onto my shirt and the ground.

  “Guard,” Sergeant Survant calls. “We need to take him to the hospital.”

  I grab his arm. “Don’t let ’em take me there. That’s where they take us to die.”

  “You’ve been sick for a week, Stephen,” Big Tennessee says. “We can’t take care of you here. You’re not eating, and now you have chills.”

  “How many of the sick have come back from the hospital?” I ask. He doesn’t say anything because we both know the answer. “Not many.”

  “Leaving the prison is the last thing you want, Stephen, but you’re skin and bones,” Sergeant Survant says. “You’ve drifted in and out of consciousness for a day and need to get out of the freezing air.”

  “It’s not your call anymore, Stephen,” Big Tennessee says. “Grab his arms, Sergeant, and I’ll take his legs. Let’s carry him over to the gate and wait for the hospital to send somebody to come get him.”

  I lie on the ground, staring up at ominous clouds. They block most of the sky but part slightly, revealing a bright golden moon. I wonder if Mother is looking out her bedroom window at this very same time. “Maw,” I say softly. “If this is the end, I love you to the moon and back.”

  I don’t know how much time passes, but the gates finally rattle open. Two lanterns slide through the air on either side of my head. Floating between the lights is Mrs. Gardner’s face. She leans over and asks a guard to hold a lantern closer. She studies me for several seconds, tugs at the corner of my eye, and nods to Big Tennessee. “Will you two gentlemen mind taking him to my house?” she asks.

  We pass through Mrs. Gardner’s front door. “Place him here on the sofa,” she says.

  Big Tennessee and Sergeant Survant position me on a sofa and put a pillow under my head. A young lady stands in the doorway to the next room, staring at me. “Stop gawking and put some water on for hot tea,” Mrs. Gardner snaps. “And cut up what’s left of the bread into small bites.”

  Mrs. Gardner dabs a wet cloth across my forehead. She looks behind the sofa at the men who brought me here. “Your name?” she asks.

  “Sergeant Survant,” he replies politely.

  “Has he eaten anything?” she asks, this time
without looking up.

  “No, ma’am. Not for two, maybe three, days.”

  She looks toward the ceiling above my head and raises her eyebrows at the man towering above her.

  “Uhhh, everybody calls me Big Tennessee.”

  “Suits you, I suppose,” she chuckles. “Well, Stephen, they say the darkest hour is just before dawn.”

  I want to say something, but can’t. There’s not enough strength in my body. I moan, and she pats the side of my face like Mother did when I was sick back home. “You’ll be all right, Stephen,” she says.

  “He’s a fine boy, ma’am,” Big Tennessee says. “Anything you can do to help him would be most kind of you.”

  “He’ll do better here than with the two hundred in the hospital,” she says. “Every bed there is taken.”

  The girl enters from the next room carrying a tray and sets it on the table in front of the sofa. It holds three steaming cups, a polished round tin, and a spoon. “Here, Mother,” she says.

  “Thanks, Belle.” Mrs. Gardner takes the tin and removes the lid. She takes the teaspoon, digs sugar from the tin, pours it into one of the cups, and stirs the water. “Those are yours,” she says to my friends while nodding toward the two remaining mugs she leaves sitting on the tray.

  The thought of a hot, fresh cup of tea instantly makes me feel better. It’s been almost a year since I’ve had one.

  Mrs. Gardner props my head a bit more with the pillow. She sinks the teaspoon into the tea and then holds it to my lips. The smell and warmth of the spoon rushes into my body, my lips part, and I drink down the hot liquid.

  “That’s right. That’s it,” Mrs. Gardner says. “We’re going to get you through this,” she whispers. She takes my left hand and wraps it on the outside of the cup. The warmth flows through me like water flowing through Paddy’s Run.

  Mrs. Gardner looks at Sergeant Survant. “Do you have children?” she asks.

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.” The question brings a wide smile to his face.

  “You know, your family needs you. They think about you a lot.”