The man swallows each piece as fast as it’s offered.
Soon the soldiers added to our car are settled in, and each have had a bite to eat. Several manage slight smiles for a split second. We know they’re grateful to be with us and to have something in their stomachs.
We sit, staring at the strangers, unable to take our eyes off them. It’s impossible to understand how they can still be alive. Everyone at Cahaba who looked this bad died. Sergeant Survant asks one of the men, “Where were they holding you fellows?”
“Andersonville,” one says softly, “Georgia.” I remember Colonel Jones’s comment about that prison just weeks ago.
Repairs on the damaged rails take longer than expected. Our stop turns into an overnight stay. In the morning we chug west, making our guests as comfortable as we can. How any of us have food to spare is a miracle, but pieces of food appear periodically from ration sacks. Two hours later we pass a sign that reads, KEWANEE, MISSISSIPPI. Somebody says, “We’re out of Alabama, boys. One state closer to home.”
A little while later the train slows to a crawl as we approach Meridian. Just beyond town, we pull onto a side track to refuel.
Someone yells the word “rations,” and it is repeated down the row of the train car. Men pour out from where they have been resting in order to stretch their arms and legs. We tell the men from Andersonville to stay on board and save their energy. Only a few men from each car are needed to get the food. Two other men and I walk toward the designated area, a church on the edge of town.
Before the church we pass a house with a yard framed by a fence made of split timber. A boy, about my age, stands in the side yard, digging soil. He turns a batch of red clay dirt and knocks it loose with his spade. He examines it and tosses a rock from it onto a nearby pile. When the boy sees the line of men passing, he stops, turns, and rests his arms on the top of his shovel. By the looks of the growing pile of rocks, the soil is half stone.
When the Confederate guards who are leading the way pass by, the boy wipes his brow with a handkerchief and gives them a quick tip of the hat. He smiles warmly and nods their way. When those of us who have been in Castle Morgan come by, his smile withers. He glares at us as if we’re worth less than the rocks he’s discarding from the soil.
We arrive at a church where a long table is piled with sacks tied with string. Each one contains enough hardtack and pieces of salt pork to feed ten men.
When we return to the train, the Andersonville men frantically grab for the bags. “Hey, hey, hey, slow down,” Sergeant Survant warns. “Only give them half of a hardtack and a bite or two of the meat,” he orders.
“We were down to almost no food back in Georgia,” one of them says. “We think that’s why they let us out.” We hand them only a share of their rations, and they’re as grateful to us as we were to Amanda Gardner. In seconds their portions are gone.
“Hey, slow down,” Sergeant Survant repeats to a fellow near him. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. When your rations are gone, you can have half my meat,” Survant says, tearing his chunk into smaller pieces. “But I’m going to save it and give it to you in an hour or so.”
* * *
The train refuels, and we rest in Meridian overnight. The guards allow us to walk as far as a nearby creek. This is the first time we’re able to get farther than a few feet from another human being, and it feels glorious.
We leave the next morning for Jackson, slowly following the sun across the sky. A Confederate sergeant tells us, “You’ll have to walk the final miles from Jackson to Vicksburg. A boat will take you up the Mississippi from there.”
“How far’s the walk from Jackson to Vicksburg?” Big Tennessee asks.
“Several days,” the sergeant answers. “Depending on how fit you are. It’s near forty miles, but you’ll have to do it all on foot unless you absolutely can’t walk. There are a few Union ambulances for the critical.”
There’s no way most of the Andersonville men can walk one mile, let alone forty.
“They’ll be able to rest as long as they need in Jackson before starting out,” the guard assures us. He glances at those from Andersonville and pats one on the knee. “There’s no hurry, fellows. Stay there until you have the strength to make it to Vicksburg.”
Late that night, we make Jackson. A guard opens our door and says, “Don’t get out for any reason. These townsfolk will shoot you in a heartbeat if you get on their property.”
“Why did we stop?” someone asks.
“Another derailment ahead,” he answers. “The tracks go on another eight miles past Jackson. That’s where the holding camp is. While we’re stopped here, stay inside the train. Don’t get out while we’re this close to town,” he warns.
We sit for a couple hours before the wheels start turning. An hour later, we come to our final stop. This time, when we look out, campfires and crude shelters dot the landscape.
A guard comes to our door. “You can sleep in the train if you like or hop out. Makes me no never mind. The engine won’t start up before morning, so suit yourselves for the night.” He points into the darkness. “Over there is the road leading to Vicksburg. Just stay on that road for three, maybe four days, and you’ll be in Vicksburg.”
Excitement and reservations wrestle in my mind as I think about seeing Mother soon. Every night, hour, and minute brings me closer to home. Centerville is a long ways off, but a three days’ walk is all that stands between me and Vicksburg—and the ship that will carry me home.
The next morning those of us who were at Sulphur Branch Trestle and have gained enough strength to begin the journey decide to travel together. The commissary issues us everything we need to bake cornbread for the trip. Once it is out of the fire and cool, we divvy the bread up along with three days’ worth of pork and strike out for Vicksburg.
“Don’t wander far off the road,” we’re told. “Ten miles to Clinton and then ten more to Bolton. With luck, you’ll make Bolton the first day. Union control doesn’t begin until Camp Fisk, just before Vicksburg.”
We haven’t walked twenty minutes when a cold rain begins—and we’re all reminded of the flood at the Castle.
“It’s a sign, Stephen!” Big Tennessee yells out.
“A sign?” I ask. “What kind of sign?”
“It’s a sign the good Lord doesn’t think we got enough water back at the Castle.”
“Couldn’t care any less,” William Peacock says. “As long as we aren’t forced to spend another second sitting in river water.”
Our goal is to make Clinton before lunch, which we do. But by the time we arrive, Peacock is exhausted. “Never thought I’d say this after all that time in the Castle, but I’m too tired to eat.”
“You and me both,” Sergeant Survant says as we pick out spots and spread rubber blankets on the ground. We agree to nap for two hours before heading out again. As we settle in, I call over to William, “What’s my first meal going to be back home? You have ten guesses.”
“Is it a meat?” he guesses first.
“No.”
“Vegetable?”
“No.”
“Is it sweet?”
“Yes. That’s three.”
“Fruit?”
“No. You have six more guesses.”
I wait for several seconds before opening my eyes. Peacock’s sound asleep, too tired to play the guessing game.
It’s after dark when we arrive in Bolton at a makeshift camp, but we’re excited to be one day closer to home.
The miles pass more slowly on the second day as we stop frequently to give Peacock time to rest. “Go on,” he urges. “I’ll catch up later.”
“Nope,” we all say. “We stay together.”
* * *
Even at our slow pace, it doesn’t deter our resolve to make Camp Fisk in three days. We know we’re close when we approach a pontoon bridge spanning the Black River. A neatly printed sign reads, UNION TERRITORY: CAMP FISK (7 MILES). We quicken our pace.
Th
e scent of smoke thickens the air, and the clattering sounds of the camp increase the farther we walk. We suspect Camp Fisk is hidden just beyond the next hill. Big Tennessee notices something appears to be rising up from the ground.
“Look, fellows!” he yells, and points straight ahead. With each step toward the crest of the hill, a patch of blue and white rises higher and higher until we’re all able to view the American flag in all its splendor. We crest the hill and take in the sweeping scene before us: a vast field, dotted with hundreds, maybe a thousand soldiers, surrounded by a wire fence. And topped with that brilliant flag.
None of us are able to contain our feelings. Peacock falls to his knees and weeps. “I’ve done it,” he says. “It’s finally over.”
Sergeant Survant says, “If death gets me here, at least it will be within sight of that flag.”
I sit for a good long while, powerless to move, unable to comprehend that I’ve survived Sulphur Branch Trestle, Castle Morgan, flooding, and have finally reached the spot where a ship will take me home.
* * *
Negro soldiers stand guard at the gates. Their dark faces nod and smile as we enter. They seem as glad to see us as we are to see them. One older man with a white beard pats me on the back. “Thank you, soldier,” he whispers.
Another guard, seeing how exhausted Peacock looks, rushes to his side. “It’s a miracle I’m here,” Peacock tells him.
“It’ll take four or five days to get rosters ready before you can leave on a steamer for home,” a major informs us at a tent inside the gate. “When the rolls are complete, you’ll be transported by rail to the Vicksburg dock. We’ll put five hundred to one thousand men on each ship headed north. Until your group is called, rest up and get food. We have new uniforms waiting for you, along with plenty of hardtack, pork, good coffee, and cabbage.”
They issue us new clothes, but mine are too big. “I’m swimming in these,” I tell the quartermaster.
“You want them to be loose because you’re gonna fatten up some,” he says. When he’s satisfied that I’m dressed properly, he tells me, “Go toss those mud-stained rags into a fire.” I feel like a real soldier again for the first time in a long while. There are huge barrels of pickled cabbage at the commissary. And the vegetables are a welcome addition to our diet. We eat large portions with our fingers and lick every drop of juice as it runs down our forearms.
The boys from Andersonville have it the worst. For some of them, their minds are like wild horses that refuse to be tamed. As hard as anyone tries, nobody can stop them from overeating. They don’t listen when they’re told their stomachs can’t handle the amount of food they’re trying to take in. One fellow stuffs his mouth so full, he chokes to death without putting up much of a struggle. Three others die from overeating. How odd it is that the thing these prisoners want most—food—is as lethal as a bullet if they’re not careful.
Because of the massive number of people at Camp Fisk, everyone competes for wood to heat coffee and wrangles for spaces inside a limited number of shelters. But in a few days I notice a change in my body, as I’m able to walk through the camp and gather firewood without being out of breath or having to stop and rest. The immense number of people also overwhelms the roll-making process, and it takes longer than expected for the rosters to be created for groups leaving.
We’re told to assemble on the parade ground to learn who will be heading home first.
“The first batch to head to the docks in Vicksburg,” Captain Speed announces, “are Ohio boys.” It’s easy to see where these fellows are standing when the announcement is made. However, their hopes are tempered when he adds, “Only certain regiments are on the list—not everyone from the state.”
When the first regiment’s name is called, one man wraps me in a bear hug and weeps openly. “I’ll see my wife and daughters in a few days,” he says in disbelief. “Home,” he says over and over. “Home.” A couple of his friends pat him on the back. “I can’t believe it,” he weeps. “Simply can’t believe it.”
Each man’s name is called to make sure he’s in attendance. “Desmond Adams?” the captain calls.
The man who gave me a bear hug jumps up and waves his arms in the air. “Here, here, here,” he yells at the top of his lungs, “and ready to travel, sir!”
Two hours later, 650 Ohio soldiers have responded. Three boxcars and several flatcars are stuffed with grateful souls. Camp officers decide to add 150 more names to the list, men from Indiana.
My hopes soar in anticipation that the Indiana 9th will be chosen. A man complains loudly to Captain Speed, the officer in charge of assigning transportation, that the trains are already crowded. Captain Speed disregards the complaint with a wave of his hand and boards 150 more.
The Indiana 9th is not chosen.
The soldiers left at Camp Fisk begin a tradition of sending each group off as it leaves. We stay on the parade ground and cheer that day’s departing comrades with chants of “HOME . . . HOME . . . HOME,” and punch our fists into the air with each word as the train lurches west toward the docks.
A few days later, on April 6, word reaches Camp Fisk that Richmond, Virginia, has fallen to Union troops. Seven days later, on Palm Sunday, we learn of Lee’s surrender. The dogwoods are in bloom, the creeks are full from spring rains, the war’s over, and we are days from home. Can anything be more perfect?
* * *
A celebration of unequaled magnitude is set for the next day. Rebel soldiers, stationed nearby, are told not to be alarmed when we fire off a two-hundred-gun salute to commemorate the end of the war. They canvass the troops and put together a band. I volunteer, and I’m handed a battered old horn to play. To hold that dented piece of metal brings the most joy I’ve experienced in months.
At first, my mouth hurts as I press my lips hard together and force air through the horn. I’m out of practice, but slowly, it all comes back and feels right. I play better than I have at any time in my life. We decide to play “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.”
When Johnny comes marching home again
Hurrah. Hurrah.
We’ll give him a hearty welcome then
Hurrah. Hurrah.
The men will cheer and the boys will shout
The ladies they will all turn out
And we’ll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home.
There’s not a dry eye anywhere in Camp Fisk.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
April 17, 1865
Illinois prisoners are told to assemble for departure, and the rest of us sit nearby ready to give them a fond farewell. It’s apparent when the Illinois boys are in formation that something’s different. The sky may be clear, but the atmosphere seems cloudy and unbalanced.
My group has been at Camp Fisk for two weeks, waiting to leave. During this time, Confederate soldiers have worked every day in camp. They help prepare rosters for departures, bring in supplies, and assist in carrying wounded soldiers from Jackson in ambulances. They move freely about Camp Fisk, and nobody gives them a second thought. Confederate officer Captain Speed meets every morning with a squad of six Confederate soldiers to discuss departures. After their meetings, Captain Speed announces who is to leave that day.
Today, however, Captain Speed calls his Confederate soldiers off to the side. He speaks to them privately for less than a minute. The captain’s hands, usually animated, are reserved today, his gestures slow. He dismisses his squad; they hurry out the gate and head east toward Black River without looking back. Several minutes pass, and after making sure his Confederate men have cleared camp, he speaks with the Union officers. We can’t hear what’s being said, but one Union officer grabs his head as if the news brings a stifling blow to his skull. Another officer reaches for the wheel of a nearby wagon and sinks to the ground.
Soon after, Captain Speed rushes from camp. He follows the same path his fellow soldiers took a few minutes ago.
We sit, waiting for perhaps fifteen minutes. We know something’s
amiss. “False rumors of the war ending?” Big Tennessee wonders out loud.
“I don’t think so,” Sergeant Survant says. “Their reactions were too strong for that.”
“Worse than the war not being over?” I ask. “I can’t think of anything worse than that.”
Sergeant Survant nods. “Yeah, probably so, Stephen.”
Major Fidler steps onto the wooden platform and raises a hand for quiet. He glances back to the east to where the Confederate soldiers left camp minutes earlier. They are completely out of sight.
“Men. . .,” he begins, “this is an important day for our brave men heading home to Illinois.” He looks at his boots to gather his thoughts. “But before you leave, there’s some news I have to share with you. Word arrived in Vicksburg today. A ship called the Sultana stopped on her way to New Orleans. With telegraph lines slashed, this is the quickest we could learn of . . . of . . . this news. The news is not good.”
“We’re going home, right?” a man shouts. “You got our hopes up, Major, that today’s our last day here.”
The major looks up. “Yes, you’re going home today,” he says too quietly.
“Then what’s the news?” someone yells. “Spit it out.”
“Three nights ago President Lincoln was shot in a theater in Washington.” The major pauses. “Our president is dead.”
The news crashes through camp like a boom of thunder announcing a storm. After the shock sinks in, someone yells, “Hang them rebels from trees!”
“Hang ’em thick as pinecones,” another offers.
The major waits for the hatred to evaporate.
“We fought for nothing,” somebody suggests.
“Is that why the Southern traitors ran from camp?” one asks.
The major raises his hand. “I asked Captain Speed to leave.”
“Ran like scared rabbits!” a man yells.
“We should raise a black flag and kill ’em all.”
“It’s not clear who shot our president,” the major says. “One thing is for sure: Captain Speed is a good man and the Confederate soldiers at Camp Fisk had nothing to do with it.”
Crossing the Deadline Page 15
