“I have no personal motive. Before I received this information, I had nothing but respect for both Cleburne and Johnston. But having been given this information, I feel it only fair that the public be made aware of it. My sense of duty demands it.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment,” Daniel scoffed. “Still, provided these papers are genuine, you are correct that this matter must be brought to the public’s notice as quickly as possible.”
“They are genuine,” Bragg said firmly. “On that you have my word.”
“But where did you get them? You were no longer in command of the army when this meeting is said to have taken place.”
“No. But many of the men who attended the meeting remain my friends.”
Daniel nodded absently, turning his attention back to the papers. “May I keep these?”
“By all means.”
“Well, I never thought I would hear myself say this, but thank you, General Bragg.”
Bragg didn’t reply, but merely grunted as he started to walk back the way he had come.
*****
August 21, Morning
McFadden sat in one of the back pews, Annie just to his right and her parents farther down. Central Presbyterian Church was packed with families and with army officers who, like McFadden, had been granted leave for the day to attend services in the city. On the pulpit, the Reverend John Rogers was giving the sermon, reading from the Book of Exodus.
“’And Moses said unto the people, Fear ye not, stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord, which he will show to you today. For the Egyptians whom ye have seen today, we shall see them again no more forever.’”
“Not very subtle, that Reverend Rogers,” Annie whispered to McFadden. “Obviously the Egyptians are the Yankees.”
Teresa Turnbow harshly shushed her daughter, causing McFadden to grin.
“The Israelites were freed from the Egyptian yoke,” Rogers was saying. “God helped the Israelites so long as they remained His people. If we ourselves are to ever be freed from the Yankee yoke and the scourge of Northern aggression, we must be God’s people no less than were the ancient Israelites!”
Glancing to his right, McFadden saw Teresa nod her head while Robert pursed his lips. Clearly, Annie’s mother agreed with the preacher’s point and her father did not.
McFadden had heard more than one preacher compare the Yankees to the biblical enemies of Israel. Stokely Chaddick, the chaplain of Granbury’s Texas Brigade, did so on a regular basis at his Sunday services. McFadden wasn’t sure whether or not he agreed with the analogy himself, for after coming back from New Mexico he had not given the political or philosophical issues surrounding the war much thought. He had stayed in the army because he had not known what to do with himself and he had fought against the Yankees simply because he wanted to fight.
His conversations with the Turnbow family had begun to awaken his mind and forced him to ask himself what, exactly, he was fighting for. He could easily have been killed in a dozen different battles or died of one of the innumerable diseases that stalked the army camps. Shouldn’t the cause for which he was putting his life in peril be worthy of his sacrifice? What about the sacrifice of so many thousands of other men?
The war was about slavery. McFadden was too intelligent and too honest to deny that. He doubted if more than one out of ten men in the 7th Texas had ever owned a slave, but had there been no slavery, there would have been no war. To admit this was simply a concession to the obvious. But the fact that slavery was the cause of the war did not mean that slavery was the reason for which he fought. He certainly would never put his own life on the line to defend the right of rich men to keep their slave property, especially since such men cared nothing for people like him.
So why did he fight?
Whatever the cause of the war, the Yankees had invaded the South. They said they were doing it to free the slaves and preserve the Union. They might even be sincere when they said this. But it didn’t matter to McFadden, for it didn’t change the fact that they had invaded the South, burned its farms and towns, forced its people to become refugees, set up armies of occupation, and subjected the people to all manner of shames and humiliations.
He had not cared much about these things before. He had fought because he wanted to fight. But he cared about them now, for the people of the South had become real to him again. Annie Turnbow was why he fought now. To protect her from the Yankees, he would happily surrender his own life.
Reverend Rogers was still talking. “Sitting amongst us here, in this very church, are many of the men who serve as fingers of the fist of God. Our brave soldiers, fighting to defend all that we hold dear just as the Israelite warriors did so long ago, we thank you. We pray for you. We ask that you remain strong, that you remain faithful, that you remain committed. We place all our trust in you as you go forward to smite the Northern invaders and drive them from our land.”
McFadden shifted uncomfortably as he heard these words, feeling the sidelong glances of the Turnbow family. Whatever else he was, McFadden did not consider himself a hero. The minister’s words made him feel uneasy.
After having gone on for what McFadden felt was rather too long, Reverend Rogers finally came to a conclusion. Gratefully, the congregation rose from their pews and the gentle chatter of greetings and conversation filled the church as people drifted toward the doors. A few minutes later, McFadden and the Turnbows were on the street, walking back to the Turnbow house. The slave Jupiter, who had been waiting outside the church, wordlessly joined them, keeping a respectful distance. It was a clear, hot day, with scarcely a wisp of white clouds visible in the sky.
“I thought it was a nice sermon,” McFadden said.
“John Rogers is a good preacher,” Robert Turnbow said. “But then, I suppose you would be a better judge than I, being the son of a preacher.”
“He speaks very well.” McFadden thought that a fair enough compliment. In truth, he felt his father had been a more much effective preacher, but he couldn’t discount the possibility that he was biased.
“How is the book coming?” Robert asked.
“The Kosciuszko biography? Quite well, thank you. I think I may finish it soon.”
“I look forward to discussing it at more length when you are finished.”
“As do I.”
“Lieutenant, would you mind escorting Annie back to the house?” Teresa asked. “Robert and I want to pay a visit to a friend who has been ill.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” McFadden replied.
With a happy nod, Robert took Teresa by the arm and turned right down a side street. Annie and McFadden continued back toward the house, with Jupiter following a short distance behind. Without a word, Annie slipped her arm into McFadden’s.
“Mother hasn’t spoken about any ill friend,” Annie said.
“No?”
She grinned. “I think that Father has persuaded her to allow us some time together.”
“Well, deception or not, I thank her for it.”
“How are things in your regiment?”
“We’re going up to the picket line again soon.” Annie’s expression became apprehensive and he hurried to reassure her. “There’s nothing to worry about, my dear. There is no fighting on the picket line. We and the Yankees mostly just watch each other and sometimes toss insulting remarks back and forth.”
“Strange,” Annie said, shaking her head. “An unusual war.”
“That is the truth.”
“I have read in some of the papers that Poland has risen up against the Russian Empire again.”
“Has it?” McFadden asked, interested. “I hadn’t heard.” He had enough trouble keeping track of the events in America to concern himself with anything going on in Europe.
She sighed. “It’s happened before. As always, the Poles have no chance. They don’t have an army. They don’t have any leadership. The British and French won’t help them.”
“There may be hope. Men fig
hting for their freedom can accomplish amazing things.” He thought of the feats of courage he had seen from the men of the 7th Texas on a dozen different battlefields. “Besides, Poles are brave fighters. That’s one thing I’ve learned from reading your father’s book about Kosciuszko.”
She smiled. “He is very happy that you are enjoying it so much. So am I, for that matter.”
“Why you?”
“I think the more you know about Poland, the more you know about me. And the more you know about me, the happier I am.” Her voice was playful.
“Poland is in your blood, isn’t it?”
“The same way Scotland is in yours, I should think.”
“May I ask you a question, Annie?”
She looked at him. “Of course.”
“You and your mother are Polish patriots, yet you attend a Presbyterian Church. It was my understanding that almost all Poles were Catholic.”
“I think that my mother loved my father so much that she was willing to turn away from the holy church in Rome in order to marry him. So I was raised Polish and Presbyterian. An odd blend, I know.”
“Not to me,” McFadden said. “I like you just the way you are.”
He was speaking the truth. The more he learned about Annie Turnbow, the more fascinating he found her. They had reached the point where they exchanged letters on almost a daily basis, while his visits to her parents’ house and her visits to the regimental camp were also increasing in frequency. Having been granted permission by Annie’s father to court her, McFadden found himself happier with every passing day.
Then he tensed. The thought of Cheeky Joe on the river intruded rudely into his mind. Even in the presence of Annie, he was unable to entirely rid his mind from the demon’s grip.
“James? Is something wrong?”
“No, not at all.” He continued walking with Annie, trying to focus his attention on her words. With a great effort of will, he forced the image of Cheeky Joe from his mind.
*****
August 21, Afternoon
Thomas had settled into life at Camp Oglethorpe, albeit with the greatest reluctance. The Union prisoners had devised various means of keeping themselves occupied during their captivity. A group of men had formed that regularly put on amateur theatricals for the amusement of their comrades. One clever fellow had begun putting his fluency in French to good use by giving lessons in the language, accepting promises from his students to pay after their release. A debating society had also been formed, although the rebel authorities had prohibited any discussion of issues related to the war. Most of the debates had centered upon questions of history, such as whether Caesar had been justified in crossing the Rhine or whether William the Conqueror’s claim to the throne of England had been legitimate.
None of this interested George Thomas. His mind was bent only on escape.
He was sitting on a bunk inside one of the cabins. It was not especially close to the fence line and therefore would hopefully not be seen as interesting by the prying eyes of rebel guards.
A colonel poked his head out of the hole that had been dug in the center of the floor. “Here,” he said, handing Thomas a pewter cup filled with soil. “Put this with the other ones.” The man’s voice carried the tone of command and he stiffened momentarily when he remembered to whom he was speaking. “Sorry, General.”
“It’s all right,” Thomas replied. “When it comes to digging this tunnel, consider yourself the general and me the private. After all, you have much more experience.”
The colonel smiled and then disappeared back into the tunnel with the dexterity, if not the speed, of a groundhog dashing back into its hole. When actual work on the tunnel was not being conducted, the entrance to it was concealed beneath a square-shaped plank of wood that had been surreptitiously made from planks taken from other cabins. One of the beds was placed over the entrance as an added disguise. Although rebel guards inspected each cabin at least once a day, it had been noted early on that they were not particularly thorough. Being young and mostly uneducated, the militiamen most often simply glanced around and, seeing nothing amiss, moved on to the next cabin.
Even better, the guards had fallen into a lazy and predictable schedule, always inspecting the cabins an hour or so after lunch had been issued. The Union prisoners therefore found it easy to work on the tunnel during the night and morning hours, stop work and conceal the passage around noon, and then resume work immediately after the inspection had been conducted. As a precaution, however, they regularly practiced a method of rapidly closing the tunnel entrance and positioning the bed over it in the event of an unexpected visit from the guards. From what Thomas had been told, they had reduced the time necessary for concealment down to thirty seconds, although it meant that whoever was actually in the tunnel would have to remain there until the guards had left.
Wooden planks taken from other cabins had also been put to use as structural supports inside the tunnel itself. Using a long length of twine, the diggers estimated that they had already dug approximately seventy feet, with perhaps another fifteen to go before they reached beyond the fence line. They were now managing about a foot a day, with the refuse dirt quietly being discarded throughout the vast area of the camp in small quantities so as to avoid any suspicion. The tunnel itself was just about two feet high, though somewhat less in width. It would be an exceedingly narrow squeeze for those who would make the escape.
The problem of ventilating the tunnel had proven to be the most difficult challenge for the would-be escapees. Some had advocated that they simply ignore the problem and hope for the best, but the engineering officers had prevailed by pointing out that many of the men would likely pass out and suffocate while attempting to crawl through an unventilated tunnel. This would not only kill them, but block the passage for those behind them and probably lead to their deaths as well. As a result, the diggers had been forced to divert the path of the tunnel away from the most direct route toward the fence line in order to pass underneath another cabin, where a ventilation shaft was being driven downward. On the day of the escape, a small fire would be lit on the floor of the tunnel near the entrance, carrying the stale air within the tunnel upwards while fresh air would be sucked into the tunnel through the ventilation to fill the resulting vacuum. It was not the most elegant solution, and it added a considerable distance to the length of the tunnel, but it was the best the engineers had been able to devise.
The plan for the escape itself had been carefully crafted. On the chosen date, as soon as it was sufficiently dark, one hundred men chosen by drawing sticks would crawl through the tunnel, pass underneath the fence line, and make for the deep woods northwest of the camp. While this was happening, those privy to the plot who had not been selected would foment an apparent riot over poor rations, hopefully distracting the attention of most of the guards. If the initial one hundred successfully got away, those who remained behind could attempt to escape through the tunnel the following evening in the unlikely event that the earlier escape had gone unnoticed by the rebels.
General Seymour and the other officers involved in the planning of the escape had explained all of this very carefully to General Thomas. As Thomas was now the senior officer in the camp, they had officially requested his permission to continue their efforts. After pondering the matter, Thomas had decided to approve the plans as they already existed and urged the men to continue.
There was a knock on the door, three loud thumps following by four soft ones. This was the code indicating that it was safe to momentarily open the door without initiating the emergency concealment procedure. One of the other diggers stood up and let General Seymour in. The door was quickly closed behind him.
“How is it going, George?”
“I am learning the trade of a mole,” Thomas replied with a smile.
“One gets used to it quickly, I have found.”
“What’s going on outside?”
“About a dozen new arrivals came in today, all from the Arm
y of the Potomac.”
“Oh. Any war news?”
“Nothing we haven’t already heard. Some of them do have some greenbacks, though.”
“Ah, that’s good.”
As officers, many of the prisoners in Camp Oglethorpe had been permitted to keep whatever cash had been on their person at the moment of their capture. Some money had been collected into a fund that would be used to try to bribe any rebel guard who somehow discovered the secret of the tunnel. Thomas did not think that this would work, but the small comfort it provided was worth the effort. There was little else on which to spend the money, after all.
“How far have we gotten today?” Seymour asked.
“We’re approaching one foot for the day. A bit ahead of schedule.”
“That’s good. If our luck holds, the tunnel will reach beyond the fence line in a bit over two weeks.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “You know, if our security remains tight enough, we might continue working for an additional week and push the tunnel farther beyond the fence line. Every inch closer to the woods we get, the higher the chance of a successful escape.”
Thomas nodded. “I thought of that myself. We can discuss it at tonight’s meeting.”
The digger emerged from the tunnel and handed Seymour the next scoop of dirt. The man’s face was so black with grime that Thomas thought he looked like a slave. He immediately disappeared back into the tunnel without a word.
Seymour leaned forward and spoke earnestly. “Whenever the attempt is made, I feel very strongly that you should go first.”
“What makes you think I’ll go at all? The odds of me drawing one of the hundred short sticks are no better than anyone else’s.”
“You’re going no matter what,” Seymour said with conviction. “You’re the highest ranking officer in this place and you need to be at the head of your army.”
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