By going through some old newspaper stories on the heavy fighting that had recently taken place in Virginia, McFadden had picked out a Union regiment from which he would say he had come, the 7th Michigan Infantry. Few other Confederate soldiers could have pulled off the deception, as their Southern accents would have given them away in an instant. As McFadden spoke with a Scottish brogue, that would not be an issue for him.
He had considered declaring himself to be a Southern deserter. This would have been a far easier deception to successfully pull off. It would also have limited his options, as he would no doubt be sent to some sort of depot under guard for proper processing. By disguising himself as an escaped Union prisoner, he would have a much better chance of obtaining the freedom of movement he would need to make his way to the camp of the 118th Ohio, wherever it was.
There were no roads nearby, as near as he could tell. The sky was overcast, blocking the light of the moon and stars. He had been in the army long enough to know that he could easily get lost if he attempted to walk under such conditions. Having successfully crossed the river, he decided it would be best to wait until the coming of morning to seek out the nearest Union troops and put his plan into effect. Until then, he would try to sleep.
He decided against making a fire. Instead, he simply wrapped himself in his blanket and sequestered himself under the low branches of a tree. Unfortunately, he found that sleep did not come easily. The nature of his errand preyed on his mind.
He was certain that he had seen Cheeky Joe on the river, and what he had learned from the Yankees during the parlay two days earlier had confirmed that his enemy was nearby. Two months earlier, this information would have filled McFadden with a sinister joy and he would have set off without the slightest hesitation. Killing Cheeky Joe was the only way to avenge his brother and, though he could not understand why, he felt that it would somehow avenge the deaths of his parents and sisters as well.
McFadden now felt only resignation. He was doing it not because he wanted to, but because he had no choice. Annie would not have wanted him to go, for the mission he had embarked upon posed far more danger to him than even the fiercest battle. Were he to be discovered in the Union camp wearing a Union uniform, the odds were that he would be executed as a spy.
He had written Annie a letter and entrusted it to Montgomery, asking him to deliver it to her as soon as the 7th Texas went back into camp after concluded their picket duty. In the letter, McFadden told Annie what he had done and apologized for doing so without saying goodbye. He expressed his fear that his actions would lose him her respect and that of her parents, which he had worked so hard to earn and which had come to mean more to him than he could have previously imagined.
He had ended the letter with words he had never expected to write.
If I do not return, my dear Annie, know that I love you.
The memory of scratching those lines at the bottom of the page caused McFadden to wince, as though it actually inflicted physical pain. Still, as awkward as he had felt when had signed his name at the bottom of the letter, he had also felt a certain relief that Annie would know of his feelings if he failed to return.
For a horrifying moment, he felt disgrace and despair. How stupid had he been to embark upon such a fool’s errand as this? A happy and contented life had been beckoning to him. He was a hero, had been promoted to an officer, and had begun courting a woman with whom he had fallen in love. All that he had now thrown away.
McFadden did have the satisfaction of knowing that he had not deserted his comrades in the 7th Texas. After all, he was infiltrating the Union camp in order to kill a Union soldier. He fully intended to return to his men as soon as his personal mission of revenge was completed. How could that be considered desertion?
He had told Major Collett of his plan earlier in the day, reassuring him that he would be back within a few days. Collett had not exactly given him permission to go, but had promised to “close his eyes” when the sun went down. He had also warned McFadden that if he did not return within five days, he would report him as a deserter. Since McFadden had confided in Collett about Cheeky Joe, perhaps he had acquiesced because he knew McFadden would simply disobey him if he tried to prevent him from leaving.
It didn’t matter if he had made the right decision or not. Indeed, it was not worth worrying about now. He had sent his letter to Annie and crossed the river. There was no going back. For better or worse, he was committed to his pursuit of Cheeky Joe. Even if the rational part of his mind told him that it had virtually no chance of success, he had no choice now but to do his utmost to succeed. If he did eventually stand over the dead body of his enemy, clutching a bloody knife, he would at least have the satisfaction of knowing he had avenged his family. Whether it was worth destroying his relationship with Annie and losing the respect of her family was a question that he could try to answer later, assuming he survived.
These uncomfortable thoughts rocked back and forth in his mind like the swaying of a ship at sea until he finally drifted off into a fitful sleep.
*****
September 7, Afternoon
The major emerged from the darkness of the tunnel, clutching a long line of twine in his hand. Although he was breathing hard and clearly exhausted from his exertions, he had a beaming smile on his face.
“We did it!” he said exuberantly. “A hundred and ten feet!”
Thomas felt his heart quicken and he could sense the stirring among the half-dozen other officers inside the hut. If the major had measured the distance correctly, the tunnel had now reached beyond the fence line, presenting the tantalizing possibility of freedom to at least some of the Union prisoners in Camp Oglethorpe.
Thomas quickly reminded himself that tunneling past the fence line was only a single step in the escape process. It was an important step, to be sure, but much work remained to be done. They now had to dig at an upwards incline for a certain distance in order to break through to the surface just before the escape attempt itself. This would be a dangerous moment, as it would be easier for the rebel guards to discover the tunnel. But there was no alternative.
The assembled officers began excitedly discussing the plan for creating a diversion to distract the guards when the escape attempt was actually made. Thomas felt that this was not the proper time for such a discussion, but let the men continue talking for the moment. Some of them had been imprisoned for more than a year and the fact that their tunnel had extended past the fence line was possibly the most exhilarating news they had had during that entire time. Excited chatter about the diversion might not have been productive at that moment, but it was good for morale.
Seymour manfully slapped Thomas on the shoulder.
“Good news, eh, George?”
Thomas nodded. “Good news, indeed. But we should not celebrate prematurely.”
Thomas’s serious demeanor quickly sobered Seymour. “Yes, you’re right.”
“I do not want the excitement of the men to cause any lack of discipline. A single stray word overheard by an enemy will mean the end of this entire enterprise.”
Seymour nodded. “Of course.”
There was a sudden, frightening sound: three loud thuds against the door. It was the signal that rebel guards were approaching.
“Concealment!” Thomas said urgently and harshly, trying to keep his voice below the level of a shout. Everyone sprang into action. The major who had been down in the tunnel ducked into it once again, as his dusty and dirty appearance would certainly have given the game away. Seymour and a colonel rapidly pushed the wooden cover into place over the entrance to the tunnel, while Thomas and a captain hurriedly grabbed either end of a bed and pulled it over the cover. The two other men, both majors, snatched up a deck of cards and hurriedly dealt them out onto the bed.
Just over one minute since the warning sound had first been heard, the door slammed open and Captain Gibbs, with half a dozen guards armed with rifles visible behind him, peered into the cabin. He saw six U
nion prisoners playing cards on the bed.
“Attention!” Gibbs called out.
With a slowness that demonstrated their disrespect for the rebel officer, the six Union officers in the cabin rose from their game and stood straight, facing the door.
Gibbs looked down at the bed. “You were playing cards?”
“Obviously.” The tone managed to be polite and mocking at the same time.
“Very well.” The Southern officer paused a moment before continuing. “General Thomas, I have been ordered by my commanding officer to inform you that the Confederate government has learned that Major General Nathan Bedford Forrest, during a battle in central Tennessee, was executed by Union soldiers after having been taken prisoner.”
“Is that so?” Thomas asked. He found this information to be genuinely fascinating and hearing any news of the war was welcome. While he did not approve of any violations of the sacred rules of warfare, he could not deny that a certain satisfaction crept into his heart upon hearing of Forrest’s death. The man had been both an enemy of the United States and a thoroughly vile human being. The world was a better place with Forrest dead.
“It is,” Gibbs said. “As you are aware, executing soldiers who have been captured in battle represents one of the most egregious violations of the articles of war.”
“Forrest would know that better than most,” Seymour chimed in. “How many prisoners did his men slaughter at Fort Pillow?”
“Don’t rightly know,” Thomas said with a grin. “But I imagine he’s explaining it to Old Scratch even as we speak.”
“Silence!” Gibbs snapped. “You will not be making jokes much longer, General Thomas. My commander orders me to inform you that the government in Richmond is considering their response to Forrest’s unlawful death.”
The smiles instantly vanished from the faces of the Union officers. There was an uneasy pause.
“What do you mean?” Seymour asked. “What sort of response?”
“General Thomas is the highest ranking Union officer currently held as a prisoner by the Confederacy. We have sent a message under flag of truce to General Grant, requesting an explanation for the manner of General Forrest’s death. If a satisfactory answer is not received, I am informed that the government in Richmond shall order the death of General Thomas by hanging.”
“What?!” Seymour exclaimed.
“You heard me perfectly well, General Seymour.”
Thomas said nothing, but his stomach clenched tightly. He did not fear death, but the manner of death being described was not how he had envisioned going to his maker. He had expected either to be struck down in battle or to die of old age in the comfort of his own bed. He had certainly never imagined having a noose pulled around his neck and being dropped through the gallows trapdoor.
His fellow Southerners regarded him as the worst of traitors. His name was used throughout the Confederacy in the same manner as Benedict Arnold’s name had been used throughout the whole country before the war. He could imagine the sheer glee the newspapers of Richmond, Charleston and Atlanta would display in their headlines when they announced his execution.
“Do you have anything to say, General Thomas?” Gibbs asked.
“No,” Thomas said simply.
Gibbs smiled impolitely and nodded. He touched his hat. “In that case, I bid you good day.” A moment later, the door closed again, leaving the Union officers alone.
Thomas sank down onto the bunk, his mind racing and his heart pounding. For several minutes, the men looked down at their leader in silence. Seymour finally spoke up.
“We have to get you out of here, George. We need to move up the timing of our escape plan.”
Thomas shook his head. “Absolutely not,” he said firmly.
“The rebels are going to kill you, George.”
“And if I escape, what will they do? If they have announced that they are going to retaliate for the death of Forrest by executing a Union officer of equal rank, they will do so. Therefore, if I escape, they will select some other general to be hanged. How can I have that on my conscience?”
One of the majors spoke up. “Sir, you are the best general the Union has. You need to be at the head of the Army of the Cumberland, not dead at the hands of the rebels in this stinking prison camp!”
“Mind your place,” Thomas said to the lower-ranking officer. The realities of life in a prison camp necessarily blurred military formalities, but the chain of command remained intact and Thomas did not like having a mere major speak to him with such familiarity. “In any event, the chances of any of us reaching the Union lines are not good. I shall not force another man to go to the gallows in my place merely on the off chance that I might make it back to my army.”
“Well, we should at least discuss the possibility of changing our plans in view of this new development.”
“What does this have to do with the escape plan?” Thomas snapped. “Our goal is to get as many men out of this prison as possible. No, we shall carry on with the plan as we have crafted it. The only change is that I shall not be among those who will make the attempt.”
“You cannot be serious!” Seymour protested. “If you remain here, you will be executed!”
Thomas shrugged. “If that is what honor demands, that is what I shall do. Now follow my orders.”
*****
September 7, Night
“7th Michigan, you say?”
“That’s right, sir,” McFadden answered.
The Union colonel’s eyes narrowed. “And your name again?”
“Samuel Stephens, sir. A private, sir.”
It was the fourth time he had said the name to the Yankee officer. It was clear that the man was testing him, trying to find some hint that his story was a falsification. McFadden was struggling to both maintain his false identity and not to appear too nervous while doing so. After all, if he really was who he said he was, he should not be nervous at all. He should be overjoyed at having gotten to the Northern lines.
He had encountered a Union patrol within half an hour of daylight that morning. He had called to them from a distance, luckily not drawing rifle fire, shouting that he was an escaped prisoner and asking for help. They had given him some food and water and escorted him back to their camp. Once there, he had been kicked steadily up the chain of command and was now being debriefed by this particular colonel, who struck McFadden as a man with a decidedly mediocre mind.
“Where are you from, Stephens? Originally, I mean.”
“Aberdeen, sir. In Scotland.”
“And you’re telling me that you walked all the way from the prison camp at Andersonville to the Chattahoochee River?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Hundreds of miles of enemy territory? Land swarming with rebel troops?”
“Hid in slave quarters most of the way, sir,” McFadden answered. “Most of the negroes were very anxious to help me escape.”
“I’ll bet they were,” the Union colonel replied. “Wherever we go across the South, they flock to our lines. It’s the same everywhere. Tennessee, Mississippi, Georgia. They want to be free like everybody else, no matter what lies the rebels try to spread about them.”
“Not just the blacks, sir. Quite a few whites in these parts are Unionist.”
His eyebrows went up. “Are they, now?”
“Yes, sir. Some gave me shelter and food. More food than I ever got in Andersonville, by God.”
“I’ll wager that’s the truth. You look rather stout for a man that’s just come out of a prison camp. Tell me, is it really as bad as they say?”
McFadden waited a moment before answering. “It’s worse, sir.”
McFadden didn’t know this from the evidence of his own eyes, for he had never been to Andersonville. But the rumors about the place which circulated in the camps of the Army of Tennessee painted a picture of horror that defied any attempt at description. The prison guards, uneducated militiamen in their teens, were known to shoot down Northe
rn prisoners at the slightest provocation and sometimes merely out of a desire for amusement. Food for the prisoners was virtually nonexistent and the shelters the prisoners were allowed to build did not even suffice to protect them from the elements. Andersonville was, in short, about as close to hell as a man could get without dying as an unbelieving sinner.
He was willing to overlook the lack of food for the Union prisoners. After all, the Confederacy had enough difficulty feeding its own soldiers and refugees, so how could it be expected to feed the men who had been captured while fighting to reduce the South to subservience? He reminded himself that Confederate captives in Northern prison camps fared little better than the Yankees held captive in the South. Before McFadden had joined up with the 7th Texas, the regiment had done its own stint in Yankee prison camps after being captured at Fort Donelson in early 1862. The other regiments in Granbury’s Texas Brigade had also endured captivity after being captured at Arkansas Post in early 1863. Before being exchanged, the regiments had lost hundreds of men to disease and hunger, despite being held in the midst of wealth and prosperity.
He forced these thoughts from his mind. If he was to successfully pull off his facade as an escaped Union soldier, it would be far better for him to pretend to despise the Confederacy with every fiber of his being. He described the horrors of Andersonville, hoping that his acting would be sufficient to make the Yankee officer believe that he had been there himself. He also related the story he had made up of how he had escaped by bribing one of the guards to let him through the stockade in the middle of the night.
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