The Other Side of Life

by Andy Kutler

  Cal flashed back to their first meeting, just after he had marched through the prison gates on his first day and stood in this very office. They exchanged pleasantries, the meeting surprisingly cordial until Cal inquired about the camp conditions and health of the prisoners. The warden’s mood instantly darkened as he pursed his lips and dismissed Cal without a further word. It would be Cal’s first and last audience with the despicable man who ran what Cal came to know as a piece of hell.

  He eyed the leather furniture longingly. “Aw, hell,” he muttered to himself.

  He gently lowered himself into one of the chairs. He sighed inwardly as the soft cushion gave way, his first feel of comfort of any kind since his last visit home back in May. It seemed like an eternity. His eyes moved to the coffeepot resting on the stove. He was well north so he knew it would be the real stuff and not the ersatz, acorn-flavored muck the Confederates had been drinking the last two years. The coffeepot was tempting, but reclining in this chair was as much as he dared.

  The room was deathly quiet, the silence another luxury to savor. The thick windows were thankfully closed, walling him off from the familiar sounds of the prison yard. They were human sounds, mostly of torment and misery. Wounded men crying out for relief. Half-starved scarecrows, their sanity chipped away each day, sometimes bawling to themselves uncontrollably. There was often the sounds of a beating, whether it was the sadistic guards who roamed the prison corridors like schoolyard bullies, or fellow prisoners, separated into packs of wolves to prey on the weak and the sickly.

  He heard none of that now. The only sound Cal could detect was a soft cackling from the fireplace and the rhythmic, metallic clicking of a mantle clock.

  He closed his eyes and allowed the burning embers to continue warming his face and feet. He could feel his bare toes protruding from the hole in his right boot. The winter elements in northern New Jersey had been unforgiving and he knew frostbite was inevitable for all of them. Compared to what he went through on the surgical table at Gettysburg, however, losing a few toes seemed inconsequential. His eyelids drooped as he continued to muse to himself about why he had been summoned to this office.

  “Good God!” boomed an authoritative voice. “What the hell kind of manners are they teaching in the Confederate Army?”

  Though he had been fast asleep, Cal’s training produced an automatic reflex as he labored to push himself off the chair and into a standing position. He had forgotten how weakened he was, however, and though he made it to his feet, he had to touch his fingertips to the back of the chair to steady himself.

  He swiveled his head, immediately recognizing the man in the doorway. He was dressed in the familiar blue uniform, adorned now with the single star of a brigadier general.

  Cal was struck by how much Nathan Gaylord had aged since they saw each other last. He was significantly more pale, as were most who were no longer posted in the mountains and deserts of the West. Wrinkles lined his face, and while his hair and beard remained thick, they had turned from a steel gray to almost snow white. But his eyes still twinkled as he entered the office, suggesting to Cal that the man’s keenness and vitality had not waned.

  An unsmiling elderly man followed closely behind. He was lean and rangy, with a pink bulbous nose. He wore a black suit and heavy overcoat, and appeared uneasy in these surroundings, as if they were trespassing. Cal noted the man was carrying a satchel, unusual for a visit to a prison.

  Gaylord closed the door behind the other man and walked toward Cal, extending his hand with a warm smile.

  “How are you, lad? You look like hell. Understandable for a man back from the grave, no?”

  “Colonel,” replied Cal, taking his hand, still somewhat shocked by the man’s presence. “I mean, General. What are you doing here? I mean, I’m fine…but what are you doing here, Sir?”

  Gaylord laughed. “What am I doing here? Visiting a ghost perhaps? Until a few months ago, I thought you were dead, son. Your bones scattered all over New Mexico.”

  “I understand, General. I can explain if…”

  Gaylord raised his hand, and gave Cal a look that suggested he already knew what he needed to know.

  “Your absence from your duties has been excused, for the record.” Gaylord’s eyes dropped to the faded insignia on the lapels of Cal’s soiled frock coat. “Colonel,” he added, a smile dancing on his lips.

  Cal flushed. “A brevet rank, as I’m sure you have surmised, Sir.”

  “Think nothing of it, Mr. Garrity. I am sure it is well deserved. And trust me, we’ve had our share of battlefield promotions as well.”

  “General, my apologies, but again, what in the world are you doing here?”

  Gaylord gestured for Cal to return to his seat, and they both sat, facing each other. Gaylord’s associate moved to the window and looked out over the prison yard.

  “I received an interesting letter not too long ago from Ethan Royston. He informed me of your capture in Pennsylvania.”

  Cal’s eyes widened. “How did he—Custer! General Custer got through to him?”

  Gaylord nodded, his reaction to the name reflecting some distaste. “George Custer. I’m told the man was a disgrace at West Point. How a twenty-three-year-old is given such a command is beyond me. But he did forward your note to Major Royston.”

  For the first time in months, Cal grinned. “Major Royston?”

  “Yes,” said Gaylord, with a frown Cal knew to be disingenuous. “It would appear you have leapfrogged him in rank. I will make sure he is aware of your…indifference…about that development.”

  “How is—”

  “Ethan is fine, Mr. Garrity. He’s got a regiment under Pleasonton, one of our better cavalrymen. He did have a bit of a rough go at Gettysburg.”

  “A lot of us did. He was there?”

  “Yes. Anyhow, Custer isn’t known for his administrative skills and it took a few months for your note to reach Royston. He cabled me in Washington, and well, here I am.”

  “General, I appreciate—”

  “Of course, you can imagine my shock when I heard the news you were alive. Apaches, I was told, you understand, by Royston himself when he returned from that patrol.”

  “It’s a long story, General. I don’t even know how to begin to explain or apologize.”

  “Stop. It is I who must apologize to you. I should hope you understand that if I had any idea that you were still alive, and held captive somewhere, I would have mobilized the entire post to find you. You understand that?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I have also sent word for Sergeant Travers to answer for his actions. The man was clearly lying, though his motives remain a mystery. I want to apologize for my delay in locating you here. Our records regarding Confederate prisoners are rather lacking, thus it took me nearly four months to track you to this…place.”

  “No apology—”

  “Lieutenant…or Colonel, or whatever you are, if you interrupt me one more time, I’m going to have those inbred Neanderthals outside beat you senseless.”

  Cal smiled, holding his tongue. He realized how much he had missed this man.

  “Better.” Gaylord turned serious. “Regrettably, time is something I have no scarcity of in my current position.”

  “You are not commanding a line unit, Sir?”

  “Ha!” Gaylord chortled, exchanging a look with his friend at the window.

  “No lad, not hardly. They have put this old nag out to pasture. They have made me a staff officer, in purchasing and acquisition, and stuck me in that corrupted swamp we call a capital.”

  “That can’t be, Sir.” Cal was truly mystified.

  “Son, I know that whatever uniform you wear today, you loved the United States Army you once served in. We all did. But this is a very different army today. There are still plenty of good men, but it has become a politicized army and I’m no politician. I’ll admit, these old bones still have some measure of pride, and being consigned to a desk in an office building has
sapped nearly every ounce of energy and sanity from my being. At the same time, this is a war I never wanted to see, and my absence from it, well, there are some days I am comforted by that. I’m sure you don’t understand a word I am saying, do you, Colonel?”

  “Not a word,” he said quietly.

  Gaylord motioned for the civilian to step forward. “Colonel, this is Dr. Ernst Schroeder. He came with me from Washington. I’d like for him to examine your wound.”

  “Off with your coat and blouse, son.”

  Cal complied, stripping off the raggedy clothing as quickly as he could with his single arm. The doctor slipped on a pair of spectacles, examining the small stump protruding from Cal’s left shoulder. While he was doing so, Gaylord removed a folding knife and a wad of greenbacks from his pocket and placed them on the desk.

  He moved close to Cal and said in a soft voice. “You keep those well hidden. They are for your survival inside here. They are not, I repeat, not, for an escape attempt. You made a decision two years ago, and now you have to live with those consequences. If I ever learn that weapon has been used against a Union soldier, even those pathetic specimens masquerading as guards out there, I will exact a pound of flesh from you myself. Use them as necessary to survive in here. You understand?”

  “Yes, Sir.” He knew the extraordinary risk Gaylord was taking in providing him a weapon.

  The doctor concluded his examination and pulled his spectacles off. “Who took off that arm, son?”

  “Yankee surgeon, Sir.”

  “You are damned lucky, Colonel, considering the drunken sawbones that pretend to practice medicine in this army. He did a fine job. Nicely cauterized, no signs of infection. Some of the witch doctors out there are using the skin from the limbs they are cutting off to patch the stump.”

  They heard two short knocks at the door. Gaylord turned to Cal. “I’m afraid that is all the time we have today.”

  “General, could you stay just a minute longer? I feel compelled to explain to you the circumstances of my disappearance before the war. I do not wish you to think…”

  Gaylord waved his hand dismissively. “You owe me no explanation, lad. But I always enjoy a good story. I will try to return a few months from now, and you can share it with me then. Agreed?”

  “Agreed. But there is one matter I insist on discussing.”

  “And that is?”

  “The conditions here. They are…unspeakable. You yourself must have seen the common grounds. Tents are scarce, most of the men here are completely exposed to the elements. I was told that in the summer, before I arrived, men were dropping like flies from dehydration and exposure. The rations make what we had in New Mexico seem like a king’s feast. Hardtack on most days, with some boiled beef on a good day. Usually rancid. It must be forty degrees out there right now; tonight it will be twenty less than that. Most here sleep under a thin blanket with nothing more. Hundreds don’t even have any shoes. I came in with sixty men three months ago. There are half of that left.”

  “Yes, son, I understand. And you are correct, this is no way for men to live, any men. I fear my voice will do no good here in New Jersey, but I will raise this with the appropriate authorities in Washington. I am afraid that is all I can do.”

  Gaylord looked down at Cal’s feet. “Well, maybe there is something else.” He moved beside Cal, and placed his foot against Cal’s. “Damn,” he said, seeing Cal’s feet a good two inches larger than his own. “Ernie, are your feet as big as your mouth?”

  The doctor furrowed his brow. “What?”

  Gaylord assessed the doctor’s feet. “Excellent. They’ll do. Give the colonel your shoes.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your shoes, Doctor. You can take what’s left of the colonel’s until we get back to Washington. Or we’ll find a new pair in a nearby town.”

  “This is not what I agreed to,” grumbled the old man, as he sat down and untied his laces.

  “The socks too, Ernie.”

  “Sir,” Cal protested. “It’s really not necessary.”

  “I disagree. And that’s an order. You still take orders, son?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Even from a Yankee?”

  Cal met his eyes. “Just one, Sir.”

  The doctor pushed his shoes and socks to Cal. “Those are fifteen dollar shoes, boy. Treat them like you’d treat your woman. I expect you to return those to me when this blasted war is over. And polished as a mirror.”

  “Keep your pant legs over those, Mr. Garrity, and get them dirty as soon as you get out in the yard. New pair of shoes will stick out like gold, and I imagine there are some desperate men in here.”

  Cal walked behind the two men to the door. Schroeder opened the door and walked through it, but Gaylord stopped, turning to him.

  “You stay here. I’ll see to it that you have ten more minutes in that chair.”

  Gaylord held out his hand and Cal took it firmly.

  “There are no words, General.”

  “Just one favor, Mr. Garrity.”

  “Anything, Sir.”

  Gaylord leaned in close. “Take damned good care of those shoes. Schroeder is a cranky enough bastard as it is.”

  Cal smiled as the old soldier left the room and closed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 23

  Even before the door swung closed behind him, Sam Leavitt had spotted the man he was searching for. Sofia had said he often found refuge here and Leavitt immediately understood why. Bright colors filled the restaurant and warm sunshine was pouring through the large plate glass windows. The sounds of giggling children having their fill of sweets and the soulful notes of Otis Redding playing from the corner jukebox gave the place an inviting, comforting feel.

  Behind the counter, Sofia had suggested. And there he was, pushing buttons on a cash register that didn’t seem to be cooperating. It finally popped open with a chime and the man smiled in victory, dropping in a single bill and pulling some coins from the drawer. He placed them into the expectant hand of a young boy, who slid off his stool and scampered past Leavitt, eagerly lapping his double dip cone.

  Leavitt took a stool at the far end. The soda jerk did not see him, too busy frowning at the droplets of ice cream left on his counter. He pulled a small cloth from the apron around his waist and began attacking the offending spots.

  Always so meticulous.

  It had been some time, but the man was mostly unchanged from when Leavitt had seen him last. Still youthful, perhaps now in his late thirties, with a slight bulge around his midsection that pushed out against his white uniform shirt. But his tie was knotted perfectly, his ink black hair neatly combed under his paper hat. He finished wiping down the counter and turned to other young customers seated a few stools down from Leavitt.

  There were three of them. The fair-haired boy was the oldest, perhaps sixteen or so. There was a girl, a few years younger. Likely the boy’s sister, given the resemblance, including the mop of strawberry hair and emerald green eyes. The third child, the smallest of the three, had darker features and wore her chestnut hair pulled back tight in a ponytail.

  “Well, well,” said the man, whipping the cloth over his shoulder. “If it isn’t my favorite band of pirates.”

  “Again?” sighed Maggie, pushing the hair out of her eyes.

  “You used the pirate bit on us last time, sir,” said Zachary, always respectful.

  “Yeah,” added Maggie, “except you kept calling us buccaneers. I don’t even know what a buccaneer is.”

  “No?” The man leaned over the counter, and suddenly reached his hand out in a quick movement, brushing past Maggie’s hair. He showed her his hand, which held a shiny silver dollar. “There. That’s a buck in an ear.”

  “Hey!” cried Maggie, her hand swatting through the air as she tried to swipe the coin. She and Zachary both laughed.

  The chestnut-haired girl rolled her eyes and shoveled more ice cream into her mouth. “That was already in your hand,”
she mumbled through sticky lips.

  “So it was. I should know better than to try and fool such bright youngsters. So, what are you three going to do today?”

  Zachary scooped out the last bit of chocolate sauce from his glass dish. “The ballgame. Yankees and Tigers today.”

  “Ah, very good. You have a favorite player?”

  The boy looked at him as if he had a third eye. “The Clipper, of course!”

  As if there was any other possible answer.

  “Ah, DiMaggio. And what about you, Maggie?”

  She took her last spoonful of ice cream and wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve.

  “Oh, who cares? Baseball is so boring.”

  “Then why are you going?”

  “They’re giving away free Cracker Jacks today.”

  The man smiled. “Well, that is important. You tell them that Mr. W from the Malt Shoppe said today you get two boxes.”

  Maggie beamed back at him.

  Leavitt, meanwhile, was studying the quietest of the three. She wore a boy’s tee shirt and denim jeans that had been rolled up past her ankles. Her soft brown eyes matched her olive complexion, and she had the same thick, arching eyebrows of her father.

  The soda jerk murmured something to her but the girl ignored him, urgently attacking the ice cream that was rapidly melting in her dish. Undeterred, he smiled and leaned over, his elbows on the counter so the two were at eye level. The girl finally looked up at him, staring back, unsmiling. He slowly reached over and dipped his finger into the glass dish, holding the finger up so she could clearly see the whipped cream on it, and then dabbed it on her nose.

  While the other children laughed, the girl rolled her eyes again and feigned anger. But she was clearly fighting back a smile as she reached for a paper napkin.

  There was a jingle as the door to the restaurant opened. Leavitt saw a large man appear, so imposing that two small children wrestling with a nearby gumball machine saw him and scurried away. The two older children saw him as well and climbed off their stools, waving goodbye to the man behind the counter.