Let There Be Light

by Al Lacy

  “You’re the number-one gate man at the moment,” said Tyler. “Find out who he is and what he wants.”

  Fleming stepped to the railing and raised his voice so he could be heard. “Yes, sir, General? What can we do for you?”

  The silver-haired man with the droopy mustache replied, “I’m General Stewart Morrison from Fort Benning up by Columbus. I’m on my way down to the army post at Palmyra near Albany. Since we had to pass close by here on the way, I thought I’d stop and spend a few minutes with my old friend, Captain Henry Wirz. Is he here?”

  “He is, sir.”

  Dan stepped up beside Fleming and looked down at Morrison. “General, I’m Sergeant Dan Tyler. I’ll escort you to the captain’s quarters.”

  “Much obliged, Sergeant.”

  Moments later, the men in the escort unit were being taken to the mess hall while Dan Tyler led General Morrison up to the captain’s cabin and knocked on the door.

  “Enter!” came Wirz’s voice.

  Dan opened the door. “Captain, I have General Stewart Morrison. He would like to see you.”

  Wirz sprang from the chair behind his desk. “Stew! … I mean—”

  “It’s all right, Captain,” said Dan. “He told me you were old friends. I won’t tell anybody you called him Stew.”

  Both officers laughed.

  Wirz and Morrison shook hands, then Morrison said, “Henry, I can only stay a few minutes. I’m on my way down to the army post at Palmyra. Just thought I’d stop for a few minutes.”

  “Could you stay for lunch?”

  “Sorry, no. Sergeant Tyler was kind enough to let my men grab some coffee while I’m visiting you. But when I say a few minutes, I mean no more than thirty of them.”

  Wirz nodded. “All right. Then we’ll make do with a half hour’s chat. I’ve got some coffee on the stove. Want some?”

  “Sure.”

  Wirz set his gaze on Tyler, who was about to back out the door. “Sergeant, when General Morrison leaves, I need you to have Lieutenant Edgar Toomey brought to me. I’ve got to have a talk with him.”

  “I understand, sir. I’ll watch for General Morrison to leave, then I’ll have Corporals Holden and Stevens bring him to you.” With that, Dan stepped out and closed the door.

  Wirz gestured to an overstuffed chair near the potbellied stove. “Have a seat, Stew.”

  Wirz poured coffee for both of them and sat down, facing his friend.

  They chatted about the early days in the Civil War when they served in the same regiment together, then Wirz asked, “So what’s your trip to Palmyra about?”

  “The condition of the Confederacy.”

  Wirz’s eyebrows arched. “You mean in light of what Lincoln is telling everybody up North?”

  “Yes. The morale of our troops is falling quickly because they can see what Lincoln sees. I received a dispatch from General Robert E. Lee, asking me to meet with General P. G. Beauregard at Palmyra. We have to find a way to encourage the troops.”

  Wirz sighed. “And how are you going to do that, Stew? Lie?”

  Morrison shook his head, stared at the floor a moment, then raised his eyes to Wirz. “That’s about it. Ever since the Confederate currency was devaluated in October of ’63, things have gotten worse financially. You’ve seen it. I know the problem you’re having here with prisoners starving to death because you don’t have enough food to feed them. And I’ve noticed that some of your guards are looking pretty thin too.”

  “It’s been bad. I won’t try to kid you. Our food allotment from the government is pretty small. First and foremost, the guards have to have food. So with the prisoners getting less to eat, more and more of them are coming down with scurvy because of the lack of proper nourishment. The only thing that’s helping the food problem right now is that so many of the prisoners are dying from pneumonia brought on by exposure to the winter weather. We don’t have shelter for most of the men, and they’re dying like flies. Infections are killing them fast too. With the unsanitary conditions brought on because we have no soap for the prisoners to use when they bathe or wash their clothes, nor do we have disinfectants to kill the germs in their areas, they’re dying right now at the rate of over seventy a day. Other than pneumonia, scurvy is killing most of them.”

  Morrison sighed. “The reputation of this place is known far and wide.”

  “Yeah, I know. It isn’t because we want it this way, but when they give me over thirty thousand prisoners to feed and try to keep alive, but don’t provide enough food and medicine, it gets disastrous.”

  “I know that, Henry. The Confederacy is just about broke. We’re running out of gunpowder and bullets, as well as cannonballs. Soon we’ll have to fight those Yankees with knives, bayonets, clubs, and fists.”

  Wirz was squeezing his hands together until the knuckles were white. “Stew, we’re done for, aren’t we?”

  Morrison drew a shaky breath and let it out slowly through his nose. “General Beauregard and I can’t let on to our men that it’s this bad, as can none of the other Confederate military leaders, but yes … we’re done for. Lincoln knows this. That’s why he can be so encouraging to the people up North and to the Union Army. It’s just a matter of time. As you know, Lincoln is predicting the Confederate forces will collapse by June or July, but he’s being generous. I’d say we might have till the first part of April at best.”

  Wirz’s features were pale. “Well, I guess all we can do at this point is to keep doing our jobs as best we can.”

  Morrison stood up. “That’s about it. Well, Henry, I’ve got to get going. It’s been nice seeing you.”

  Wirz walked the general to the gate where the other men of the unit were waiting for him. They mounted and rode out. By the time Wirz reached his cabin, Corporals Clay Holden and Joel Stevens were on the porch with a sullen Edgar Toomey between them.

  Toomey regarded Wirz with a dull look as he drew up, opened the door, and said, “Inside.”

  Wirz sat down at his desk, and Toomey was made to sit on the wooden chair in front of it while the corporals stood flanking him.

  The captain’s eyes were hard as he looked at Toomey across the desk. “I’m sick and tired of your attitude toward Sergeant Dan Tyler, Toomey. This is going to change, or you’re going to face discipline that’ll make you wish you were never born.”

  Toomey’s jaw jutted. “I haven’t laid a hand on him since that day back in November when I tried to choke him with my wrist chains.”

  “I know, but I’m getting daily reports from the other guards that you are pouring out verbal abuse to him continually. Now I want it stopped.”

  “Tyler hasn’t tattled on me?”

  “No. It’s the other guards who have told me. And when I allowed your chains to be removed a month ago, it was the other guards who told you that I did it at Sergeant Tyler’s request. He didn’t tell you himself, did he?”

  Toomey cleared his throat. “Well, no. He didn’t.”

  Wirz frowned. “Don’t you have an ounce of appreciation in you? I’d think you would want to thank him.”

  Toomey’s eyes were wintry. “He just did it to make himself look good to you and the other guards. You know, like he was a saint or somethin’. I don’t like him.”

  “Well, you’d better give it a try.”

  “Certainly there can’t be a rule at this pig sty you call a prison camp, forcin’ the prisoners to like all these Rebel guards.”

  Wirz looked at him silently.

  “Well, is there such a rule, Captain Wirz?” demanded Toomey. “If so, I’d like to see it in writin’.”

  “Of course there is no such written rule, and I can’t force you to like Sergeant Tyler, but you can keep it to yourself and quit being insolent to him. This isn’t a request, Lieutenant Toomey. It’s a command. Break it once more, and you’ll wish you were never born.”

  Toomey didn’t like the look in Wirz’s eyes. “All right, Captain, I’ll keep my hatred for Tyler to mys—”

>   “Sergeant Tyler,” corrected Wirz with a rasp in his voice.

  Toomey cleared his throat. “I’ll keep my hatred for Sergeant Tyler to myself.”

  “You’d better mean it. No more warnings.”

  Toomey nodded. “I got it.”

  Wirz looked up at the men who flanked the prisoner. “Get him out of here.”

  Holden and Stevens ushered Toomey out the door and while they were walking toward Toomey’s area, Stevens said, “You’d better heed what Captain Wirz said, mister. I’ve seen the captain get angry at insolent prisoners before. You don’t want to find out the hard way just how mean he can get.”

  Toomey did not reply.

  “Did you ever find out that Captain Wirz had once ordered you to be shot by a firing squad?” said Holden.

  Toomey looked up at him, eyes wide. “No.”

  “Well, he did. And it was Sergeant Tyler who talked him out of it.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “I do say.”

  “Hmpf. Well, whattya know?”

  “So you see, he saved your life.”

  Toomey chuckled dryly. “Yeah. For his own glory. It just made him look good to Captain Wirz.”

  Clay Holden laid hold on Toomey’s arm with a tight grip and pulled him to a stop. Joel Stevens took hold of Toomey’s other arm.

  “Tell me, Toomey—why do you hate Sergeant Tyler?” asked Holden.

  “I’ve got my reasons.”

  “Let’s hear them.”

  “All right. First of all, I despise these hypocritical born-again Christians who think they’re better than everybody else.”

  “Well, I’m one of those born-again Christians and so is Corporal Stevens. We don’t think we’re better than anybody else. We’re simply sinners saved by the grace of God. And we know for a fact that this is also Sergeant Tyler’s way of thinking. We are his closest friends, and we know him well.”

  Toomey sneered and shook his head. “Well, there’s plenty more reasons to hate him.”

  “Like what?”

  “The countless times he’s had me disciplined for no reason at all.”

  Holden looked at him incredulously. “You’re either a liar, or you’ve lost your mind.”

  “We happen to know that every time Sergeant Tyler had you disciplined, it was because you were guilty of breaking Captain Wirz’s rules,” said Stevens.

  Holden nodded. “Sergeant Tyler was only doing his duty to see that you were disciplined for it. He would be wrong not to.”

  Toomey bit his tongue. Having just learned that Wirz had actually ordered his execution by a firing squad had put the fear into him. If he spouted off at Holden and Stevens, it would get to Wirz’s ears. He would say no more.

  The corporals delivered Toomey to his area and walked away.

  In Toomey’s heart, wrath toward Tyler was growing. Tyler could have overlooked his breaking of the rules, but he didn’t. He saw to it that he was disciplined. The pious hypocrite.

  Keith Lewis and Todd Zediker went to Toomey and asked him what Wirz wanted to see him about. He told them, then said it had only served to make him hate Tyler the more. Someday when the War was over, he would find Tyler and get even with him.

  “Well, a lot of things will get settled when this war is over,” said Zediker.

  Toomey glanced toward Captain William Linden’s tent, where the captain was talking to two of his men. “Maybe I’ll get to settle it with Linden even before the War is over. I wouldn’t be facin’ Tyler’s schemes to get me punished, or Wirz’s threats, or the rest of these Rebel beasts in this pig sty if Linden had listened to me that day outside of Rome. My little brother wouldn’t be dead, either.”

  “That’s for sure,” agreed Lewis. “Every bit of it is Linden’s fault. Him and his so-called allegiance to the Union and his so-called honor as a leader of soldiers.”

  Toomey was breathing hard as he kept his eyes on Linden.

  “Yeah. Not only would Lester still be alive, so would the rest of them that were killed that day. And when I see the men of Company A dyin’ with pneumonia and all those other sicknesses, it makes me hate Linden even more. The man is gonna die. Sooner or later, I’ll find a way to kill ‘im. And I hope it’s sooner.”

  Lewis nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

  “Can’t come too soon for me,” Zediker said.

  Time moved on. On Friday night, March 24, Edgar Toomey was awakened by a moaning sound. He sat up in the rectangular hole that was his bed, and realized it was Keith Lewis, who was in the hole on his right. Laying aside the thin, tattered blanket that covered him, he sat up. Lewis moaned again.

  On Toomey’s other side, Todd Zediker began to stir.

  Toomey climbed out of the hole, crawled to Lewis, and said in a low tone, “Keith, what’s wrong?”

  Lewis was grinding his teeth. He moaned again. “I … I’m hurtin’ bad, Edgar.”

  “Where?”

  “Lower midsection all the way to my knees. Really bad. think it’s … scurvy.”

  Toomey knew the symptoms. So many men had died of scurvy. “Lie still. I’ll go get some guards so they can take you to the infirmary.”

  As Toomey was rising to his feet, he heard Zediker say, “Edgar, what’s the matter?”

  “It’s Keith. He’s sick. I think it’s the scurvy.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Come over here and stay with him while I go for some guards.”

  “Sure. Go on.

  Toomey zigzagged among the crude shelters in the direction of the closest guard tower, where lanterns burned, giving off light in a wide circle. When he reached the line of small stones that bordered his particular area along the path that led to the privies, he moved a few steps along the path, waiting for one of the guards to spot him.

  It happened quickly. A guard called, “Who goes there?”

  “Lieutenant Edgar Toomey!”

  “All right, Toomey. Hurry and get your business done at one of the privies.”

  “It’s not that! We’ve got a sick man over here. Corporal Keith Lewis. I think he’s got the scurvy!”

  “Go on back. I’ll see that two guards are there shortly.”

  The guards were there within a few minutes. They picked Lewis up, assuring Toomey and Zediker they would awaken the prison physician immediately, and carried the sick man toward the infirmary.

  When the guards returned a half hour later, Toomey and Zediker were still awake. They were informed that Corporal Keith Lewis did indeed have scurvy.

  When the guards were gone, Toomey said hotly, “It’s Linden’s fault, Todd. We wouldn’t be in this rotten place if he’d listened to me.”

  As with all of the prisoners who had lingering sicknesses, Keith Lewis was kept in the infirmary, which was made up of several shanties. Three days later, Todd Zediker came down with it.

  Both men only grew worse, and Lewis died on Thursday, April 6. When Edgar Toomey stood at the edge of his area and watched Keith Lewis’s body being carried out the gate for burial in the prison camp’s graveyard, his blood was hot. He renewed his vow to kill Captain William Linden.

  Todd Zediker died two days later.

  There was a brutal expression on Toomey’s face as he turned and went back to his crude shelter after watching the body being carried out. He looked at the empty rectangular holes on both sides of him with a smoky flare in his eyes. His arms hung straight, his hands heavy-knuckled. His jaw made a determined cut against the sunlight that bathed his face. “You’ll pay, Linden. You’ll pay.”

  13

  ON SUNDAY NIGHT APRIL 9, Edgar Toomey lay awake in the rectangular hole in the ground. His blood was to the boiling point, and he could hardly breathe for the loathing that coursed through his body.

  William Linden must die tonight.

  There was silence across the compound, except for the night breezes soughing through the trees, which were sprouting their leaves. A half moon hung in a star-spangled sky above, partially covered at times by drifting clo
uds.

  Just before midnight, Toomey slipped out of his blanket and crawled up to ground level, staying on his belly. The compound was dimly lighted by the lanterns that hung high on the guard towers, leaving dark shadows between the circles of light. Toomey pulled the pocket watch from his trousers, angled it toward the lantern light of the nearest tower, and nodded. I was right. It’ll be midnight in three minutes.

  He slipped the watch back into his pocket and crawled some twenty yards in the shadows to a patch of trees where many limbs had fallen on the ground from the winter’s high winds. Staying on his belly, he searched among the broken limbs until he found a section of limb some twelve inches in length that was sturdy and had a sharp point.

  He looked back toward the towers. The guards were moving slowly along the edges of the platforms, rifles in hand. On the ground were other guards who were doing patrol duty near the dead line.

  Crawling slowly and glancing periodically toward the towers and the guards, Toomey moved in the shadows to the small tent occupied by Captain William Linden. He could hear the soft, even breathing inside. Glancing once more toward the towers and the guards, he gripped the sharp length of tree limb and crawled past the flap into the tent.

  Moments later, Edgar Toomey’s heartbeat was expanding like thunder through his whole body as he crawled into the hole that was his bed.

  He lay there a few minutes, breathing heavily. A grin of triumph was on his face.

  When his breathing returned to normal, he crawled back out of the hole and stood to his feet. Pulling the watch from his pocket, he slanted it toward the lantern light and noted that it was 12:20. He looked toward the nearest tower and saw the guards moving slowly around the perimeter of the high platform, their eyes searching the shadowed compound.

  He pocketed the watch, and with steady steps, he threaded his way amid the sleeping men of what was left of A Company to the path that led to the nearest privies. Stepping onto the path, he moved slowly, knowing that any second the guards would spot him.

  A call came quickly. “Lieutenant Toomey, do you need to go to the privies?”

  Toomey stopped and looked toward the guard. “Yes.”