Down the Sky: Volume Three of the “Strike The Tent” Trilogy

by W. Patrick Lang

  “Major, you are plenty serious enough for all of us…”

  Jenkins would have liked to reprimand James Fowle for this insolence, but people like Fowle did not accept reprimands easily and just now his willing cooperation was needed. The Fowle family of Alexandria was among the richest merchants in the commonwealth. That had to be remembered as well. “You are not going alone,” Jenkins said after a moment of inner effort. “We have arranged for Bill White, the lead teamster of the 17th Virginia Regiment to be detached to join your party. I presume that you know him. He worked with ‘Hannibal’ and Smoot in Alexandria. He will help you with the wounded man.”

  Bill Fowle looked at him with a strange doubt showing in his face. “Of course we know White,” he exclaimed. “We grew up with him and all the Devereuxs. Bill White is a good man. You know, of course that he is Claude Devereux’s cousin, the product of old Richard Devereux’s long ‘union’ with a colored family servant that he brought from Maryland? You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I know that. Bill’s father, George White, was Richard’s son. He is the majordomo and butler of the Devereux household. He’s the uncle of the Devereux boys. Another of his sons, Joseph, is Balthazar’s valet…”

  “Body servant,” James said.

  Jenkins turned to look at him. He did not like the term.

  “Come on, major!” James laughed. “Joe and I have been fishing and making mischief together since we were little children. He doesn’t care what I say. Why should you? And, yes, his other brother, George, Junior, is in the Yankee army somewhere. I wonder where…”

  “Everyone who is a real Alexandrian knows all about this,” Bill said to Jenkins, “but they also know that the Devereuxs don’t want it talked about. You should be careful. I don’t imagine that Claude likes you much anyway.”

  The Fowles smiled at that.

  “He killed a man who insisted on talking about it in public,” James muttered. “How are we supposed to get to Washington from Lynchburg?” he asked in a louder voice. “Back across the river somewhere?” He looked doubtful at that thought.

  “No,” Jenkins replied, “That’s too dangerous. Grant’s cavalry is all over central Virginia. We can’t take the chance that you would be caught. Early’s orders take him over the Blue Ridge and into the Shenandoah Valley near Lexington. We have people there who will take you across the Alleghenies and down the Kanawha Valley to the Ohio River. You will be in funds from us and can arrange railroad transportation from there. Once you get Smoot to Alexandria, there will be abundant medical and nursing help for him, not least from the ladies of the Devereux household.”

  “Identification documents?” James asked.

  “They are being prepared now. They will seek to establish an image of you all as business and trades people from Ohio… You can pass for that. Smoot is from Loudoun County and will sound nearly right for someone from rural southern Ohio.”

  “You have it all worked out,” James said with reluctant approbation. “When you say ‘we,’ who is that?”

  “You needn’t know.” There was a certain satisfaction in denying James the information.

  In fact, the younger Fowle had not expected an answer.

  “For now, until Captain Fowle can take his post in Secretary of State Benjamin’s offices, it is agreed that I will ‘conduct’ this business from Richmond. So far as you are concerned, I am ‘we.’ I am concerned that so many people in our army already know that Claude Devereux served with your regiment before we sent him to Washington as Hannibal last spring. Captain Fowle, at your convenience I would like you to make me a list of our people who know of this. Include anyone with too much knowledge; perhaps there is some enemy soldier or civilian…”

  “Ah,” Bill said. “There is someone who worries me, someone too intelligent to be easily fooled for long.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Two days before I was shot we fought Kautz’s cavalry over a pair of bridges on the rail line southwest of here. General Kautz was raiding out of the pocket in Bermuda Hundred where they are bottled up. We took a lot of prisoners. One of them was a very astute, very professional, Italian major. He was from Rome, a foreign volunteer, something like Balthazar is on our side.” He smiled at the comparison. “This man kept asking a lot of questions about the people in our company, who they were, how they knew each other. He was curious. Claude Devereux served in that company before he started working for you all. Hell, he was the company commander before me… I don’t know that any one said anything, but…”

  “What happened to the major?” Jenkins asked.

  “We moved by rail to our rendezvous with Corse’s Brigade. The prisoners were divided up among the boxcars. I didn’t like his air of superiority, so I put him in a boxcar with men from our company. Bill White and Jake Devereux, Claude’s brother, were in that car. I have no idea what was said during the trip. The fight at Drewry’s Bluff was the next day. I remember that we unloaded the prisoners and wounded at a siding south of James River before the battle. A party from the regiment was given the task of marching them to a prisoner collection station run by the provost marshal.”

  “His name?”

  “It’s in my journal over there on the chest of drawers. Jimmy, please get it.”

  “Here it is,” he said after a moment of inspection of the little cloth bound book. “Marco Aurelio Farinelli, I wrote it down because he invited me to dinner in Rome. I fed him in our company mess,” he added by way of explanation.

  “But you did not like him?”

  “No. I did not. It was a matter of courtesy to a captured officer.”

  “Presumably we still have him,” Jenkins said, “probably here in Libby Prison. It is full of recently captured officers. I will find him.” He gathered up his things. “I almost forgot” he said when halfway to the door. “Lieutenant Joachim Murat Devereux is promoted to captain and transferred to Balthazar’s battalion. Balthazar lost a company commander in the Mule Shoe at Spotsylvania and asked Early for his cousin “Jake.” “We” arranged it.

  Jim Fowle whistled tunelessly. “Well, the more the merrier” he finally said.

  “There is something else,” Jenkins said in a low voice as though he feared that the patients and nurses in the ward would hear. “We are come to a very bad state of affairs,” Jenkins continued. “The Dahlgren papers have changed thinking in the government concerning the limits of action… against Lincoln and his cabinet.”

  “Because Dahlgren was going to hang our president?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” Bill Fowle said from his sick bed. “It is past time. He is the keystone in the structure of their effort to suppress our independence.”

  “What are we going to do to him?” Jimmy asked. He had seen too much to be shocked by the idea of killing the enemy commander in chief.

  “We don’t know yet. We have several teams in Washington City. We hope that this Major, Isaac Smoot, will recover enough to become the planner for whatever needs to be done.”

  “And if he does not?” James Fowle was thinking ahead.

  “Then it may be necessary for me…”

  “I will carry him to Washington on my back,” Jim Fowle said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  — Prisoners —

  Major Jenkins’ search for the inquisitive Italian prisoner proved more difficult than expected. The fortunes of war govern many outcomes, but a little common sense and a cool head are valuable assets. In fact, nothing had gone as might have been expected in the fate of Marco Farinelli and his comrades, but common sense had helped.

  13 May, 1864

  (One Month Earlier)

  It was still dark as the 17th Virginia Infantry Regiment marched away from a siding a few miles south of Richmond…

  A guard detail and a small number of medical orderlies spent an hour organizing their prisoners into a group that could be moved. Many were wounded and had to be carried in wagons left for the purpose. A sad little convoy formed
in the darkness. There was little to be seen, but the sounds of rumbling iron wheels and the terrible cries of men hurt beyond their comprehension were everywhere in the night.

  As the sun began to rise, the column moved toward the east. After the first hour of walking it seemed that the men and horses had always marched together. The process of putting one foot in front of another settled into the mindless sameness which in old age softens the memory of long route marches. A kind of anesthetic set in. This deadened the mind and suspended speculation among the prisoners concerning possible destinations.

  The day glowed brightly around them before Marco Aurelio Farinelli began to worry about their situation. His unease became severe when the guards from the 17th Regiment departed leaving the prisoners in the custody of less friendly faces. This happened soon after they began to hear the steady, crackling sound that meant a big fight. The noise came from the south.

  The Virginia infantrymen who had been given the job of shepherding the prisoners were from one of the two Irish immigrant companies in the 17th Regiment. They had shown compassion for their “wards.” They helped with the wounded and tried to keep hostile civilians away from the Union men.

  The villages were a problem. They were dirty little places with hard rutted, red clay streets. The angry faces of the local people were frightening.

  Farinelli was not prepared for the reception the prisoners received as they marched along behind the wagons carrying the wounded. Passing through the run down towns, the federal soldiers huddled together between two lines of Confederate riflemen, grateful for the protection of their uniforms and weapons. The depth of emotion against them was a surprise to the bluecoats. Women turned their backs. Small boys threw rocks. Old men stared at them, openly unhappy that the situation did not allow more forceful demonstrations of their feelings.

  Farinelli had been a prisoner of war before. It had been in the Papal States’ war against the French in the 1850s. That had been quite different. He had been an Italian soldier marched by French troops through an Italian countryside. Women came to the edge of the road to feed the captured and men had given them bottles of wine. This was very different. No civilians would offer to feed them here.

  He was accustomed to seeing Southern civilians through the lens of the Northern army. They had always seemed somewhat passive, inclined to hide in their houses from United States troops, and uncommunicative when met in the open.

  There were exceptions. There were a small number of white people who actively sought the company of the Union Army. These had puzzled him until he learned that they were nearly all recently arrived from somewhere in the North.

  Many blacks greeted the blue troops as liberators. They often worked for the army, but seemed confused and a little disappointed by the experience, as though they had expected more.

  Now, he could see that he had misunderstood the feelings of Southern civilians. The citizenry of Virginia feared and hated the Union Army. They avoided them because there was nothing to be done about their presence. Farinelli now comprehended that the U.S. government’s belief that the rebellion was not deeply supported was wrong. He saw what the truth was. The townspeople were outraged by his presence and that of his comrades. They would be in danger if there were no guards.

  When the change of guards occurred, he anxiously watched the transfer of authority from the Irish sergeant of the 17th Virginia’s detachment to a lieutenant of artillery who waited for them beside the road. Behind the officer there stood a group of Confederate soldiers of mixed arms. Some were infantry. Some were ordnance men. Some wore the short, colorful jackets and baggy pants of Zouave dress. A provost guard, he thought. Accustomed to judging soldiers, he looked them over and did not like what he saw. In his experience, details of soldiers sent by regiments to headquarters to perform support duties were usually formed on the basis of the demands of higher headquarters for a fixed number of men for a given time. Adjutants and sergeants-major tended to see these demands as opportunities to rid themselves of problems, to rid themselves of trouble makers, hypochondriacs, drunks, and malingerers. These were the raw materials from which such selections were made. Occasionally, a soldier or an officer found himself so selected merely because he was not liked.

  The provost officer and Sergeant Nugent of the 17th talked for a moment until Nugent pointed at Farinelli. The officer nodded and the two of them crossed the road to the big beech tree under which the enlisted prisoners sat.

  Farinelli stood to one side watching them come. Nugent stopped at a respectful distance and saluted. The lieutenant looked confused but in the end saluted as well. Farinelli returned the salute. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Sor!” Nugent began, “Leftenant Miller here will be takin’ charge of ye now.”

  “You have served in the British Army, did you not?” the Italian asked. He had been thinking about this and simply wanted to know.

  “First Battalion, The Connaught Rangers, Sor!”

  Farinelli turned his attention to the officer. What he saw was a man who looked to be a likely candidate for duty of this sort. He looked weak. From the beardless chin to the long, skinny body, he looked incapable, and not fit for command. Uncertainty and a lack of confidence showed in his face. He could not look Farinelli in the eye for more than a second. He was below the standard of Confederate officers Farinelli had seen thus far. Someone’s son-in-law, he thought. The Italian looked past him to the provost troops. They were now chatting with the riflemen from the 17th, talking and laughing. He saw that in their mixed groups, they were watching him and Nugent. None of them were focused on their own leader. He looked at Miller. “How do you do?” he said. He had learned early in America that this was as nearly neutral a greeting as could be managed.

  The man blinked several times and licked his lips. “Good morning, major,” he rasped, coughing into his fist in embarrassment. “I have a cold.”

  “Too bad, a lot of that around lately, where we go?”

  Lieutenant Miller was relieved to have something to talk about. “About five miles to the east General Beauregard’s headquarters has made a prisoner collection station. We will take you there. The staff will want to talk to you, of course…”

  Farinelli was resigned to the plain fact that someone would want to interrogate him. He nodded. “And the others?” he asked.

  “The wounded go to Richmond and the rest will be sent south to Georgia by rail to a new camp there at Andersonville.”

  “Why they go so far?”

  Miller stared at him. For a second, it looked as though he might show some of the feeling so evident in the villagers they had passed. In the end he swallowed hard, his big Adam’s apple going up and down, “As you must know, Grant has stopped the prisoner exchange and we can’t feed these men here. We can’t feed our own men. You are looking at an army that is starving. Maybe in Georgia there will be food.” Something flinty sounded in the undertones of the voice. The man looked away and blinked again.

  He hopes they starve, and the sooner the better, Farinelli thought.

  “When you are ready, sir, please get your men ready to move,” Miller said. With that, he turned and walked away.

  Farinelli and Nugent watched him go.

  “My lads have told these fellahs how we got you and the troopers, Sor. You’ll be all right,” Nugent said holding out a hand.

  Farinelli took it.

  Sergeant Nugent stood by the side of the dirt farm road shading his eyes with one hand to watch as the column trudged away to the east. His detail, all from “G” company, the “Emmett Guards,” waited in the road. They were not in any particular order. Some leaned on their rifles.

  “And what is it you are thinkin,’ my brave fellah?” asked one of the “high privates” of the company. The sandy haired, sleepy eyed soldier sat on the foot-high bank of the track, with a blade of grass in his mouth. He felt himself to be a gentleman volunteer and entitled to comment or question as needed.

  Without taking his eyes
from the disappearing Yankee backs, Nugent replied. “Patrick, I don’t like those Zouave fellahs, not at all. They’re not to be trusted.” He sighed, “Ah well! It’s no our business now. Fall in!”

  The prisoner collection point was in a grove of poplar and sycamore trees near a small river.

  By the time he reached it, Farinelli hated the new guards. As soon as they had passed from the sight of Nugent’s men, the Zouaves began to show their true colors. Prisoners were prodded with rifle butts, and when they did not move fast enough were kicked or struck with the fist. Coppens’ Zouave Battalion was from Louisiana and had been recruited from the Creole population of New Orleans. They had lost half their strength in the Seven Days battles in 1862. Since then, they had been Lee’s headquarters escort. In this emergency a company of them had been sent to perform the same service for Beauregard. Among their duties were the collection and movement of prisoners of war. They did not seem to like the job.

  As the prisoners entered the trees, Farinelli saw that Negro soldiers in Union Army uniforms sat on both sides of the dirt road on which his men would pass. At the far side were white prisoners.

  Brown faces looked at him as he walked slowly in the road following the ruts and the ambulances. Abject terror showed in many faces. Defiant resignation filled others. Most of the black soldiers wore infantry insignia. A few wore the cavalry yellow braid. Among these sat a sergeant who Farinelli first thought to be white. After another glance, he decided that the man was a fair skinned black. Only a slightly wider than average nose and hair a little curlier than would be expected in a Caucasian marked him as colored. Farinelli thought he looked like an Italian from south of Rome. He somehow seemed familiar.

  At the center of the grove, the column of prisoners halted while Lieutenant Miller reported to a bearded captain of Zouaves who seemed in charge. This officer pointed to an unoccupied stretch of ground. Farinelli led the unwounded prisoners to this area. Medical personnel arrived a few minutes later. They took the wounded away leaving Kautz’ troopers alone with Farinelli and the hostile provost guard.