by Tracy Groot
“I hope so.” She hesitated. “This is not the first time I have been . . . disillusioned.”
“Do tell,” said Emery.
“A man came to town with a poor Confederate soldier who had lost both his legs in the war. They were here to raise money for our boys at the Augusta Hospital for Confederate Soldiers. The man was a pitiful sight. Well, we had a benefit and raised a pile of cash and sent them on their way . . . and it turns out there was no Augusta Hospital for Confederate Soldiers.” She eyed the boys ruefully. “Guess who led the benefit.”
Emery and Dance laughed.
Warmth crept high in her cheeks. “It is not funny! My sisters and I went to each and every business in Americus for a pledge of support. I was adamant that they should participate and show themselves as true Southern patriots by modeling Christian kindness.”
Dance howled and slapped his knee.
“Oh, stop! We had a picnic, a dance, and an auction. Do you know how much money those good people raised? Over a thousand dollars! One thousand twenty-four dollars and nineteen cents.” She pounded her leg with her fist. “Those despicable thieves! And I gave them the money—with great ceremony! Stop laughing this instant, Dance Pickett. I couldn’t show my face in town for a week. Oh, I’d like to hunt them down. Legs or no legs!”
Dance wiped tears and gave Emery a push with his boot. “Do you see why I adore this girl? I thought this day couldn’t get better.”
“I do not like amusing you!” Violet sat and fumed, until anxiety made her forget about Dance. “Will anyone trust me enough to come?”
Dance sobered. “Violet, what has it to do with you? It has to do with those prisoners.”
“Someone’s comin’ tonight they will trust,” Emery said, lips twitching. He still looked as expansive as if he had done the world an enormous favor and was basking in the glory of it.
“I insist you tell me.”
“You’ll see very soon.”
“Say, I wish to know more of your . . . friend,” Violet said. “The one in the—you know where. What’s he like?”
“Well, if it didn’t swell the head of the man sittin’ next to you, I’d say he was like him. He’s steady. Makes me laugh. Comfortable to be around. Has a philosophical bent.”
Dance flipped him a gingersnap. “Every time you say something I like, you’ll get another.”
“What did you see in him?” Violet asked.
“What did I see in him?” Emery held the cookie, concentrating for the right words, studying the sky. “Give me a minute. This is a quality question.”
He was a handsome young man, Violet reflected. Lily had told the family one evening—after she had laid down her romance novel—that Emery was possessed of “unfettered grace.” Posey told Lily she was on dangerous ground and instructed her to redirect her affections for her own good.
“I saw things I liked,” Emery mused. “I saw things I knew, in that standoff. I recognized him.” He smiled and bit the cookie.
“And you plan to get him back to hearth and home,” Violet said wistfully. “To his wife and his children, his farm and his dogs.”
Emery finished the gingersnap. “Lew read me some of his letters. I got to know his family. I feel—” Emery shifted a little, as if the next part were a little more than he cared to tell.
“You feel what?” Violet prompted, leaning a fraction closer.
Grudgingly, he said, “Protective.” Dance flipped him a gingersnap, and he threw it back at him.
Violet smoothed her dress. “Papa is preparing an inaugural speech for the society. Are you boys going to say anything, as founding members? I have a few notes, myself.”
“Emery’s got something to say,” said Dance.
“I got something to say if it needs being said.”
“You are fearless,” Dance said, and flipped him another gingersnap. This one he ate.
“I intend to sit this one out, however, as one is coming whose sandals I am not fit to unloose. If he said what he did to Winder, what do you imagine he will say to others?” Emery chuckled. “To think, the worst thing I ever did turned out to be the best.”
“What are you talking about?”
But the answer would have to wait. Lily came hurrying over from behind a tree where she had posted herself to spy a little sooner the ones who came.
“The Bigelows are coming!” she reported. “Hettie Dixon! Constance Greer, even though she said she’d be at the Millards’!” Then she said, “Violet, you won’t believe it—the Runcorns are coming! I’ve got to tell Mama!” She ran off.
“Oh no,” Violet said. She realized she’d clutched Dance’s arm, and let go. “They may have come to be indignant. It is an indignation meeting . . .”
“Steady now, Violet,” said Dance mildly.
Do you see why I adore this girl? he had said. Why did men have to bandy about important words? Why couldn’t he say, Do you see why I admire this girl? or, Do you see why I enjoy the company of this girl?
But all frivolous thought fell away, for marching up the drive with her potential powers of snub at the zenith was Ravinia Runcorn. The three rose and waited to greet her.
She approached . . . she approached . . . she laid glittering eyes on Violet for one cold, piercing instant . . . and swept past without a word.
Violet’s welcome died on her tongue. Silas Runcorn, sweating and carrying two picnic chairs, nodded to them with a “How do,” and followed his wife.
“Snubbed,” said Violet, stupefied.
“Violet, you have enjoyed the center of polite society since birth,” Dance said. She looked to see if he was mocking her, but he had something else to say. He took her hand and, before she could blush, kissed it. “I would rather have you here, on the unpleasant outskirts, where things are not safe. This is where you can do something. It suits you.”
He released her hand, brushed gingersnap crumbs from his vest, and went off to greet someone.
—
“‘All we ask is to be left alone,’” said Dr. Stiles. “I wrestled with several ways to open this meeting. Jeff Davis’s words leapt to mind, those as he spoke to our Confederate congress. Didn’t those words just blaze through the South, setting fields afire like Samson’s foxes? All we ask is to be left alone.”
He looked over the crowd. Some stood near the trees; most sat on blankets or chairs. There were a few unfamiliar faces, but most he knew. Some of Polly’s family was here—Grandpa Wrassey and her brother, Charles. Some were military, posted in Americus or Andersonville. There were a few business owners, a few community leaders, a few of his patients. One fellow he knew to be a writer for the Macon Telegraph. Unfortunate, that. He had a piece to read from the Telegraph, and it took no nerve until he saw the man.
Lily had informed him that forty-seven people were present. He owned to himself that the number was disheartening for a good-sized town with a war-swelled population, even with a dance going on. He wondered if Violet and the boys felt the same. But he determined that from the moment of his first footfall out of the study he would not judge the ones who did not come. It was tangled up in that, all the problems of Andersonville Prison, the judging of other human beings; Norton Stiles, before God, would not be part of it.
“Most of you know me, but for those who don’t, I am Dr. Norton Stiles. I am over thirty and have practiced medicine for over seven years.” He smiled wryly. “That means I have qualified for exemption from military duty.” A mild chuckle rolled across the crowd. “Like many of you, I volunteered my services for the war effort. I serve once a week at the Federal hospital. Let it be known I applied to work at the Confederate hospital in the town of Andersonville. But they had an abundance of doctors there, and my application was rejected. A colleague persuaded me to help at the stockade. Now some of you know Captain Wirz, the commandant of the prison.” He paused to allow for the murmur of general disapproval.
“That foul-mouthed old Hessian,” one of them muttered.
“Well, I have
something in common with Captain Wirz,” said Dr. Stiles. “He will not allow his family to go near the prison stockade. He has his reasons, and I had mine. As for myself, I was wrong.”
He glanced at Violet.
“I was wrong to keep silent with them, and I was wrong to keep silent with you. Look at us. We are not many, are we? I wish there were more, for I would tell what I have in my heart for this town, and it is not rancor and it is not judgment. It is something closer to love, for I dearly love this town. My wife and I settled here over twenty years ago, when it was just scratching out an existence. How we have grown. The churches, the schools, the businesses. The town square, with our lovely water oaks—I sponsored one of those trees and planted it myself.
“We have known very prosperous times in Americus, and now we have known war. And this war has broken our hearts. I do not believe any of us here has not suffered loss; if not a son, or a husband, or a father, then the sons, husbands, and fathers of those dear to us. No one untouched, and we are bound together in grief. Polly’s brother lost a son, and my daughter lost her fiancé.” He paused. “And then this war brought something else to the doorstep of Americus. Something deeply alarming.”
“We never wanted it!” someone called.
“Did we not refuse to help them clear the land, in protest?” A man stood up. It was Arvin Probity. He looked around. “I am not here to feed Yanks—I’m here to protest it! And I’m missin’ a dance to do it!”
“Sit down, Arvin. Let the doc have his say, and then you can have yours.” It was Judge Tate, and Arvin sat down.
Dr. Stiles put up a hand. “I objected to the building of that prison right along with you, Arvin. You know I did. No one wanted that kind of danger so close to our families. It seemed to us, then, a grave potential threat and so it is today—even more so, with the prison population at numbers we could not have imagined. Is not this threat with us when we go to sleep at night? Is it not there when we toil by day? Someday Andersonville Prison will be shut down, and we will all rest easy once more. For now I have fears about that place, though I keep them quiet and wrestle with them on my own terms, as does everyone else.”
“I reckon I had to teach my wife to shoot,” said Jackson Green, a hostler for the hotels. “Any escaped Yankee comes by my place, he’ll eat lead for sure.”
“I had to learn as well,” said Dr. Stiles. “I taught Polly and my two oldest. Did we ever imagine such a day would come?” Then he smiled. “I bought a .38-caliber pepperbox, and my girl Lily says to me, ‘Papa, I do not know what a caliber is, let alone if .38 is enough that I should be impressed.’” A few smiles at that, and some looked about to see Lily.
“We defy our fears by ignoring them, in the grand tradition of the South. And we have all seen that General Winder certainly does his job to prevent a prison break. He is determined, and for this I am grateful. But I wonder if our determination to ignore our fears has not swept us into an ignorance we never meant. Something that went too far, perhaps upon the foundation of ‘All we ask is to be left alone.’” He fished inside his vest pocket and brought out a newspaper clipping. He glanced at the newspaperman.
“I have a clipping from the Macon Telegraph. It is dated May 7.” He read: “‘Mr. Fiddlerman informed me that the prisoners unanimously expressed themselves much better pleased with Andersonville than anyplace they have been since captured. They are now living bountiful on the very best that southwestern Georgia can afford. Their daily ration consists of one-third pound of good ham or bacon, and one and a half pounds of meal. They also get peas and sometimes fresh and pickled beef. The patients in the hospital, in addition to ham and meal, get rice flour, potatoes, chickens, and eggs.’”
“That’s a lie!” It was Dance Pickett, on his feet and red-faced.
“Which part of it, Mr. Pickett?” Dr. Stiles asked. “Incidentally, may I introduce Dance Pickett, a sentinel at Andersonville. You may have heard of his father, James Weld Pickett, from Augusta. He is second cousin to my wife. And no . . . not related to George. You were saying, son?”
“All lies!”
Dr. Stiles adjusted his glasses. “Why, Dance, do you mean to say that out of nearly thirty thousand men in that stockade—yes, thirty thousand—that not one of those men would agree with these printed words?”
“Not one!”
Dr. Stiles lifted his eyebrows in surprise at the clipping. He folded it and put it in his pocket.
“They are Yankees! What would you expect?” someone called. “You know they’re lyin’ if their mouths are open!”
“Howell Cobb toured the place!” said another. “Said all was fine!” His voice lowered. “He said those Yanks are getting as good as they deserve.”
Hettie Dixon waved a fan for attention. “Dr. Stiles, give us the facts, please. I do not wish to be hampered by speculation. Are those men starving to death or not?”
“That cannot be!” a woman said angrily. “The Confederate States of America would never allow such a thing—Yankee brutes though they be!”
“Dr. Stiles?” said Hettie.
“Here are the facts, Mrs. Dixon. There is fearful overcrowding, insufficient food, appalling lack of medical supplies and personnel, no decent shelter, no system for sanitation—and on a day with a strong breeze, you all know what I’m talking about. That we can smell a place from ten miles out should make the sanitary conditions plain. Thousands have died thus far, and yes, Mrs. Dixon, the main reason is starvation. It is not disease.
“No, hear me! I know what you’ve heard. Breakouts of smallpox or this or that to explain the thousands of deaths—it is not true. I am a medical doctor. Most of the diseases in that stockade are either a direct result of unsanitary conditions, or a direct result of diet. And it is a starvation diet, yes—right here in Sumter County. These are the facts, and they are incontrovertible.”
The newspaperman stood as he raised his hand. He looked around. “Let it be known that the aforementioned editorial piece, of which I personally was not the author, was published almost three months ago. Since then, the Macon Telegraph has changed its position on the conditions of that prison. We are in accord with the newspapers in this area. They have issued appeals for help for those prisoners. I heard of this meeting and I’ve come down to see what you all are doing about it.”
“We don’t read the newspapers anymore! Full of routs and retreats, always retreats!”
“Let the gov’ment take care of that pen!” someone called. “Have we not put our trust in them?”
“We cannot look to the government to help these men,” said Dr. Stiles. “Our government has failed them. It rests on us to step in and do what we can.”
“That’s a mighty thin screen, Dr. Stiles,” said old Harmsen Jacob, standing at the edge of the group, arms folded. “I see a hint of treason through it.”
“Were you not arrested on just such suspicion?” another added.
“He was not arrested! He was questioned!” Polly had kept her peace until now, but this last accusation proved too much for her. “Judge Tate put an end to that nonsense immediately!” She nodded at Judge Tate.
“Those Yanks are trespassers, in every way the word can be used!”
“You doubt our government! That is treason!”
“Well, now, that is hasty,” said Harmsen Jacob. “It is certainly not treason to doubt our government, but we are lawbreakers if we take the reins into our own hands. That is where I see this heading.”
“Is not the cornerstone of our nation that we have seceded from a government with whom we did not agree?” Dr. Stiles asked. “Did we not then take the reins?”
“Doctor, now that is going too far!”
“Mighty thin,” Harmsen agreed.
“Well, then, I have another paper, if you wish to know the mind of some of our government-appointed military, regarding Andersonville,” said Dr. Stiles. He took a paper from his other vest pocket. “Many of you know Colonel Alexander Persons, he who was formerly in charge of the
prison. Some of you know his family from Fort Valley. Colonel Persons protested conditions at the prison early on.” He looked over his glasses at the people. “He protested structural and logistical things, very important foundational aspects of the prison. He took upon himself to address them by personally condemning Andersonville through a legal injunction he brought against it. But he was warned—I will say that again—he was warned that he would be subjected to—” he raised the paper and read from it—“‘a hurricane of wrath and even personal abuse from the people of the surrounding country if he did not drop his demand for an inquiry and hearing.’”
He looked over his glasses again. “This warning came from the Honorable Richard H. Clark of Albany. Colonel Persons, you remember, was removed from his post and reassigned elsewhere. Now in the confusion of duty assignment at Andersonville, at one point his duties overlapped with those of Captain Wirz; and when he left, Captain Wirz replaced him. A captain replaced a colonel. I will leave you to puzzle that out yourselves.”
He folded the paper and replaced it in his pocket, then folded his glasses and tucked them away. “There are many things I cannot answer of Andersonville Prison, and I do not propose to solve the larger problems of its government, for I am not equal to it. I am not a politician, nor even a community leader. My job is simple: to alleviate suffering in whatever ways I can. I wish to give others an opportunity to help because the need is overwhelming, yet within that overwhelming need I do not suggest impossibilities. Though war is upon us, and we have suffered ourselves, we can augment what food the government supplies to the prison, enough to make a difference in whether a man lives or dies. Scurvy comes from lack of decent food, and the effects are hellish.”
“We are not barbarians! I read in the newspaper that those boys get the same rations our boys get!” someone shouted.
“If that is true, it would stand to reason that scurvy would present itself at the Confederate hospital in the town of Andersonville. Yet my colleague there reports he has not seen one case of scurvy.”
A man stood up, raising his hand. When Dr. Stiles nodded at him, he took off his hat. “I’m Timothy Bigelow, for those who don’t know. I’m an alderman. I’ve served on the town council for three years. Norton, I want you to know I am in full support of all you say. Back in May when Howell Cobb reported on the conditions, it was around the same time my wife had attended a picnic there; she brought back a report in direct contrast to his. Well, either my wife was wrong or General Cobb was. I let it bother me for a time, probably longer than I should, until I paid a visit to the prison myself.”