The Sentinels of Andersonville

by Tracy Groot

  “Atlanta’s the prize, not ’Mericus. Either way, Sherman takes Atlanta, and yes, sir—we are finished.”

  “We’ll see how that John Bell Hood answers.”

  “He ain’t Johnston.”

  “He ain’t. But he’s what we got.”

  “Say, it’s a shame about that boy.”

  “Yes sir, it is.”

  “Reckon they gotta stick to the cuss end of the law.”

  “There’s gotta be law.”

  “It is a necessary evil.”

  “Yes sir, it is.”

  “I just wish they weren’t gonna hang him. Meant well.”

  —

  Posey cried for two days. Then she wiped her nose and said, “Posey Stiles, you shore yourself up. You will do Emery no good.”

  She sought her father to see what good she could do, and all he said was, “Draw him a picture.”

  “Draw him a picture,” she scorned as she stomped away from his office. “A thumping lot of good that will do.”

  She brightened a little. Emery was from Alabama. He did not know Sumter County. She could draw a map on the back of the picture in case he escaped. The jailer would not notice if she drew it very lightly. She knew just the pencil for the job, and she ran for the Pressing Needs box.

  —

  “Well, look at those dark circles. The only word I can use to describe you right now is wan. I do not like the word, nor do I like the state you are in. Do I see another victim of Andersonville in front of my eyes?”

  Dr. Stiles looked up from the newspaper. Hettie Dixon stood in the doorway of his office, a basket on her arm. She shut the door. “You are not even reading that.”

  “Polly send for you, did she?” He looked at the paper. “General Winder is fortifying the Andersonville stockade with an outer wall against an imminent Sherman attack. Hadley’s editorial says all this conscription of the citizens for horses and mules and slaves amounts to nothing less than taxation.”

  “Polly told me you had a visitor the other day. A Colonel Chandler.”

  “He was sent to inspect the prison.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Everything. It seems at last the prisoners have a voice.”

  “They had one in you.” When he didn’t answer, she said, “Do you think Colonel Chandler will be heard?”

  “There, my faith falters. He plans to tell the truth of Andersonville. Such will be put down.”

  Hettie sat in the consultation chair in front of his desk. She took knitting out of the basket and began to knit.

  “Polly hasn’t seen you like this since little George. That’s the last time she sent for me, regarding yourself.”

  He put the newspaper on the desk. He took off his glasses, folded them, and put them in his vest pocket. He sat back to look out the window.

  Hettie’s needles clicked.

  “When will you get back to seeing patients, Norton?”

  “Oh. Shouldn’t be long now.”

  “When will you get back to the Federal hospital? Today is Thursday.”

  “That is out of my hands. They will not renew my pass. Do you know, I think they liked the idea of helping the prisoners? The thought of feeding an enemy has a fine revolutionary pull, for it is a radical kindness. Perhaps we fill up on thoughts of radical kindnesses and find ourselves sated. If on vapors.”

  “Intentions and actualities seldom meet on the same plane.” Hettie’s needles clicked. She pulled a length of yarn out of her basket to keep up. “What I wish to know is when we will have the next F.A.P. meeting.”

  “There are no friends of Andersonville Prison.”

  “What about Colonel Chandler?”

  He didn’t answer.

  The clicking stilled and Hettie said, “Norton, out of curiosity, what other things were you going to say at that meeting before it was interrupted? I was particularly interested in your plans for the hospital.”

  “Hettie—please.”

  “Just tell me one thing you were going to say.”

  He was still for a moment, then abruptly snatched a sheaf of notes from a corner of his desk and shoved them at her. He resumed perusal of the day outside the window.

  She selected one at random, held it out as far as she could, and read aloud: “A Confederate surgeon reports that one in four amputations in a field hospital results in death.” She looked at the doctor. “What were you going to say about that?”

  Dr. Stiles answered only because he had fallen to a distracted state. “I envied those odds. Nearly every amputation at Andersonville results in death. It is hard enough for a healthy man to stand an amputation, but a man decimated by Andersonville . . . They have one in four who die. We have one in four who live. And that is a good day.”

  After a moment, Hettie put the note back.

  She knitted long enough to turn the heel of the sock and then asked, “Norton, do you know why we must visit widows and orphans in their despair instead of merely sending them a note?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Because everywhere we go we carry the divine spark. We can all do with a little more of the divine spark if it sits down next to us for a spell, can we not?”

  “I see nothing divine or sparkly about severing a gangrenous limb from a body shortly to follow. I have no pass, Hettie. I am cut off. There is something comforting when you realize there is nothing more you can do. You have done your best, and it is out of your hands.”

  “Oh, you should not be comforted a whit, Norton Stiles. Whoever told you it was out of your hands? Has God dismissed you from your duty? Hmm. In our most trying times, God has the temerity to ask us to walk a little farther. And that is what he wants you to do, pass or no pass. He wants you to get back to it.”

  “I’m tired.”

  “You’ve taken time to be tired and you are done, sir. You’ve got seven women on the other side of that door walking all over their hearts, they’ve gotten so low ’cause of your ‘tired.’”

  “I’m still tired.”

  Hettie rested her knitting in her lap. “Isn’t it a puzzling truth? The very thing that makes us tired is the very thing that refreshes once we get back to it; and we must not get back halfhearted.” After a moment, she added gently, “I think you came upon something extraordinary in its evil scope. It would tire anyone.”

  “Oh, it’s not just that. Emery Jones will hang in two days because he wanted to help others. The law is for lawbreakers—he is no lawbreaker, not by the spirit of the law, of which we do not seem to be custodians any longer. There is only the letter of the law, and it kills. And I am tired, tired of it all.”

  “Norton Avery Stiles, look at me.”

  He did so.

  “I am sixty-four years old. I’ve got at least a dozen on you. I have come to know that we must accustom ourselves to pain and injustice and things we just don’t know what to do about. But we are fitted to other things. Made to meet ’em. And those we carry best as we can. Now God has someone else fitted to that boy. He is not yours to carry. Yours is Andersonville. You are fitted to it. Now get back to it.”

  He didn’t know what to say.

  Hettie said, exasperated, “Yes, it is as simple as that. Behold, you are sprung from your dark cage. Mercy, but revelations come cheaply enough. Putting feet to ’em—now, that is something else.”

  He still didn’t know what to say.

  She said kindly, “Action is a tonic, Norton. It is precisely when a body does not know what to do that the answer is easy—do anything. Preferably something small and kind. When we attend small things, the other part of us works on ways to get back to big things. What has Ellen got in the larder?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes. It’s not for you.” Sounding much like Ellen, she muttered, “How long will I be with you? How long will I put up with you?”

  “Who is it for, then?”

  “What time is it?”

  He looked at her for a moment, and t
hen consulted his pocket watch. “Quarter past twelve.”

  “We have time enough to catch the one-fifteen. Do not stop and think, sir, or you will fill up on vapors.” She put the knitting into the basket and stood. “Rise up, Norton Stiles. Let us raid the larder and make off with the goods. I will distract Ellen, and you will fill my basket and cover it with knitting. Today we shall visit the Federal hospital and find ourselves a hungry man. I dearly love to feed hungry men.”

  “Oh, what good will it do, Hettie? The need is too great.”

  “Oh, for—it will do good for the one we feed. Ask him, if you don’t believe me! Come, let us away! I may be sixty-four years old, but today I feel fifty.”

  “I don’t have a pass.”

  “Well, Jesus did not have a pass. I can’t think of everything. You have a ten-mile train ride to figure that out.” She held out the basket.

  Doctor Stiles studied it for a good long minute, and finally took it.

  “We don’t have to raid the larder. Ellen would give willingly.”

  “What fun is that?”

  —

  “Do you know how many times I had to recite the Articles of War? All hundred and one of them, plus sections? Never thought one should spell my demise. Article 41 is a shorty, too. You’d think a man’s death would be more complicated.”

  Emery was being held at Castle Reed, a small walled stockade just east of the Andersonville depot. It formerly held Union officers until they were transferred in May to a camp near Macon. It now served as a guardhouse as well as a punishment facility for Confederate guards. Emery was allowed two visitors per day, and this was his second—Dance had passed Reverend Gillette on the way in.

  Dance sat on the floor against the wall. There was only a cot in the room. Emery sat on the edge of the cot, his knees bouncing up and down. “Do you know how many times I’ve slipped away from camp without a pass? We’d sneak past the pickets and go on foraging sprees.” He chuckled. “Went to a Yankee dance, once, if you believe me. I can dance pretty well and so they forgave my heritage. I hope you have not come to be glum. Rest yourself content, Mr. Pickett, for I do not intend to swing. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

  “Why do you look like you swallowed sunbeams?”

  “You’d rather have me all laid out and squallin’?”

  “I’d have you face reality.”

  “Well, I may have figured a way out of this fix. But I need to sit with it some.” He chuckled. “Sunbeams . . .”

  “The preacher looked as shabby as I feel.”

  “Did you hear me? I may see a way out.”

  “Is that so?”

  “The answer is so plain a blind man can read by it. I have already given a clue.”

  “What clue?”

  “Oh, you’re a smart boy—figure it out.”

  “You’re tunneling out.”

  “When did I give that clue?”

  “You bribed the guards.”

  “Nope.”

  “You have dangerous friends. They’re coming to bust you out.”

  “All my dangerous friends are with the 22nd Alabama, beatin’ Sherman.” Emery hummed a snatch of “Bonnie Blue Flag” and said, “Wish I had somethin’ for my hands to do. They won’t let me finish weavin’ that stretcher. I don’t see how rag strips are implements of bust-out. The preacher brought a Bible, and that was nice, and a picture from Posey Stiles. Look here—she drew me a map for escape on the back. That’s me right there, knifing a guard.” He grinned. “That little girl. We woulda been best friends if we was kids together.”

  “It has something to do with the reverend.”

  “Nope.”

  “Dr. Stiles?”

  “Nope. When am I to be hung?”

  “Hanged. Eleven o’clock on Saturday morning.”

  “I need to keep that in mind. It may spur cogitation. Saturday is how many days off?”

  “Two. Posey gave you a key along with the map.”

  “Nope.”

  “A nail file.”

  “Listen, Dance, what progress have you made with Lew’s case? It weighs on me. No slur on your capabilities, but I am more comfortable with his fate in my hands than yours. You are distractible.”

  “Progress—what progress? No progress! I can’t think past more immediate realities, you Alabamian haystick! So should you! Tell me your idea before I get angry.”

  “Listen, there is something you can do for me. The preacher brought an onion poultice for Lew’s friend, Harris. He took it to both gates but was turned away. Can you—?”

  “He gave it to me. I left it outside the door. It stinks. I’ll see what I can do. Emery . . . Gillette says you will not give information to get hold of your folks.”

  “I won’t trouble them over something that most likely won’t occur.”

  “Most likely . . .”

  “Well, since when do my ideas ever land strictly as I mean them to?”

  Dance went to grab him by the neck and shook his fists in Emery’s face instead. “Then tell me what it is! You’ll have two minds on it.”

  “I want your mind on helpin’ Lew Gann.”

  “Well, I’ve never met him. It’s not him I—”

  “I want your mind on helpin’ Lew,” Emery repeated patiently. “If you will be a leader in our country one day, and I see congressman shinin’ down on you like a portentous light from heaven, then you must puzzle out for yourself what an Alabamian haystick just about has. Mercy, but I have given a whopper clue. Meantime, tell me your plan for Violet Stiles. You better fashion one quick before some other swell comes along.”

  There Emery sat talking a mile a minute, trying to distract Dance, looking out for Dance—when he was the one about to die. And there wasn’t a thing Dance could do about it. No more than he could do anything about Andersonville.

  Why did he want to be a lawyer, anyway? How did one fight injustice with unjust laws? One of the few people he cared about was about to be murdered by the very law Dance had been raised to revere.

  It was a dark flood rising inside, and he had no place to go. He’d rise to the top and the dark flood would catch him. They’d find him dead on the street one day, dry as cotton, never knowing he’d drowned in his own skin.

  He did not want this dying man to see his despair—likely no more than Emery wanted Dance to see his.

  He brought his mind back to Emery’s rattlings.

  “. . . that you two are suited. Wish you’d ken it. What is more, the fact that you did not kiss her on that porch is something from which Hickory Shearer would fashion a month of maxims.”

  “Well, that is completely irrelevant. Besides—well, Emery, you are better looking than I.”

  “I know it,” Emery said simply. “But I am taken, else I’d twist my heart to a wreath and lay it at her feet.”

  “Who has taken you?”

  “Lew’s sister, Laura. She has got some memorable sass. She is Posey Stiles all growed up.”

  “Isn’t Lew from Pennsylvania? When did you meet her?”

  “I haven’t.” Then he confessed, “I hope she is not ugly. Plain can be beautified by sass, but there is not much you can do with ugly. If she is, in fact, pretty, well, that’s just a windfall; it’s the girl I want.” He thought a minute, and said firmly, “I will situate myself to ugly if I must. I will be kind to her. Love beautifies.”

  “What has she done to warrant your affections?” Dance asked, truly curious.

  “I read some of her letters. And Lew’s told me of her. His fondness and admiration are clear. She’s his favorite, and he’s told me many stories. One story did me in. Fort Sumter had fallen, and—”

  The key scraped in the lock and the door swung open. “Time’s up, Pickett.”

  Dance sighed. “I wanted to hear that story.” He got up.

  “It’ll keep. Lew is not an ugly man. Perhaps absent of ugly in a male runs likewise for females of the same blood. I’m ashamed it worries me. I will put it out of my m
ind.”

  Dance paused at the door. “Your uncle and aunt have the same last name as you?”

  When Emery did not answer, it was then Dance saw a crack in the cavalier surface. He sat still, hands curled around the edge of the cot.

  “There is no idea,” Dance said quietly.

  Emery didn’t answer.

  “What’s your folks’ name?”

  He shook his head, staring at a spot on the floor.

  “Emery, you’re not being fair to them. They can be reached through the war department at Huntsville. A telegram will put them on the next train.”

  “I did no genuine wrong by any stretch of common sense.” He picked up Posey’s picture and set it back down. “Write ’em a letter later and tell ’em the truth. They don’t need to be pulled off the farm and see me hung for something as stupid as no pass. It has no meaning.”

  “It’s Andersonville. Men die for no meaning.”

  “Wish I was hung for bustin’ out Lew.”

  “Hanged . . .”

  “Pickett, get moving,” said the guard.

  “If you told me your idea, maybe I could help.”

  “Help Lew. He’s in there ’cause of me. I kept one oath I shouldn’t have and made one I can’t keep.” He looked up.

  When Dance saw his eyes, he knew it was over. There was no scheme there, no fight. Only worry—and not for himself.

  “Keep my oath for me, Dance. Then I can die with all my heart.”

  16

  VIOLET STILES WAS READY to climb into mourning black. It felt as if the town of Americus had died. All she had known them to be turned out to be merely all she had thought them to be.

  Dance was right. He had warned her, and she hadn’t listened. And what else had he said that day when they were all on the porch and she hadn’t listened?

  He had been walking away, and she was losing him, and he had that dark and awful look on his face, and then he came back up the stairs two at a time, his face freshened, and full of hope.

  What was it that was said to make him come back like that?

  Violet watched a dried-herb bundle sway in what little wind the day brought. It had been raining off and on, and the forgotten bundles tied at the iron rail were alternately wet and dry for days on end, and had likely lost their potency.