The Sentinels of Andersonville

by Tracy Groot

  She had been too stirred up in plans and passion that day to note what had changed his face to that intensive thought and hope. But she did recall that she had not listened to him, and all she remembered now was when that hope receded and became blank and he just went along with all their plans.

  With her plans.

  What had been said? Who said it?

  Maybe it would come to her on the way to see Judge Tate. She had a question for him.

  —

  “Judge Tate, does the president alone have the authority to forgive a death penalty—or could a governor do it?”

  Judge Tate saw that the wrong word from him could plunge Violet back into the state from which she had quite recently come, and only someone past pity would do that, for clearly this misery meant the girl was in love with Emery Jones. So he worded his response carefully. While he would not crush hope, neither would he give it falsely.

  “A governor certainly has authority to commute a death sentence,” he said slowly. “In fact, had Governor Wise commuted the sentence of John Brown, the North would not have a martyr on their hands. But, child, you must understand—this is a very, very difficult time for Governor Joe. Sherman bears down upon us and all of Joe’s efforts are for stopping him. I believe there is slim chance you could get an audience with him. I don’t believe I could.”

  “Hmm,” Violet said thoughtfully. “Maybe J. W. Pickett could.”

  —

  Violet went to the telegraph office—to find it closed. A note on the door said, MACHINE BROKE DOWN. PROCEED TO ALBANY OR ANDERSONVILLE FOR NEAREST OFFICE. She peered through the glass. Two perspiring men worked on the machine while a glowering, cigar-smoking Confederate officer looked on.

  Growling, Violet quickly rummaged in her bag. She didn’t dare chivvy Silas Runcorn into a free fare. Maybe she had enough for the fare and the telegram. She counted out the coins and looked at the posted fees on the office door.

  Oh, dear. Enough for a two-word telegram and one fare.

  She raised her bag to dash it to the ground, then she caught sight of Papa and Hettie Dixon strolling over to the ticket counter on the train platform.

  —

  Violet was very glad for Hettie’s ideas for the next F.A.P. meeting. After Violet told them about her telegram plans, Hettie’s chatter kept her and Papa occupied and left Violet alone with her thoughts.

  What had Dance said on the porch that day?

  She closed her eyes and put Papa in his chair, herself and Emery at the rail, and a belligerent Dance walking away from her plans. Then came, Yes, that’s it exactly! That’s the truth, Violet! and he was belligerent no more. His face was flushed and vibrant and those brown eyes, those deeply expressive brown eyes—

  What was the truth?

  To feed these enemies is to forgive them. That, my girl, this town will not do.

  Papa’s words. Dance came swooping in to confirm those words, and it angered Violet, it seemed as though he was at his pompous university best, then, eager to quell her enthusiasm with his arrogant cynicism and worse, his hateful instruction. But it wasn’t true, that’s not how it went. That face was the truest he’d ever been. And what did he say?

  Don’t get this town involved! But if you want to help, then—

  And Violet had cut him off.

  He had seemed cut off ever since.

  She hadn’t listened to him. She’d just roared on with her plans.

  —

  Hettie and Papa had business with the Federal hospital. Papa, with a curious blush, said he had a packet of herbs that Dr. Stevenson could use in surgery, as their properties worked like lint to stanch the flow of blood and may indeed have inhibiting agents against infection. More curious still, Hettie told him it was too much detail and that he needed to refine his technique. They walked off laughing softly.

  At least Papa was laughing again.

  Violet shook her head, mystified, and went to the telegraph office.

  She did not have nearly enough money for all she wanted to say. She worked and reworked the message until $1.09 paid for the following:

  Dear Cousin Pickett. Innocent man to die 11:00 a.m. Saturday unless you intervene. Come at once to Americus. The Stiles Family.

  The important parts were covered. They would explain everything once he arrived, but she didn’t have money to tell him that. She had to argue with the telegrapher that 11:00 a.m. should count as one word as it had one meaning, and she got her way.

  Papa told her to wait until he and Hettie returned for the next train to Americus. He added, “Violet, for the time being, it will not do for us to—Listen, I don’t want you to visit Emery or Dance or any prisoners or any places of government or to even look as though you would give aid to anyone.”

  “Don’t worry, Papa,” Violet said, uncharacteristically meek.

  “I want you to stay right here after you send that telegram.”

  “Yes, Papa. Say hello to Dance if you see him. And, Papa . . .”

  With all her heart she hoped J. W. Pickett would come and be moved to pity by Emery’s case, and then take that pity and convince his intimate acquaintance, Governor Joe Brown, to extend mercy and pound a mighty stamp called COMMUTED on Emery’s sentence. If everything went right, that would happen. But nothing went right, these days.

  “Tell him we will be here on Saturday morning. He will not have to—” She paused. “He will not be alone.”

  —

  As Violet left the telegraph office, she saw a familiar face. Ann Hodgson saw her at the same time and waved.

  Ann sat in the front seat of her farm wagon, James at her feet. Isaiah, the field hand, sat next to her holding the reins. Little James held out his arms to be picked up. Delighted, Violet did so.

  “What a handsome little man!” He grasped her bonnet string and shook it. She seized his fist and kissed it.

  “Isn’t he just?” Ann beamed. “I want to have six more.”

  How could Ann remain so cheerful and so in Andersonville, despite the abuse she took from General Winder and Captain Wirz? Those despicable things they said? Yet there she was, fresh and confident—and back to her original business, said a covered corner of the wagon bed.

  “You are fearless, Ann. Look at you. Where are those supplies bound?”

  Ann gave a wink. “Not up to the gate, I’ll grant you.”

  Violet looked around and lowered her voice. “It is truly for the prison?”

  “It is. I have . . . a setup.”

  “What sort?”

  “I cannot say. But whatever donations I receive are smuggled in and freely given.” Her smile dimming somewhat, she admitted, “It is not much. But it is something.” She looked Violet over. “I heard your society took a sound drubbing at that meeting, yet still you live. Bully for you. Don’t let them get you downhearted, Violet.”

  “How do you know I’ve been downhearted?” Violet said, ruefully.

  “I was, too. Then I said, ‘What of it? Now I know the ways I cannot help; I will find ways I can. And if I can’t find them, I will make them.’ You can, too, Violet. When is your next F.A.P. meeting?”

  “Hettie was just talking of it. . . .”

  “Let me know. I’d love to attend—now that the riffraff are sorted out.”

  “But no one will show.”

  “I will. And Hettie. And you. Constance Greer will do whatever Hettie does. There. We are four.”

  Sudden tears came. Little James shook the bonnet string and put it in his mouth, and then offered it to Violet. Ann reached to squeeze Violet’s shoulder. “Pull together your determination, my old friend, and do as you set out to do. Do as you want to do.”

  Suddenly, Violet did not want to cry at all. “As I want to do? Ann, those are not Christian things.”

  Ann pulled back a little, surprised but curious. “How do you mean?”

  “I want to go up to Captain Wirz and General Winder and whoever else brought such pitiless suffering upon those men, on purpose or not,
and I want to put my hands around their necks and choke them short of death!”

  “Why, Violet Stiles.” Ann sized her up anew. “I think we understand each other.”

  Violet’s hands were afire, and she said, “I’ll be right back.” She handed over little James, seized up her skirts, and ran for the commissary building.

  She burst into the dimness and pulled back her bonnet, looking around for Corporal Womack, then ran behind the service counter.

  “Miss Stiles?” said Corporal Womack, his head appearing over a stack of meal bags. He set down the bill of lading. “Ah, you are not supposed to be behind that counter as you are a civilian. May I help you?”

  “You certainly may! I need pen, paper, tacks, and a hammer!” She stopped rummaging and looked up. “Why . . . I do believe a certain detective may restrain my action once he discovers it. . . .”

  “Is that so?” said Corporal Womack, his face hardening. “Why, I’ve got paper galore, Miss Stiles. You just wait right there. Paper galore.” He ran for the back room.

  —

  AMERICUS, ANDERSONVILLE, OR WHOMSOEVER WILL

  Is it possible you think yourself DETAINED from Feeding STARVING Prisoners? Come to the Glorious Outskirts of Society for the SECOND . . .

  Friends of Andersonville Prison (F.A.P.) Meeting!

  We shall meet AGAIN on the Pleasantly Situated Lawn of the home of Dr. Norton Stiles and Family. We shall meet EVERY TUESDAY NIGHT until KINGDOM COME or until they SHUT DOWN that HELLISH PLACE.

  Whichever comes first.

  “How many copies you gonna make?” said the corporal.

  “As many as I can manage before my father comes back.”

  “Well, I am a fair hand at lettering. Can I help?”

  “Certainly!”

  They worked quickly, dipping and blotting and scratching, and after a few moments, Violet said, “Do you think it will make a difference?”

  “I don’t know, Miss Stiles.” He pulled back to survey his work. “I just wish those boys could see it.”

  17

  “WELCOME TO ANDERSONVILLE,” he’d once heard an inmate greet newcomers, “the place where God has died.”

  Dance Pickett slouched at the rail, chin on his fist. Americus, Americus. He’d let himself believe they’d rise up and show him that God had not died.

  Losing hope in Americus meant losing hope that he might one day win Violet Stiles. He didn’t know how that was true, unless this ball of despair just bled all over everything else. That F.A.P. meeting made everything black, Emery’s situation made it blacker, and all conspired to make Violet unobtainable. For he knew all had to be right before he could have her, and it would never be.

  A new blackness occurred to him: not to obtain Violet was not to obtain the Stiles household. This war would end, and he’d have to face a Stiles-less life.

  Mrs. Stiles strove to teach her daughters all the elements that promised a completed Southern lady—graciousness, kindness, forbearance, impeccable manners, perfect discretion, and never appearing in public in a disheveled state. These were the things she thought she herself possessed in spades. Dance was glad she did not, for the result was an independent group of girls with a mildly rumpled upbringing and far less tendency to fashionable outbursts, such as the current trend in fainting. Lily once reported that she had tried fainting at a party and did not like it; she felt ridiculous, and besides: “What’s the fun of fainting if you miss anything? Anything worth a faint is far more worth not fainting.”

  Mrs. Stiles believed she was producing daughters who were beyond reproach, admired, and perfectly in step with the times. In fact, they were admired precisely because they were a half step out of time with the conventional dance of graces. There was something old-fashioned about the Stiles girls, so old-fashioned it was original. The sisters of his college friends were as interesting as a gluey pot of overcooked okra compared to Violet Stiles. And she’d never have him because next to Emery Jones, for his handsomeness and his F.A.P. passion, Dance was the okra.

  Americus and Emery and Violet were depressive-enough subjects, but then along came Lew Gann, weighing on Dance like high tide on a beach.

  Dance watched a man totter carefully along the deadline. He was little more than a walking bag of bones. He put a hand to the rail to steady himself, then pulled it away and looked up fearfully. He must dwell in a different part of the stockade. No one was shot here. Dance had once fired a warning, but only because Wirz was nearby.

  “Pickett, you up to somethin’ again?” said Burr. “’Cause I am nervous.”

  “I am never up to something. I watch and I wait. For what, I do not know.”

  “How’s that boy doin’?” Burr asked.

  “He passed an onerous thing to my keeping.”

  “What is that thing?”

  “An oath.”

  “Oaths are surely that.”

  Dance watched the man totter past.

  “Say, Burr—do you think Old Abe would do me a favor? I need to find a man. That poultice is for him.”

  Burr gave a little whistle and got Old Abe’s attention. He shuffled slowly up to the deadline.

  “Looks like he’s getting sick.”

  “He is.”

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  “What you want, Mister Johnny Old Reb?” Old Abe called up. “You got something good for me?”

  “Oh, I’ll give you a chance to do good, you old ragbag.” He swept a hand to Dance. “Behold the man.”

  “I’m trying to find someone,” Dance said down to him. “I do not know where he messes and cannot get a look at detachment rosters.”

  “Well, that don’t matter much. We don’t stick much to detachments,” said Old Abe. “We fall out where we will after roll call. What’s his name?”

  Dance went to say Harris Gill, but instead said, “Lew Gann.”

  “What battle was he took in? Sometimes you find men quicker that way.”

  “Kennesaw Mountain.”

  “I’ll ask around.”

  “If you find him, ask him to come see me. I’ve got something for him.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “I’m grateful.”

  “Aw, it gives me something to do.” Old Abe limped off into the crowd.

  Lew was with Harris Gill. Lew would come and get the poultice for Gill, and Dance would get a chance to size up the one who had captured the respect of a man whose respect was worth having.

  —

  “Fine thing happened on Kennesaw, Lew,” Harris Gill whispered. “Don’t know if I told it.”

  “I’ve heard it,” Lew said. “Ran into some other Kennesaw boys and they told me. That’s some story. I hope it is properly put on paper one day, for it is worthy.”

  “What is the story?” Martin asked, and Lew told it.

  During battle, a thicket that had sheltered wounded Union boys caught fire. There the helpless men lay, flames nearly upon them. Seeing the situation and risking a hail of enemy bullets, a Confederate colonel leapt to an outcrop and waved his handkerchief like a banner. He cried out to his foe, “Get your men away! We won’t fire a gun until you do! Cease fire, boys!” he yelled to his own. “Cease fire!” An instant cease-fire ensued, both sides, and the Federals were dragged to safety. In the last moment of the brief truce, a Union major ran to the Confederate line and presented the colonel with his own pistols in gratitude. He ran back, and battle resumed.

  “Thought I’d watch you die,” Harris said hoarsely, fevered eyes upon Lew. “Along comes that Reb just a-blazin’. Where is that Reb, Lew? I want to buy him a drink.”

  “I don’t know.” Lew could not look at those eyes long. They were disturbing. He took off his boot and pondered the hole. He’d lost the packing today. “Haven’t seen him in a while. He was likely reassigned. Maybe sent to the front. Wish I’d had a chance to say good-bye.”

  “You see things like that, boy-o . . . and you see the world new,” Harris whispered. He plucked restlessly at his s
hirt. He murmured something indistinct, and then was still.

  Lew held the boot tight. If he could just find some packing for this hole, if he could just find some packing, if he could just find some packing . . .

  —

  While Dance and Burr waited for Old Abe, Dance tried to get where Emery had in his thinking.

  “That country swab had an idea that might spare his life, but he won’t tell me on account of the oath. He won’t have me in trouble for helping him, no sir, but he doesn’t mind if I get in trouble for helping a Yank. I find it selfish.”

  “Hmm. Well. It is a pickle, I will own.”

  “I can’t get to Emery’s idea.”

  “Will something in that scrip o’ yours push you along?”

  “The only thing that comes to mind is a quote by Algernon Sydney. ‘That which is not just, is not Law; and that which is not Law, ought not to be obeyed.’”

  “Oooh. Say that again.”

  Dance did.

  Burr whistled. “Them are sturdy words, and fearsome.”

  “This whole county should tremble.”

  Someone was coming up the ladder.

  “Dr. Stiles,” Dance said, surprised.

  “You’re Doc Stiles?” Burr said. “Well, I don’t know what to say.”

  Dr. Stiles touched his hat and nodded. “Gentlemen. I was in the neighborhood with Mrs. Dixon. We tried to see Emery but they wouldn’t let us.” He looked a little nervous. “I’ve never seen into the stockade before.”

  Burr stepped aside, and he went to the rail, grasping it once there.

  “Oh, mercy,” the doctor breathed.

  “Take your time, Doc. It is a load.” Burr surveyed his domain. “They are devils, but they are poor devils.”

  “Burr—is that Old Abe?” Dance asked.

  “It is.”

  “Looks like he’s had a day of it,” Dance said.

  “It is that scurvy.”

  Dance retrieved the onion poultice from the corner of the platform. He showed Dr. Stiles. “Reverend Gillette brought this for Lew Gann’s friend. Onion poultice, for infection.”