The Sentinels of Andersonville

by Tracy Groot

  “That’ll help some,” the doctor said, but he was distracted; his eyes went back to the astounding sight of thick thousands of thin, shabby men.

  Dance watched Old Abe’s approach. No one accompanied him.

  “Hail the perch!” Old Abe limped to the deadline. “Well, I found your man, but he did not have interest to come. His friend just died. And I am tired, so I will go and lay me down.” He turned away.

  “Wait—come back here,” Dr. Stiles called. He took the onion poultice from Dance and tossed it. “Break it open and eat it. It’ll do you good.”

  “Hey!” shouted the tower guard on the north side of the holding pen. “What you throwin’ down there?” He unshouldered his rifle.

  Dr. Stiles’s hands came up. “Just an onion poultice. For scurvy. I’m a doctor.”

  “That’s against regulations! Burr, what’re you thinkin’?”

  “He didn’t know,” Dr. Stiles said quickly. “I’ll go through Captain Wirz next time.”

  “We get in trouble for such foolishness! You ask Burr how long they stuck him in Castle Reed for throwin’ down a loaf of bread.”

  “Well, that wasn’t bread,” Old Abe objected. “That was a peach something or other. It was sweet. Not like bread.” He lifted the bundle and said, “I’m obliged.” He limped away.

  “Onions are an antiscorbutic,” Dr. Stiles said.

  “That’s good thinkin’, Doc.”

  “He is not past help.”

  “What helps best?”

  “Well, from what you can get around here, green corn. Lemons, peaches. Any fruit or vegetable will do.” Then he said, “Say . . . my neighbor has a lemon tree. Those lemons get very large, with a thick skin. I do not know their variety. He told me once. I will ask for some.”

  “Just don’t say it’s for the prisoners,” Dance said. “Say it’s for anyone else. They’ll punish you for even thinking it. God forbid from heaven we should give these men a lemon.”

  Dr. Stiles looked at him.

  “Oh, I’ll say what I want about Americus,” Dance said, pushing away from the rail, his heart suddenly racing. “But you know what? I don’t have to.” He threw an arm to the stockade. “Here it is! This’ll tell the story of Americus! I’ll say plainly, Dr. Stiles, I am sick and tired of you defending them, and when I see you that’s all I see, just one big excuse for Americus. Nothing got done at that meeting, did it? Just talk and talk. Nothing ever gets done!”

  Dr. Stiles stared out on the immense snarl of humanity. “It’s true. Men die from attrition, and I can’t stop it. But maybe I can bring someone a lemon.”

  “Oh, that’s a fine ditty. There’s a brand-new maxim. Let’s teach it at our universities and churches. ‘Bring someone a lemon today!’ That’ll turn the tides, Dr. Stiles. Ain’t it just Jesus.” He shouted into the stockade, “Take up your pallets and walk, you Yanks, for this man will bring you a lemon!”

  “What’s going on over there?” called the guard in the closest tower.

  “Ease up, Pickett,” Burr said.

  A man near the deadline looked up and shook his head. “Always knew you Rebs were crazy.”

  “You said Americus might not remember who they are. Well, they sure didn’t, did they?”

  Dr. Stiles took a last look over the acres of men, as if committing the sight to memory. He touched his hat to Burr, and started for the ladder.

  “I hate Americus,” Dance spit.

  “I am Americus.”

  “Then I hate you too!”

  Dr. Stiles stopped without looking back. His shoulders slumped a little. “Dance, you are not eaten up because of what others will not do, but because of what you won’t. You knew the answer to this place long before Violet did.”

  “What is the answer to this place?” Dance shouted, his voice breaking.

  The doctor turned. “It has nothing to do with a people rising up, but a person. One person, just one. I blame Americus no longer, and no longer will I try to rally them—but I will rally myself. If it’s a lemon, if it’s just a lemon—Dance, if it’s just a lemon—if a lemon is all I can do, then I will do it!”

  Men in the stockade near the north gate paused to look and see what was happening in the sentinel’s tower.

  Dr. Stiles went to touch Dance’s shoulder, but didn’t. “Oh, son. What are they not doing that you wish you would?” He looked once more to the stockade. “No. Americus does not remember who they are. But I’m remembering who I am. You can too.”

  He went to the ladder and climbed down.

  Dance went to the rail and held fast. He put his head down.

  He was just one man trying to hold it all together, trying to keep the dark flood down. He shook, and wondered that the rail did not burst to powder in his grip. He wanted to tear down the world, and that would be the easy part. But he had to tear down himself.

  “You keep on goin’, Pickett,” Burr said softly. “You’re doin’ fine, son.”

  —

  Hours passed. The sun headed west, and Dance and Burr said not a word to each other.

  The usual ennui came once more, and Dance sank to a slouch at the rail. It was easy to see when an officer came by, and he’d save the straightening for then.

  Two more hours and his watch would end for the day. And maybe Emery Jones couldn’t be saved, and maybe all of these prisoners couldn’t be saved, but he knew a way to save Lew Gann. He had known all along.

  Some prisoners had tunneled out, but Turner’s dogs tracked them down and brought most of them back. A few got out by bribing turnkeys, but not many, and those turnkeys had been found out. Some tried to play dead and were brought out on stretchers; Wirz was on to these, and now each body brought out had to be ruled dead by a physician. A few had escaped from the hospital, but they were easily tracked, as most were too weak to get far.

  Dance knew a way to save a prisoner that was so easy . . . a blind man could read by it.

  He pushed from the rail.

  Mercy, but I have given a whopper clue. A blind man could read by it.

  Dance had only been there a moment or two. What clue?

  Back through it, Dance, back it up until—

  And there it was, and calm came with it.

  “Well. He did give a whopper clue.”

  Maybe Emery Jones could be saved.

  “You get to it, Pickett?”

  “Maybe.” He felt a little better. In fact, as pieces began to fly together and form a solitary notion, and when Dance prodded that notion and found it solid, he felt much better—and brightened prospects for both Lew and Emery brightened the prospects with Violet.

  He went back to the rail. “How’d you win your wife, Burr?”

  “She won me.”

  “How’d she do that?”

  “She was herself, and I liked it.”

  “It didn’t have much to do with you winning her?”

  “What do I got in me that she’d want? I liked what I saw in that girl, and determined her as mine.”

  “Well, how did you go about it?”

  “Went up to her one day and said I’d marry her and no other. Then I went off to bide my time.”

  “How long did you bide?”

  “Two years,” he admitted. “She didn’t like what I said. But she come around.”

  “It was worth it?”

  “Twenty-six years of worth it.”

  “Burr, will you do something for me?”

  “I will.”

  Dance went to his scrip in the corner. He took out a pencil and piece of paper and began to write as fast as he could.

  Violet, I want you to marry me. Here is how you won me: When you came to the prison, you fought to reach that dying man. Doing so, you reached me. You were yourself. You were who I hoped you were all along. So I will marry you or I will marry no one, but I must do something first. I do not know how long it will take. Wait for me, because I am yours, and you, Violet Wrassey Stiles, are mine.

  Dance Weld Pickett

/>   He folded the note and slipped it into the leather scrip, making sure it was the top paper. He fastened the leather string and handed the scrip to Burr.

  “I can’t do two things at once. But I think my father will come and see about one of them. He is a retired lawyer and loves to meddle. Especially if it has to do with law.”

  “I am nervous again.”

  “Get this to Violet Stiles. And get me Old Abe. Have him at the gate in a quarter hour—wait!” Dance snatched back the scrip and hurriedly opened it. He found an envelope. He took a piece of paper, folded it, and slipped it into the envelope. He tucked in the envelope flap, wrote a name on the front, hesitated, wrote more, and put the envelope in his pocket. He retied the scrip and gave it back to Burr. “There. Old Abe at the gate, a quarter hour.”

  “I am more nervous than I ever been!”

  “Say hello to my father for me. He’ll arrive sometime tomorrow. This time, he will come.” He ran for the ladder. He ran back to Burr and shook his hand heartily, and ran for the ladder once more.

  Burr looked at the leather scrip and wished with all his heart he could read. But it did not take a reader to smoke out how Pickett planned to help the one called Lew, not standing at this post all this time and seeing all from the same place.

  An ache pierced his heart, and he looked over the stockade.

  —

  They wouldn’t let Dance see Emery Jones, as he’d had his quota of visitors for the day.

  “And no, you can’t see the Articles of War ’cause they are for punishment only and not for reading any old time someone pleases, as this ain’t a library. And furthermore what are you doing off your post, Dance Pickett? Just because your daddy is some kind of to-do, that don’t give you the right to—”

  “Oh, have it your way,” Dance groused at the guard. He stepped back and shouted, “Emery!”

  “Dance?” came a faint voice from within. “That you?”

  “It’s the Articles, isn’t it?”

  “Figure it out, did you? That’s my boy.”

  “Enough of that!” said the guard.

  “Not quite. This peawit won’t let me read them. Which one?”

  “I was thinkin’ of Article 22. But I don’t know if there’s enough in it.”

  “Article 22. Listen, one more thing: The oath is fulfilled. You hear me? It is done, Emery. All is well.”

  No answer.

  “You hear me?”

  “I heard.”

  “You get on, Pickett, or you’re gonna join him! Try me!”

  “See you later, Alabama.”

  Emery did not answer, and that was all right.

  Emery had to know that Lew was taken care of before Saturday morning. But maybe Father would come and meddle. He might not come to the aid of Yanks, but he might for a Confederate soldier, especially if the law could ferret out his innocence. If something in Article 22 could do so, Father would find it.

  He had to word it perfectly.

  He ran to the telegraph office in the Andersonville depot, sent a message, and raced back to the stockade.

  —

  Late that afternoon, J. W. Pickett of 14 Glastonbury Street in Augusta received two telegrams. Both times he feared it was about his oldest son, Beau, and both times it wasn’t. The first was a cryptic missive from the Stiles family. The second was from Dance.

  Dear Father. Come at once, and bring a set of the Articles of War. Study Article 22 and see to Emery Jones in Castle Reed. He is unjustly sentenced to death, Saturday 11 a.m. Law can save him. I’d do it myself but I have been called away. Gratefully, Dance.

  Gratefully? Since when had Dance been grateful?

  “Is it Beau, sir? Is it Dance?” said a worried Mammy Wallace, their old nurse. “Is all well?”

  J. W. Pickett roused himself. “All is very well indeed. He is grateful! A sure sign he is growing up, thank God. But don’t put off your prayer shawl just yet, for our Dance is sent to the front. I am glad for his chance to prove his mettle and pray he escapes Federal wrath—but oh, this gladdens me more!” He shook the telegram. “Two happy things herein, Mammy Wallace! ‘Law can save him,’ says he—he’d do it himself if he could! Oh, it joys me to my toes!” He did a tiny shuffle dance in place.

  “What is the next happy thing?” said she.

  “Recalled to life!” roared J. W. Pickett. “Was Sydney Carton the hero of A Tale of Two Cities? I think not! It was the old lawyer, Mammy Wallace, the old lawyer!” And off he went to pack his bag.

  —

  Dance followed Old Abe along the deadline, heading north, and didn’t dare look up to see if Burr was watching.

  It was an easy thing to get the turnkey to open the pass-through door in the gate. Dance simply showed him the envelope and said, “General Winder wants me to get a signature. It may take some time.”

  “My watch ends in an hour,” said the turnkey.

  “If I’m not back by then, tell your relief I’m coming out. Name’s Dance Pickett.”

  “I know who you are.”

  Yes . . . but his relief didn’t.

  A new turnkey on watch rotation had replaced Lucerne, he who betrayed Emery for a barrel of whiskey and a furlough. The new man did not know the face of Dance Weld Pickett.

  He felt curiously light as he followed Old Abe.

  The people of Americus were terrified these men would rise in cutthroat revolt; yet here Dance dared to go and fetch a “signature” without an armed escort. He wasn’t even questioned by the turnkey. Mosby’s gang, the only real trouble in the pen, had been put down last month, and the new Regulators did a fairly even job at keeping peace. When it all boiled down, these were just men; some were bad, but most were good—like any place in Georgia. He was safe enough in the company of this lame man.

  A tumult of thought billowed within, pierced through with sharp exhilaration, and he wished for paper and pen. The pen would turn billowed thoughts to shapes, and give them habitation. Then he’d lay them to rest in that sanctuary of hope until the day came when it was safe to bring them out.

  One thought floated free in the tumult, shaped and waiting for ink: I have seen what this place has done to men, and I admit I am afraid it will come to me, too, but better this fear than the other, that God has died. I saw him today in a man who spoke of lemons.

  In his mind, he wiped the pen and stoppered the ink; he dried the page and slipped it into the scrip. He gave the scrip to Violet and kissed her good-bye.

  Dance Weld Pickett, adored son of James Weld Pickett, the ardent secessionist, the confidant of Governor Joe Brown, and the hater of all things North, was about to become a blue-belly Yank.

  PART FOUR

  Once inside . . . men exclaimed: “Is this hell?” Verily, the great mass of gaunt, unnatural-looking beings, soot-begrimed, and clad in filthy tatters, that we saw stalking about inside this pen looked, indeed, as if they might belong to a world of lost spirits.

  —PRIVATE WILLIAM B. SMITH, 14TH ILLINOIS VOLUNTEER INFANTRY

  Tuesday, July 19, 1864

  Men, strong in mentality, heart and hope were in a few short months . . . reduced to imbeciles and maniacs. . . . the slowest torture to him who still had a clear brain.

  —FROM THE DIARY OF CORPORAL CHARLES HOPKINS, 1ST NEW JERSEY INFANTRY

  18

  “YOU GOT ANY MORE STORIES?”

  Lew lay on his side, his back to them. “No, Martin. No more.”

  All he had were lost friends . . . and no place to lament them.

  “Leave him be a bit, Martin,” Andy murmured. “He’ll be all right.”

  “I thought it might help if he talked,” said Martin. “We all pull our weight here at Hotel Ford. We look after each other.”

  “Yes, we do,” said Andy.

  Martin lay down and fell instantly asleep.

  Smoke gave battles a sense of unreality. In some battles, you waited for the smoke to clear to get off a shot, wondering the whole time if it had cleared sooner for the enemy.


  Lew would take that smoke over this. He’d take the unbearable sense of waiting, almost shot; he’d take turned-up earth and wrecked caissons and blown-up horses to lying down and taking this. They could not fight here. It was all mental living. All figuring out how to make a handful of food last a day. Figuring out water. Figuring out how to doctor someone with nothing, and you weren’t a doctor to begin with.

  They could not kill what tried to kill them. They could not even throw a punch, and the powerlessness was unmanning. They had to take all that was poured upon them because they were soldiers and that’s what soldiers did and they died by the thousands doing so.

  “We can kill lice,” Andy said. “There’s always lice, the dear little vermin . . .”

  Lew came away from his thoughts.

  “There is a twofold reward in it,” Andy said, as if asked. “We fight back, and we keep clean.”

  Well, it was true.

  Lew wiped his face. “How do you know just what I need said?” He rolled over to look at Andy.

  “Because that’s how I felt when Bart died. I went on a wild-man lice-killing spree. Killed 143 off myself. Consigned them to a miniature abyss, wherever bad vermin go. It was a personal record, and it did me good.”

  “What’s the most you’ve heard of?”

  “I heard of a man on the south side who killed above a thousand off himself. But you know rumors. Could have started out half that.” Then he said, “I don’t know if my folks know about Bart.”

  “Have you written to them?”

  “Can’t get paper for it. I don’t know how things are reported here, officially. I hope they have a record of us. That’s a little fear I have. We’ll just get swallowed up. No one will know.”

  “There is an official record, and I know the boy who keeps it,” came a soft voice at the tent flap. The flap rose, and a face peered in. “His name is Dorence Atwater. But my name is Lew Gann.”

  “That’s my name,” Lew said, feeling foolish.

  “Not anymore. Yours is Dance Pickett.” He put out a hand. “Nice to meet you. I am here courtesy of a mutual friend.”

  Lew sat up. “What has he gone and done now?”