by Larry Hunt
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Private Jack Thomason
The meager rations, Robert has endured the past couple of months, are beginning to take their toll. The Death Squad, which had twelve men when Robert was allowed to join, is now down to just five of the original bunch. For a while, Robert was able to get scraps from Cookie, with whom he had developed a relationship through Sergeant Belue, but now Belue is gone so is Cookie. When Cookie was here he would slip Robert a few remains of potato skins or remnants of meat bones. It wasn’t much but at least Robert and his band of gravediggers had ‘something’ to boil over the fire in their tent occasionally. Now even this is gone.
The weather is miserable; the rain, snow, and, seemingly, wet and windy conditions prevail all the time. Christmas is getting closer, but the enthusiasm demonstrated last year that the War would be quickly over next year is missing this year. This year famine, disease, and death overshadow last year’s eagerness.
The spirit of Christmas, if there ever was any in this place, is absent this year. No one even speaks of Christmas, no hint of a tree, and just an occasional talk that the War is coming to an end. The only thing for sure that is ending, is the lives of the prisoners, and these are plentiful these cold winter days.
Robert sits in his tent, not only decimated in body but also dejected in spirit. It seems all hope is lost. “Mind if I sit?” Looking up he recognizes Private Jack Thomason, the man who first offered him a bed in the Burial Squad tent.
“Sure Jack, please,” Robert says moving over to give Jack a place to sit on his bunk beside him.
“Robert, you look down and out. Let’s not give up. I know it’s rough, but you can take it.”
“Jack, every since you and I met, you seem like a person hiding something, am I wrong?”
“Robert, you and I have become friends since you arrived in this tent, and yes you’re right I am not what I seem.” Looking around to see if anyone was close enough to hear, “My name is not Jack Thomason I am William Mayo, Captain William Mayo of the Union Army’s Surgeon General’s Medical Staff. Yes, that’s right I am not a prisoner; I was sent here to investigate Commandant Colonel Adams and his reported abuse of prisoners of war and the conditions at this facility. I am, in fact, a medical doctor. You Sergeant Scarburg I commend for your humanity and love of your fellow man, be they Confederate or Union.”
“What! You say you’re a Union Captain and a doctor? Well, I never! I hope your report will show how badly these men are being treated. And you have seen how they have been dying faster than we can dig holes and bury ‘em.”
“Sergeant Scarburg, what I am about to tell you is in the strictest of secrecy. The War is about over – it cannot last more than a few more months. At the present time, General Grant has General Lee surrounded in a town called Petersburg, Virginia. General Lee cannot hold out much longer; the siege has been going on for over a year now. I am telling you this Robert since I know you have given up all hope of ever going home. Please Robert, I beg you, do all you can to hold on. Hold on, and you will get home and see your family.”
“Thank you, Captain for telling me this – I feel better already.”
“Robert that is the last time to refer to me as Captain, remember I am Jack Thomason, Private, Confederate States of America. Robert, in one of my last dispatches I recommended your name for exchange. Even if the War does not end soon, maybe you will be exchanged and sent back South. And do not worry, Commandant Adams will eventually be court-martialed for his crimes against humanity that he has committed here at Point Lookout.”
“Thank you, Sir, thanks, and may I ask when you get out of this place you might post a note to my family and tell them of my circumstances. Send it to Scarlettsville, South Carolina, surely someone there will get a letter to them if any of my family are still alive.”
“Hand me your coffee cup Robert,” as Robert complied the Captain pulls a metal flask from his jacket pocket and pours Robert a drink of bourbon. The Captain bumps his flask against Robert’s cup, “Sir, if it is within my ability to do so your request will be carried out. Merry Christmas Robert, may this be the last one you will ever have to spend in prison.” The Captain did not realize how true his statement was – Robert would not see another Christmas in prison!