“Guess they don’t think we have the strength to escape,” someone offers. “No guards. No deadline. And nobody cares.”
Thirty minutes later we hear horses again. And ten minutes later they ride off.
“How many horses were there?” somebody calls out.
“Couldn’t tell. Twenty or more.”
“What are they doing?”
Nobody has a reasonable guess.
Near noon, the gates slowly open. A stack of wood, as tall as a Conestoga wagon and twice as wide, is piled a few feet from the opened gate. It includes logs from full-grown trees and boards of freshly cut lumber. Just beyond the pile I see the river has swept into all of Cahaba, including the porch line of Amanda Gardner’s house.
The sergeant of the guard rides five feet into the prison. “I’m calling every Confederate guard away for several hours,” he yells. “We have a very important meeting.” He spots Caleb Rule and says in slow, measured words, “If we come back and every scrap of log and limb happens to have floated inside, I’m sure none of the guards will be upset.”
“What about the deadline?”
The sergeant looks down from his mount. “I don’t see one, soldier.” Then he turns to a guard behind him. “Sergeant Williams, do you see a deadline?”
Sergeant Williams shakes his head. “No, sir. Haven’t seen one of those for days.”
“What about Colonel Jones?” a prisoner shouts.
The sergeant produces a slow smile. “The colonel was called to Selma for the day,” he says.
The guards pull their reins and slosh away. We are left totally alone, the gate standing wide open. It takes four hours for able-bodied prisoners to drag the wood inside the prison.
We pile it crisscross fashion into small islands all around the camp. Sleep is once again possible for many of us.
Nobody stands for roll call the next morning. We simply stare up at Colonel Jones when he appears. He paces back and forth on his perch, seemingly unable to begin. He glares at the islands of logs scattered before him.
“Something’s up,” comes a voice from behind me. “He’s never this quiet.”
Colonel Jones coughs to clear his throat. “Sergeant Rufas, I gave orders for the prisoners not to leave.”
“Yes, sir, you did,” Sergeant Rufas replies.
“And yet, they did,” he barks. If I were closer to him, I’m sure I’d see the veins popping across his forehead and neck.
“No, sir, I assure you the prisoners never left their area. They are all accounted for, sir. We checked last night, but we can count them again if you like.”
“Then explain to me, Sergeant Rufas, what are some of the prisoners sitting on, when the ground should be covered in two feet of water?”
Sergeant Rufas leans over the wall and peers down at us. He studies the scene for several seconds, perhaps unable to make eye contact with the colonel. “It appears to be timber, sir,” he finally says.
“Timber?” the colonel yells. He pauses, then steps closer to Sergeant Rufas. “And how, if they did not leave, did it get inside the prison?”
“That, sir, is easy to explain. The wood floated along the Cahaba and Alabama Rivers with the floodwaters.” I see.
“Yes, sir. The logs piled up against the gates, and . . . I . . . ah, opened them to release the pressure. If it hadn’t been for that, the force would have torn the gates plum off their hinges, and every single man would certainly have escaped.”
I start smiling and turn to look at Sergeant Survant. He’s buried his head between his legs and is laughing so hard, his shoulders are bobbing up and down.
“So by opening the gates and allowing the logs to float in, you prevented the prisoners from escaping?”
“Yes, sir, I believe so. And it worked, sir, because all the prisoners are still here this morning.”
“I see,” the colonel mutters.
PART THREE
HOMEWARD BOUND
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
March 9, 1865
The colonel surveys the scene for a while longer and finally turns to the prisoners. “While in Selma, early this morning, orders came down that when the waters of the Alabama recede into her banks and we’re able to get a steamship to Cahaba, seven hundred of you will be released to go home.” The colonel turns and walks down the steps and out of sight.
Every prisoner, even some with hardly any energy left, lifts his head and smiles. Soon the walls of the prison are shaking with cheers. Nobody seems to believe what we’ve heard. Seven hundred of us are going home!
Johnny Walker jumps on top of the roost and begins dancing. He flicks his legs into the air, puts one hand on his hip, and thrusts the other over his head. He twirls counterclockwise slowly and taps his feet against the roof of the roost. Everybody claps to keep him on rhythm.
“What’s he doing?” I laugh.
“That is called a Scottish jig,” Sergeant Survant explains. “Private Walker’s originally from Scotland.”
Rumors spread as to who is being released and why.
“They don’t have enough food to hold us here any longer,” someone argues.
“True. They cut rations in half this last month.”
“Perhaps the war’s ending,” someone suggests. “No sense in keeping us here if there’s no war.”
I can hardly allow myself to think the war may be over. Seven hundred of us are going home, and it doesn’t matter why or how. Only who.
The floodwaters recede over the next few days and leave behind a field of mud. It’s thick and clings to everything.
Before the prison ground is totally dry, the commander sends word for all the men from Ohio and Michigan “well enough to carry themselves on their own power” to be in formation in two hours. An hour later we hear a prolonged steam whistle. An Ohio man calls up at a guard standing on the southeast corner, “Is that the boat taking us home?”
The guard cradles his musket in his left arm and gives a thumbs-up sign with his right hand.
In another hour, the men from Ohio and Michigan are in formation, as best as they can be among the debris and logs, eager to leave. Colonel Jones appears on the walkway. “We’ll do this as quickly as we can . . .,” he begins. “We have rolls organized by company. When we call your company’s name, line up at the gate and give the guard your last name. He will direct you to one of five tables outside. You are to step up to the table. You’ll receive an envelope with all the items taken from you when you arrived. Take the envelope, check the contents, sign your name, and walk toward the dock at the end of Capitol Avenue.”
Colonel Jones salutes, turns, and leaves the platform.
A guard steps forward. “We’ll begin with Michigan’s cavalry. Everyone else, at ease.” We watch in envy as the line moves through the gate. Occasionally, men stop to hug friends being left behind.
As the Michigan boys file out, the men left inside sing “Battle Cry of Freedom,” the very song I played as a solo for Governor Morton when he visited Centerville. We look more like filthy pigs in a sty than proud soldiers from war, but there’s nothing that can wipe the smiles off our faces. After the Ohio fellows leave, the prison looks spacious. An hour later the boat’s whistle blares again. We sit in silence and wait to hear what we know is coming: Michigan and Ohio boys cheering loud enough to wake snakes. They are going home.
With hundreds of men gone there’s ample room for sleeping. I lean against a log and stare, for what seems like hours, at the sky. Even after closing my eyes for twenty minutes, sleep doesn’t come. I reposition myself multiple times. “Still awake, Stephen?” Sergeant Survant asks.
His question makes me laugh. “You too?” I ask. “Guess everybody’s too excited.”
“Yeah,” he says. “But all the Indiana boys are still here.”
Sleep finally catches up and overtakes me. Mother is quick to appear, and we walk arm in arm away from Castle Morgan. She’s so happy to see me. I turn for one final glance at the horrific place that held me cap
tive for six months only to discover my brother, Robert, is the only prisoner left inside. He’s standing just beyond the deadline inside Castle Morgan, two guards blocking his escape with their rifles. The dream scares me awake.
The exodus does not end with the first ship. Several more groups leave over the course of the next ten days. Each batch gone opens more space in the prison and in the roosts.
Three weeks after the first release, I hear my state’s name called. “Indiana and Tennessee are next to leave,” a sergeant announces. I lie back onto the dirt ground, stare up at the gray clouds, and begin thinking about leaving the foul water, the starvation, the filth, the cold, and the death of Castle Morgan and swapping them for home. I’ll never think of the word “home” the same way again. I close my eyes and imagine Mother’s arms around me. I can feel her warmth and hear her heart pounding in her chest. I see Mrs. Gates on her porch, sewing tiny American flags, her famous pumpkin pie cooling on the banister nearby. She’s baked the pie just for me. Dutch is waiting on the steps of the Mansion House, an orange behind his back. But this time, he doesn’t make me guess what it is. He tosses it to me in the air and welcomes me home with a hug. Home. Home. I’m going home. I begin to cry, quietly at first, but I can’t control myself and it builds to an uncontrollable sob.
* * *
The steam whistle blows, as the other whistles had, near ten a.m. By noon, all able men are in formation. Nearly one hundred of us from the 9th Indiana file out the gate and into tents to claim our envelopes.
“Name?” a sergeant asks when I enter my assigned tent. “Stephen M. Gaston. S-T-E-P-H-E-N,” I spell loudly, remembering my first day here.
The Sergeant thumbs through a box. “Check the contents,” he says, pushing an envelope across the small table to me. My name’s written across the top. It’s the same one I was given and that I signed when we arrived from Sulphur Branch Trestle.
After picking up the envelope, my heart sinks. “It’s light,” I say.
“What do you mean?” the sergeant asks.
I open the flap and see it contains only my pocket watch, comb, and two dollars. “There’s no book in here. One was put in when I came.” I don’t know where the courage comes from, but my voice grows tall and thick. “I surrendered a book in October.”
“Calm down,” the sergeant says. He points to a line scribbled across the front and reads the writing. “One book taken by”—the sergeant pauses and brings the envelope closer to his eyes—”the name’s smudged.” He turns it for me to see.
The name is impossible to read. “Nobody had a right to take the book out of here. It was mine.”
“It’s a lousy book, Sunday Soldier,” he snaps. “Move on to the boat and be glad you’re going home.”
My body tenses and shakes from anger. What right did anybody have to take it? I could leave without the watch or the money, but not without the one thing I was ordered to bring home.
A second line has formed outside the tent. It’s not headed in the direction of the boat, but toward Mrs. Gardner’s house. As the line shortens, I see everybody’s hugging her, and I take my place at the end.
“God bless you,” she says to each soldier.
“No, God bless you,” the soldier in front of me says. “Half of us wouldn’t be alive without all you did.”
When he moves, Mrs. Gardner reaches for me with both arms. Dirt covers the front of her light blue dress so thick, it looks as if she’s used it to clean a stall. She notices my glance. “It’s from the men saying good-bye,” she explains. “It must have been terribly muddy in the Castle.”
I nod and try to force a smile.
“What’s wrong, Stephen?” she asks. “You should be overjoyed. You’re going home. You’ll see your mother soon.”
I show her the nearly empty envelope. “My copy of David Copperfield. Somebody signed it out and didn’t return it. Nothing else in here mattered to me.”
Mrs. Gardner points to the steps leading to the porch. “Yes, yes. Here it is,” she says, picking my book up and patting the cover with her hand. “I’m sorry you worried so.”
“You took it? Why?”
“Colonel Henderson entrusted it to me. I knew it must be something very special by the way you carried it through town six months ago. I never saw anybody hold a book like you did, and I didn’t want anything to happen to it. I told the colonel I was sure they’d return all the items when the soldiers left, but, as a special favor, I asked if he would let me watch over the book for you”—she pauses—”just in case.”
“I never thought I’d see any of my things again,” I confess.
“To be honest, I didn’t trust all the guards either. That’s why keeping the book safe for you was important to me. I’ve been waiting a long time for your release,” she says. “When it was announced that the Indiana boys were going home today, I kept an eye out so I could give it to you personally.”
A wave of guilt swallows me. I don’t know why, but I start crying, again. Union soldiers had taken her son near Richmond. Yet she did so much for all the men in Castle Morgan. Mother once told me that the best thing to do when someone has been kind to you is to look them in the eye and say, “Thank you.”
Mother’s voice whispers in my ear, Simply say, “thank you.” It will be enough, Stephen. I take the book, wipe away the tears with the back of my wrist, and say, “Thank you, Mrs. Gardner.”
She tries to speak, but her jaw quivers so much, she can’t. I wonder if she’s thinking of her son and how he won’t be coming home. She touches the side of my face, collects her skirt with her hands, and runs up the stairs and into her house.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
March 28, 1865
The boat pulls away from Cahaba’s dock at four o’clock in the afternoon. William Peacock wraps his arm about my neck and whispers, “We’re going home, Stephen. We made it.” The ride upriver to Selma is slow and uneventful. But for the first time in six months, we see signs of normal life—barns, roads, large trees bursting with splotches of green, and people turning the soil for spring plantings.
I sleep next to Peacock and Big Tennessee on the boat that night in Selma. The next morning we walk from the boat to the train depot between two rows of armed guards. “You’re headed to Vicksburg,” one of them tells us. A short lady with tangled hair and hard rough hands gives each man a small cloth sack just before we board. Inside are four pieces of hardtack and a handful of dried meat, two days’ rations, enough to last us through Alabama. After so long, it feels odd not having to work for food.
Until yesterday, most of our thoughts were of survival. We’d gathered firewood, cooked meals, tried to stay warm, and nursed one another back to health. Every day our thoughts were: What has to be done to stay alive one more day? Now each hour is filled with joy. We rest, have rations handed to us, and realize every minute takes us closer to home.
There are two small windows on each side of the train car. We take turns staring out the windows or between a few cracks in the walls. It’s hard to turn away from the sights passing by. We overtake Southern town after Southern town: Potter, Browns, Faunsdale, Gallion. A half-burned barn appears in one field. A pile of rubble where a farmhouse once stood emerges in another. Some of the buildings have pockmarks from being struck with artillery shells. Every village looks aged by the war.
The train rolls to a stop just beyond the town of Demopolis. When our car door opens, an officer explains the situation. “We had a derailment late last night. A small section of rails split from the cross ties. Five cars from that train tipped over and are no longer usable. We loaded as many of those passengers as we could onto the train’s remaining cars. However, we still have eighty men left to board with you.”
We’re crowded already. But not as bad as at Castle Morgan. And eighty more people, evenly spread across fifteen cars, means each car will get just five or six additional men.
“Sir!” someone yells from the next car. “How far to Mississippi?”
&
nbsp; “Near ’bout forty miles,” he answers.
A “Hip-Hip” rings out and is quickly followed by a loud “Hooray!”
“I’ll never be so happy to leave a place,” Sergeant Survant says.
Our joy is tempered when Big Tennessee sees the first man coming to join our train. “My God, Stephen,” he says faintly.
“What?” I ask.
Big Tennessee doesn’t answer. He jumps from the boxcar and hurries toward a man walking our way. When we look out to see what caused his alarm, we can’t believe our eyes.
If we’d had it bad at Cahaba, these fellows had walked straight out the gates of hell. Their cheekbones jut above hollowed jaws. Their eyes are dark as pitch and sink deep into narrow skulls.
Although he’s able to put one foot in front of the other, the man appears to know little of what’s going on around him, where he is, or where he’s going. He’s staring through unfocused eyes.
“Help this fellow up, Stephen,” Big Tennessee says. It doesn’t take much to lift the man onto the train, and eight others soon follow. They’re as light as leaves and brittle as fine pottery. One boy from Rushville takes pity on the fellow sitting beside him. “Here,” he says. “I saved a little of the hardtack they gave me in Selma. You can have it.”
“Here’s some pork,” Sergeant Survant says, quickly breaking a piece into two parts. He hands a piece to the two men sitting on either side of him.
The man looks up at Sergeant Survant, confusion written across his eyes. “I have nothing to give you in exchange.”
“I don’t want anything in return. Don’t care much for pork anyways,” Sergeant Survant lies. He ate it for six months in Cahaba and was happy to have it.
“Can’t remember the last time somebody shared food,” the man says. He takes the pork, and it’s gone in double-quick time.
“Slow down,” Sergeant Survant insists. “You don’t want to eat too fast.” He breaks his last piece into smaller sections and slows the man’s eating by handing him one tiny sliver at a time.
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