Jewel of Promise

by Marian Wells

  Upstairs, Mike leaned against his closed door. “Thank you, Lord. I’ve been trying to understand that fiasco between Beth and me, and now I see. This day would have been unbearable for her if we had married.”

  He sat down on his bed and picked up the Bible lying there. Cradling it in his big hands, he ruefully said, “Lord, much as I…well, like her, I’d never have wanted such a thing to happen. I guess it’s better to love and lose than to rush into something against Your will. I believe I can accept it now.”

  He waited. He looked down at the wooden peg extending beyond his pant leg. With a cheerless grin he muttered, “A fine prize you are, anyway.”

  Mike limped to the window. Might as well get it out, he thought. It doesn’t work to hold back on the Lord and pretend all’s well.

  He went to sit on the edge of his bed, dropping his face in his hands. “Lord, I’ve struggled with this problem until I’m ashamed,” he said. “I’d like to give it to You again. It’s Beth. I love her, can’t get her out of my mind even now when I know she’s downstairs talking to the fella she loves. I know I got myself into this mess when I forgot about how much she needs you and started thinking how much I need her. Father, what do I do now?”

  Chapter 44

  Matthew looked down over Andersonville prison. It had been ripped out of the forest, denuded of vegetation, and sealed off from the world. The men who lived there were as deprived and tortured as the land. Both were a wilderness of anguish.

  He slammed his fist into his hand and said, “I’m sick of this! No self-respecting farmer would keep his pigs in such squalor.”

  “Matthew Thomas,” growled the sergeant, “you complaining about the way we treat prisoners? You’re asking to be reported to Henry Wirz. With your record maybe you’ll join ’em.” Matthew continued to pace the soggy ground in front of the guards’ tents.

  He turned as the sergeant hunkered down beside the fire. “We’re not supposed to have a conscience about such situations? I wouldn’t even feed wormy hardtack to an animal. We’re not supposed to help them? This is January; the men don’t have blankets.”

  “This is war. We’ve hardly decent rations for ourselves. We’re doing the best we can. Northern prisons aren’t a bit better than Andersonville.”

  The sergeant walked away from the fire and Cody Daniels poked Matthew. “Flapping your mouth will get you nowhere. Most of us don’t like what’s going on. You make changes by keeping your mouth shut and watching to see what can be remedied.”

  Matthew looked into the fellow’s sympathetic eyes and said, “I’m going to come out of this feeling like a beast.”

  “So are the rest of us.”

  A guard named Tom spoke from the other side of the fire. “Belle Isle isn’t the only place prisoners are coming from. Last night they marched in some men from over Alabama way. Couldn’t handle them. I guess we get the job of whipping them into line. God, I would like this to be finished so’s we could go home and act like humans again.”

  “Might do us all more good if we’d get down on our knees and repeat that sentence over about a dozen times,” Matthew muttered.

  “I hear the troops down Virginia way got revival. Heard General Lee’s been preaching. Seems like a kindly fellow. If I get reassigned, I’d like to be with him.”

  “You and everyone else,” Cody snorted. “The way things are going, we may end up fighting for Grant.”

  “He’s purt’ near as good as Lee. Didn’t think the North would ever come up with a man worth saluting. But he’s a fighter.”

  “That Sherman worries me. He’s tough.”

  “Wish they’d get both those fellows out of Tennessee. Things are getting tight with them hanging on to Chattanooga.”

  Cody nodded. “That railroad line there tying us to Atlanta and on into Tennessee is all we’ve got. We can’t afford to have them mess with it.”

  “I’ve got news for you.” They turned when they heard the heavy voice. The fellow was built like a boxer. His huge hands didn’t seem to go with shrewd eyes. “I’m Tinker Dixon. I was up that way on a skirmish the end of November. The Yanks are working up to something big. They were building bridges across the Tennessee River. As fast as they’d get the timbers up, the trains started shooting over, hauling in men, munitions, food—about anything you can name. I say, it liked to have scared me silly. You watch. We’re going to be in trouble soon as warm weather hits.”

  The sergeant strode back to the fire. “Hanson, Thomas, Dennis, and Jennings; you’re on guard duty tonight. First watch. Better get your grub and step lively.”

  Matthew picked up his battered musket and looked at it thoughtfully. He shook his head and sighed. “Pretty sad gun. At least it shoots.”

  A light rain was beginning to fall as he walked toward his guard post. Hanson passed him. “Sure a shame they stripped all the trees and bush outta here. Those poor fellers sitting out in the mud can’t be too comfortable.” Matthew followed his pointing finger.

  “Is that the new bunch? I don’t see a scrap of cover for them.”

  “Came over from Alabama. They’ll be lucky to survive the month unless somebody dies and bequeaths them all their earthy possessions.”

  Matthew hunched his shoulders against the rain as he made his way to his post. Already he could feel the wetness seeping through his uniform. Slinging his gun into position, he began to march his picket.

  With each turn he surveyed the scene before him. The only thing of substance in the prison was the wall. Just over the wall, the miserable prisoners huddled in makeshift tents or under scraps of wood. Some, like the new bunch of prisoners, tried to creep close enough to the tents to be afforded shelter from the wind-driven rain.

  As daylight faded, the rain stopped and clouds drifted away. As Matthew paced out his picket, he prayed. Holy Lord, if my heart aches, Yours must break over this sight. Oh God, please deliver these men from their agony. If there’s something I can do, show me and give me the wisdom necessary.

  Feeling the burden of his inadequate prayer, he marched on. The night air carried the sound of coughing and ragged breathing. Moonlight revealed men restlessly pacing, slapping their hands together to stir circulation.

  Watching them, Matthew realized that seeing life reduced to these levels was exacting its toll on him. No longer did he wince as he watched the harvest of the cold night being carried to the burying ground. The sharp outrage, the pain of it all had been blunted into a nearly bearable hurt. As he shivered in his own inadequate clothing, with a stomach complaining against the grease and wormy food, he began to realize what had happened.

  Father, do You care that Your creation is dying in this meanness? God, strike me dead lest I turn against Your mercy and grace. Or give me an opportunity to strike back at the ugliness around me.

  In the silence, waiting with desperation, he accepted the fact that being killed for one act of honor was better than living with subhuman callousness. Lord, please let me go out doing one decent act to help someone reach above despair.

  In the rotation of duty, it became Matthew’s task to pass the rations to the prisoners. On that first day, carrying his box of hardtack to his station inside the walls, Matthew shook his head and groaned. “This isn’t enough to feed those men more’n a mouthful.”

  Inside the fence, close to the sea of faces reduced to yellow wax, limp with apathy, Matthew took his place beside the hardtack, praying desperately that the food would last as long as there was a face in front of him.

  The supply was nearly gone when he lifted a chunk and saw the curly dark hair, the gold ring in the prisoner’s ear. Carefully he bent forward. Grasping the hardtack more firmly, he waited. The man reached, lifted his head. Matthew saw the eyes blaze with recognition. Joy flared in the haunted eyes while Matthew blinked tears from his own. He released the hardtack. The man moved away.

  With his throat bursting, Matthew stepped back and shouted, “God bless you, one and all. May He multiply the bread in your mouth.” He
saw the man’s shoulders twitch.

  As Matthew turned away, an officer turned a contorted face down at him. “One more trick like that, and you’ll face court martial.”

  Matthew scarcely heard; he was watching the man with the earring. When he had noted the shelter he entered, Matthew smiled with satisfaction. It was close to the prison wall.

  That night, flat on his face, Matthew prayed, Father, thank You. Alex is alive. Thank You for giving me a reason for living—to deliver my brother Alex. Grant me the wisdom and power, surround us with Your grace.

  That week Matthew discovered that the slightest infraction of the sergeant’s rules rated late-night guard duty. He also discovered that a small flat rock served well as a message carrier. On that first late night guard duty, Matthew penciled the word HOPE on the rock. Standing in the trees beyond the picket’s line, he pitched the rock against Alex’s crude shelter. Alex’s head appeared in the cave-like opening; he saw Matthew and began to search. After Alex read the message he tossed the rock back.

  Later that week Matthew lingered beside the fire listening to the guard’s conversation. He hunkered down to watch Cody clean his rifle. Matthew said, “You give a lot of attention to that old gun.”

  Cody grinned. “If I get a better one, I’ll give it twice as much. I mean to have this in top condition, ready to fire.”

  He pulled the plug out of the end of the powder cartridge, poured in the powder, and rammed the ball firmly into place. “Now, if I see a rat, I’ll bag us some dinner.” He got to his feet and dusted his britches over the fire. There was a pop and a flare, Cody stepped back. “Guess I had a flake or two of gun powder on me. See ya later, fellas, I have picket number eight tonight.”

  Matthew watched him stride off into the darkness while he mused, Gunpowder… He got to his feet. “Guess I’ll see if I can get to sleep while my feet are still warm.”

  Gunpowder isn’t hard to get, but fuses are. He grinned in the darkness. Matthew began to collect extra cartridges, begging them one at a time from the other guards; he was cautious, careful to ration out his requests to avoid arousing suspicion.

  But his casual collecting could not go on. While on guard duty one day, he became uneasy about Alex. The day had passed without his appearance. All of them are getting weaker by the day. I must act soon, he thought. He scrutinized the growing pile of cartridges and went for a walk behind Wirz’s comfortable cabin looking for provisions. There didn’t seem to be a trash dump. Boldly he approached the back door.

  A black woman answered his knock. “Please, I’d like an empty tin can. You know, like peaches come in.”

  With wondering eyes, she nodded. “I’s got one on the shelf, but it has peaches in it. Want I should feed him peaches tonight?”

  Matthew grinned. “That would be just fine. Could you put the peaches in something else and give me the can now? And would you happen to have some string? I’d sure like a couple of lengths. Just plain old string is fine. I appreciate your help.”

  With a puzzled glance at him, she said, “String’s precious. But I guess so; de boss don’t mind giving out a little.” She grinned and disappeared.

  Matthew eyed the kerosene jug leaning against the cabin. Shifting nervously from foot to foot, he waited. She came back to the door and handed Matthew the empty can and a handful of string. When she closed the door he stopped, let the last drops of peach juice trickle into his mouth, then he dropped the string into the bottom of the can and poured kerosene over the pile.

  Inside he could hear the banging of pans, and the black woman singing, “Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home—”

  Matthew approached Cody. “Let me have a couple of cartridges.”

  “Sure. Any reason why you can’t just walk up to the quartermaster and ask for a new bag?”

  Without answering, Matthew returned the grin. After that bold move, Matthew approached a different soldier each day. How much gunpowder does it take to blow up a wall? he wondered.

  One evening as he and Cody sat beside the fire, Matthew realized Cody was watching him. His jaw was a hard line as he leaned forward saying, “You know, you gotta pack that in real tight. Pressure, else it won’t work. Rocks’ll help ya out. There’s a piece of oilcloth under my bedroll.”

  “Obliged,” Matthew muttered.

  By the end of the week he realized there was nearly enough gunpowder to fill the peach can. He waited until he drew guard duty for the third watch.

  Early that evening he wrote three words on the small stone: MOVE AWAY WATCH. At sunset he circled the wall and threw the rock.

  Alex came out of his hut, found the rock, and slowly limped back. Matthew chewed his lip. “Lord,” he murmured, “give him strength.”

  During the second watch, Matthew shouldered his rifle and stuffed his pockets with bits of hardtack he had saved over the past week. Carefully he concealed the heavy can inside his coat and headed for the point nearest Alex’s hut.

  With his ears straining to hear the crunch of the picket’s feet, he hid the can in the bushes and began to dig out the loose soil at the base of the wall. Several times he retreated hastily into the woods. He took the kerosene-soaked string out of Cody’s oilcloth and inserted it deep into the gunpowder.

  Finally he settled the can in the hole, tightly packing in loose soil and rocks. He left one small opening for the fuse. Carefully he strung the fuse he had constructed from the kerosene-soaked string, dabbed on bacon grease at the place it entered the can, and placed rocks to support the end of the fuse.

  Then he strolled back to his tent and waited for the sentry’s call.

  The night was calm with scattered clouds. Grinning with satisfaction, Matthew took a deep breath and lifted his musket. He had been at his post for nearly an hour when he slipped down to inspect his handiwork. Carefully he felt around the contraption. It was just as he had left it. Visualizing the touch of the match and the explosion, cold sweat poured off his face and down his back. He rubbed his sleeve over his face. Finally, knowing he could no longer delay, he got to his feet. Lord, this is it, please help!

  Grasping his musket firmly in his left hand, he steadied his other, struck the match, and held it to the fuse. For a moment it smoked, then flamed to life. He backed away, turned, and ran through the trees.

  Panting, straining to hear over the pounding of his heart, he waited. It seemed forever. Deciding the fuse had gone out, he got to his feet to check it. As he hesitated, the gunpowder exploded. Matthew held his breath. Time seemed to stand still. There was a brief flash of fire just before the wall separated and crumbled, quenching the flame. A figure came flying through the opening. Matthew ran toward the wall. There were others coming. Spotting Alex, he fell in beside him.

  “Keep going, man, keep going,” Matthew panted when Alex seemed to slow. They were into the trees now and the ground sloped away in gentle swells. Matthew heard the sharp rasping breath beside him and cut his speed. “Take it easy, Alex; we’ve got a long way to go.”

  ****

  The sky overhead was bright with dawn when they finally collapsed under the trees. Alex lay flat, his arms outstretched and his chest heaving. Matthew watched for a moment, then followed the sound of water to a brook splashing down hill. He drank and returned to Alex. “There’s water down aways, but I’ve got no way to carry it.”

  Alex sat up, nodded, and shoved himself to his feet. After they drank, Alex washed his face. “You can’t imagine—clean water for bathing,” he murmured.

  He dropped flat again and Matthew warned, “Better not, Alex. It’s a good way to come down with lung problems after being this hot and tired. I have some hardtack. Let’s eat and move on.”

  Throughout the day they walked, rested, and walked again. Alex’s color began to improve. At one of their intervals of rest, he turned to Matthew. “Tell me, what’s happened?”

  Matthew stared at him for a moment, then the facts began to sink in. “Happened?” he echoed. “Alex, we had word that you we
re dead over a year ago.”

  Alex’s head jerked. “Dead? How could such a mistake happen?”

  “Your name was posted as killed in action. At first Olivia wouldn’t believe it, but when they get a guy’s name and hometown right, you can’t suspect it’s a mistake.”

  Alex’s head sagged against his chest. “My poor darling Olivia.” He lifted his head. “The baby?”

  “She lost it. Born too early.”

  “Because of me?” Matthew nodded. “How is she taking all this now?”

  “Better. Finally got herself under control. She’s in Washington, working as a nurse at an army hospital.”

  Alex sat up. “Tell me, what’s the idea of all this?” He gestured toward Matthew’s uniform.

  “Crystal and I were in Natchez, going to visit my parents. I ran into a fellow who knew me when I was in the Confederate Army.”

  “Come on, Matt. You?”

  “That happened in sixty-one.” His grin twisted. “Might say the Confederacy makes enlistment a difficult proposition to turn down. At least it is when the recruiter is passionately Southern and carries a gun.

  “I took the first opportunity to separate myself from the army. That happened in New Mexico Territory. But before it happened, unfortunately for me, I rubbed elbows with a fellow also from the Natchez area. We’d grown up together. Crystal and I met him again just after reaching Natchez, and it seemed he was anxious to turn me in as a deserter.”

  “Where is Crystal?”

  Matthew sighed. “I hope she’s gone back to Pennsylvania.” He glanced at Alex. “Strange how I felt the Lord was warning me to be careful. I gave her all the money I had and told her to head for home if something happened.”

  Alex straightened, coughed, and said, “It might be a good idea to get ourselves out of this area as soon as possible. Have any ideas?”

  He nodded. “At Andersonville I heard around the campfire that the Federal Army holds Chattanooga, Tennessee. If we can get to Atlanta safely, it might be possible to make contact with Grant’s men. If we’re really lucky, maybe we can take the train from Atlanta into Chattanooga.”