Lee opened the door and the two men entered a large room with over thirty men waiting on the benches that lined the walls. A sharp-featured man with narrowly spaced eyes looked up as they approached. Glancing carelessly at Davis, he asked, “Winslow again?”
“Yes.” Hale answered, and straightened his back. “He’s got to have some help, Coulter.”
“You know the rules, Hale,” the guard returned. “First come, first served. You’ll have to wait your turn.” He picked up a pen. “What’s his first name—and his number?”
“Davis Winslow. Number 3320,” Lee replied. No more information was necessary, so the two men turned and bargained for a spot to lay the emaciated form down. They sat down with a sigh of relief, and Lee wiped his face with a ragged piece of cloth. “This won’t be no good,” he observed, “but at least it’s warmer in here.”
“Not warm enough,” Hale said. “Remember how we griped about how hot it was when we first got here? Judas! I’d like to have a little of that heat now!”
Lee grinned. “Perry, you’d complain if they hanged you with a new rope!” He glanced down at Winslow and his face sobered. “Shore has gone downhill, ain’t he? Remember what a fine, big feller he was when we got here?”
“He wasn’t as tough as most of us, Ezra. You and me, we’d had to tough it out, but Davis is a rich man’s son, and studying at Oxford—that kind of life doesn’t get you ready for Libby.”
Two hours passed. Finally Coulter called, “Hale, you can take Winslow in now.”
They rose stiffly and picked up Davis, carrying him awkwardly through the single door.
Harry LeCompt looked up at them, then said briefly, “Put him on the table.” LeCompt was thirty-two, a slender man with black eyes and straight black hair that hugged his skull. He was not a doctor, but a former medical student. No one had ever determined how far he had gone in his medical studies; some said a few weeks, but others swore he’d done almost the entire course.
He had one leg that was conspicuously shorter than the other, so he limped as he came across the room to examine Davis. The limp had kept him out of the army, of course, but it had embittered him as well. Hale had talked to LeCompt on several occasions, and had discovered that his one goal in life was to leave Richmond and finish his medical studies. He had hinted that he would like to study in the North when he got the money.
“His leg looks worse,” Lee observed.
“Let’s see.” Davis had taken a deep, tearing cut from a rusty nail two months earlier, and it had become infected. Nobody healed well at Libby—some very minor cuts went septic, some caused amputations—even death.
The leg was swollen like a balloon. LeCompt jerked the bandages away, and Davis moaned and cried out as the dried bandages pulled the flesh loose.
“Careful there, man!” Perry exclaimed. He saw that Davis’s eyes were open and said, “Take it easy, boy. We’re going to have that leg dressed.”
LeCompt stared at the leg and shook his head. “I’ll clean it out.” He poured some antiseptic solution out of a large brown bottle into a basin, and cleansed the leg quickly and efficiently. He looked at the raw wound and the dark streaks running up the leg, and shook his head again. “Not good! Not good at all!”
As LeCompt rebandaged the leg, Lee asked, “Ain’t there something else you can do for him? He needs to be in a hospital.”
“Of course he does!” LeCompt snapped. He finished the dressing and stepped back, his black eyes moving over Davis’s flushed face. “He’s got a burning fever, and he’s not far away from blood poisoning or gangrene.”
“Put him in the hospital,” Hale urged.
“There are twenty beds in the hospital,” LeCompt said flatly. “And every one of them is filled with a man who’s in even worse shape than your friend. There’s nothing I can do.”
Hale glared at him. “Look, I don’t have any money now, but I’ll get some. I swear it. Get him in and I’ll pay you for it.”
“I can’t do it!”
“You’ve done it before,” Hale argued under his breath. “And you’d do it now if I had the gold.”
Not bothering to deny the charge, LeCompt simply said, “I have other men to see, Hale. Take him out.”
The two prisoners’ eyes blazed with anger, but there was nothing they could do. They lifted the unconscious man and passed through the outer office, into the hallway. When they finally got Davis back into the dark cell, he came to and asked, “Where—where we going?”
“Why, we done been, Davis,” Lee replied. “See that new bandage? We got you all fixed up—and look here, I got you an apple! See there?”
Davis stared at the apple. “Where did you get that?”
“Oh, a leetle ol’ major from the Sixth Ohio thought he could play poker, and I disillusioned him. Here, you eat this thing.”
“Cut it three ways,” Davis said weakly.
“No, you eat it all,” Lee insisted, but no amount of persuasion would work, so Lee divided it roughly, and the three sat sucking the sweet juice, forcing themselves to eat a fragment at a time.
“I got one of the seeds,” Davis smiled with satisfaction. “It’ll last an hour.” He looked at the other two and grinned. “Never thought I’d enjoy an apple seed so much.” His face was almost hidden behind the busy growth of reddish beard, but they saw the old Davis coming back.
“We ought to be hearing from your father soon,” Hale commented. “He’s a congressman, so he’ll know how to handle things.”
“He’s in the wrong Congress, Perry,” Davis said. “I doubt if he gets the letters, anyway.”
Hale felt the same way, but would not admit it. “It’s just a matter of time. Pretty soon you’ll get a call-out, and that’s the last Ezra and I will see of you. You’ll be back in New York eating at Delmonico’s.”
“Just a matter of time,” Davis agreed with a faint smile, and then did what most of the fever-stricken men did—he fell asleep without warning.
“One of these days, Perry,” Ezra said slowly, “he’s going to go out like that—and just not wake up.”
“No! He’ll make it!” Hale tucked the blanket around Davis’s body and declared fiercely, “God won’t let him die here in this hellhole.”
“He’s let a heap of men die here,” Lee said. There was no anger in his voice—only an air of resignation that came with time in Libby.
“His father will do something.” Hale struck his hands together angrily. “It’s just a matter of time!”
Gazing at him curiously, Lee nodded. “Well, if blood poisoning don’t set in, and if he don’t get gangrene—and if that fever don’t get no worse—and if he don’t get the cholera that’s started—why, I reckon ol’ Davis will make it.”
“It’s just a matter of time!” Perry Hale insisted stubbornly.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A PROPHECY FOR THAD
For Thad Novak, New Year’s Day arrived, not by celebrating but by getting shot.
The regiment had been sent to Tennessee to help hold the line after Bragg had been beaten. Lee had been apprehensive that the Yankees might mount a full scale assault toward Richmond, but nothing came of it. The Richmond Blades were part of the line strung loosely from east to west across the northern border of Tennessee, but there was no fighting to speak of.
Thad had been assigned a section covering some two miles, a gap in the Berland Mountains that Colonel Barton thought the Yankees might use, and he sent the company in a sweeping movement to spy out the Yankees’ position. Thad had ridden ahead of his men to explore a grove of trees, using one of the few horses fit to ride. Surprised by a stiff blow on the right side of his chest, Thad thought he had run into a low-hanging limb; then he heard the sound of a shot and realized he’d been hit.
He grabbed the saddlehorn to keep from falling, and at the same time saw a small group of Yankees scurrying out from behind a clump of boulders about a hundred yards away, firing at him. As he wheeled the horse, a bullet knocked his hat off. D
igging the spurs into his horse, he hunched down and dashed for safety, hearing the popping of gunfire behind him.
Tom Winslow, now first sergeant, had already moved the men forward. “Lieutenant,” he cried, his face alive with excitement, “let’s go get ’em!”
Thad slid off his horse and waved his arms. “Tom, take the left; Dooley, you take the right. I’ll keep the center.”
“Hey, you been shot!” Dooley exclaimed, seeing the blood on Thad’s chest.
“Just a scratch—forward!”
There had been lively action, but they captured a nest of Yankees, including one lieutenant and a dozen privates. The officer, a fresh-faced young man on his first assignment, was chagrined. Tears ran down his cheeks as Thad talked to him on the way back to camp. “Aw, now, it’s no disgrace to be captured,” Thad said gently. “I did some time in Old Capitol Prison in Washington myself.”
Captain Beauchamp was pleased with the capture, but he was concerned about Thad’s wound. The surgeon examined it and found that it was not serious. The bullet had struck the ribs and skidded off, sloughing some flesh with it. “Going to hurt like fury,” he said as he finished taping Thad’s chest. “Don’t use that arm too much for a few weeks.”
“Get your gear, Thad,” Beauchamp said. “I’m sending you back to Richmond.”
“Why, I’m not hurt that bad, Captain!”
“Maybe not, but somebody’s got to take these prisoners back. I’ll want to send a few letters, so be ready to pull out early in the morning. Oh yes, Major Benning of Tennessee Company was telling me they had a brush with the Yankees last week and one of his officers was wounded. He’s in bad shape, but you can take a wagon. Think four men will be enough guard?”
“Yes, sir.” He hesitated, then asked, “I’d like to take Corporal Young.”
Beauchamp grinned. “I thought you might! All right. I’ll give you the letters in the morning. Send Young over to pick up the officer from Major Benning today.”
When Thad told Dooley their assignment, he yelped, “By granny, we’ll be gone like Moody’s goose, Thad!” and left immediately to get the officer. Thad chose three other men—which was not easy, for every man volunteered for the job!
By the time Dooley returned, Thad was busy packing his gear. Approaching Thad, Dooley said, “I got the lieutenant, but he’s real poorly. Took a slug in the belly and one in the arm. The arm ain’t bad, but the other trouble is bad. Don’t look to me like he’ll make it through two clean shirts.”
“I better take a look.” Thad followed Dooley to the wagon, and found a very sick man. “I’m Lieutenant Novak,” he said. “Looks like you’ve been having a hard time.”
“I’m Owen Morgan.” Thad had to lean forward to hear the man’s faint voice. There was a hollow look in the deep-set eyes and traces of red on his cheeks that Thad didn’t like. His arm was in a sling, and he was almost unconscious.
“We’ll get you to a doctor quick as we can, Lieutenant.” Thad turned and said, “Corporal Young, fix the lieutenant a good place to sleep in my tent. And get some hot food down him.”
Morgan tried to get out of the wagon, and would have fallen had not Thad and Dooley caught him. “Blasted nuisance!” he whispered as the two men bedded him down.
“He ain’t in no shape to make no trip,” Dooley commented. “He’s weak as a cat whose ninth life is draining out of it.”
“We’ll have to take him,” Thad said. “You draw enough supplies to get us to Richmond, and we’ll try to make good time.”
That was his plan, but it didn’t work out that way. The first day over the rough roads almost killed Morgan. He couldn’t stifle the cries of pain the jolting caused, though he tried.
The next morning, Thad said, “Dooley, get what food you need from the supplies and take the prisoners on to Richmond.”
“What’ll you do, then?”
“I can’t stand to hurt this poor fellow. I’ll take it slow—stop if I have to. Probably have to find some house where they can take us in—him anyway. I’ll write this down as an order for headquarters.”
Dooley left the next morning, saying, “I’ll tell that pretty little ol’ gal of yours you’re on your way, Lieutenant!” He led the little company away, and Thad went over to where Morgan sat with his back to a tree, watching them.
“Better have some more of this bacon, Morgan,” Thad suggested, squatting beside the fire.
Morgan took a swallow of the black coffee, but said nothing for a while. Finally the officer spoke up. “Sorry to slow you down.”
“Aw, we Rebels got to stick together.” He took a bite of bacon and added, “I’m in no big hurry.”
Morgan sipped the coffee, then shook his head. “No, I don’t believe that. Not many would care much about a dying man.”
“You’re not dying.”
Morgan didn’t answer, but there was a fatalistic set to his face. He ate little, but drank cup after cup of coffee. After the fourth cup of the brew, Thad said, “We’ll just mosey along and if it gets too bad, say so and we’ll take a break.”
They spent three days heading north, stopping often when Thad saw the man grimace in deep pain. Every night Thad would change the dressings on Morgan’s arm and stomach. But as the days went by, he realized the man was getting no better, so when he finished dressing the wounds one night, he said, “We’ll stop at the next farm until you get better.”
“You’d leave me?”
“I couldn’t do that,” Thad replied slowly. “I’ll see you’re all right, Owen.” They had somehow gotten to a first-name basis during their talks around the fire at night. “All this jolting in this blasted wagon is tearing you to pieces.”
All day Morgan had been practically in a coma, lying in the back of the wagon. He looked across the campfire now and said slowly, “It won’t matter, Thad. I’ve known for a time that I wouldn’t make it.”
“That’s just a feeling, Owen.”
“I’m Welsh, Thad—what you’d call Irish.” Morgan closed his eyes, seemed to go to sleep, then opened them again. “My people have had second sight—a lot of them. My mother saw my father the day he died—and he was six hundred miles away. She was sitting in the kitchen, and he came in and said, ‘I’ll be waiting for you, Kathleen,’ and then he left.”
“A dream, Owen,” Thad suggested. Such things made him nervous, so he added, “Don’t speak of dying.”
Owen Morgan gave him an odd look and asked, “Are you afraid to speak of it, then? But we all come to it. For me it’ll be soon, maybe for you many years—but we all come to it.” He looked up at the cold January skies and said, “My sister told me it would happen. When I left Wales, the last thing she said at the boat was, ‘Goodbye, Owen. We will meet in heaven.’ ”
Thad looked up abruptly. “Are you a man of God, Owen?”
“Why, of course!” he replied proudly. “My people are chapel, nonconformist. I was saved in a revival when I was sixteen.”
“I was saved last year,” Thad said quietly.
“Ah, I knew it!” Owen nodded. “There’s something of Christ in you—no matter that you’re a soldier.”
“How’d you get mixed up in our war, Owen?”
Owen didn’t hesitate but began relating his story, halting often when a spasm of coughing tore through him. The coal mines had gone out on strike, and he’d come to America looking for work. “I wound up as a gambler on a Mississippi riverboat. Made a lot of money,” he said. “Then I enlisted in a burst of misguided patriotism. But it’s God’s will,” he hurried on as he gazed into the fire. After a while he sighed. “I’d like to sleep now, Thad.”
Thad helped him roll into his blankets, and then sat for a long time peering into the fire, wondering why some things happened the way they did. He was disturbed about Owen, for in the few days of their journey, Thad had found himself drawn to the Welshman.
The next morning he could not awaken Morgan. The ashen appearance on the man’s face frightened Thad, but unable to do anyth
ing else, he made a fire—and waited. Just before noon, he heard Owen call weakly, “Thad.” He rushed to the sick man and knelt beside him. Owen’s breath was shallow and his eyes rolled upward.
“Owen!” he cried, and the eyes began focusing on Thad. They were strange eyes, filled with a mystery he could not read. “Owen!” he cried again, “what is it?”
Morgan stirred and lifted a hand. “My friend . . .” he whispered. “You’ve . . . been good . . . to me.”
Grasping Owen’s hand, Thad began to tremble. He’d seen men die before, some in terrible ways, but this was different. He felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. “Owen, don’t give up!” he begged.
“It’s my time,” Owen murmured, pausing for breath. “Thad, I give you what I leave on this earth—God has told me you will have a use for it. Send the other half to my mother—Kathleen Morgan—County Cork—the widow of Michael Morgan. And tell her . . . I’ll be waiting for her—with Father.”
Thad watched as the man took a deep breath and looked up at the arching sky.
“I’m coming—Lord!” he whispered quietly, joy filling his eyes. Slowly he relaxed and his eyes fluttered—then he was still.
Numb, Thad sat for a long time, tears running down his face. Greatly moved by the event, he carefully laid Morgan down and got to his feet. He had been in the presence of God—of that he had no doubt. He bowed his head and thanked God for this brother at his feet.
He wrapped the soldier in a blanket and buried him beneath a large oak in the middle of a clearing. With the mound at his feet, Thad prayed, then turned and loaded the wagon. He drove the team hard that day, and made camp by a brook, breaking the ice to get water to make coffee. He ate a little and read a chapter from his dog-eared Testament. A thought struck him, and he went to the wagon and got the knapsack Morgan had brought with him.
It was an ordinary army knapsack, and contained Owen’s personal effects, including several pictures, one of them a full-faced portrait of a strong-looking woman with warm eyes and a determined chin. It was signed Kathleen Morgan, but even without the name, Thad would have known her as Owen’s mother.
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