by Ginny Dye
“You have that right.” The enthusiastic response resulted in a jagged bout of coughing, but he held up his hand to keep Matthew from moving on. When he finally caught his breath, he said, “My name is Abner Crosstree.”
Matthew squatted down to meet him at eye-level. “Hello, Abner. My name is Matthew Justin. I’m a reporter with the Philadelphia Tribune. Where were you just freed from?”
“Cahaba Prison,” Abner replied, a deep shadow filling his eyes. “You don’t have any idea what it was like.”
“Not Cahaba Prison,” Matthew agreed, “but I spent many months as a guest of Libby Prison in Richmond.”
Abner looked at him more closely. “Then you know what it’s like.”
Matthew nodded. “Unfortunately, I do.”
“That why you’re here to talk to us and tell our stories?”
“Yes. They need to be told.”
Abner nodded. “I hear tell a group escaped Libby Prison a couple years back. Me and some of my friends tried to figure out how to escape from Cahaba, but we never did. Probably a good thing, because there wasn’t anywhere to go. We just tried to survive it.”
Matthew didn’t bother telling him he was one of the escapees. He was there to tell Abner’s story, not his own. “How did you end up there?” he asked quietly.
Abner grimaced. “My commander was tricked into making us surrender.”
Matthew poised his pencil over his notepad and waited for him to continue.
“I was part of the guard at the fort in Athens, Georgia. We were making sure the railroads supplying Sherman stayed secure after he captured Atlanta so they could keep getting supplies to him.” Abner spoke slowly, taking deep breaths between sentences.
“You sure you’re up for this?” Matthew asked, concern making him lower his pencil.
Abner nodded. “A bunch of the fellows didn’t make it from the prison camps once they set us free. They died on the road, or they died in Camp Fisk waiting for their ride home. I know I’m not doing too good,” he wheezed. “If I don’t make it, I’d like to know my story is being told.”
Matthew understood. “No more interruptions,” he promised. “Your story will be told.”
Abner nodded, drank some water to stop his coughing, and continued. “Our fort was strong,” he said proudly.
Matthew nodded, thinking of Fort Athens. It had been considered the strongest fortification between Nashville, Tennessee and Decatur, Alabama. A quarter of a mile in circumference, the fort was surrounded by a ditch fifteen feet wide. The walls were seventeen feet high, and the whole thing was surrounded by a palisade and a wall of felled trees. They had enough supplies to withstand a siege of ten days. He’d been surprised when he found out how easily its 571 soldiers had been taken. He was about to find out why.
“The Rebel’s General Forrest showed up on September twenty-third. The next morning they shelled us with artillery for a couple hours but didn’t do any real damage.” Abner tightened his lips against the pain rampaging through his body.
Matthew waited quietly. He would write for as long as Abner could talk.
“Me and the boys wanted to laugh when Forrest sent in a soldier equipped with a white flag to demand our surrender. Colonel Campbell refused. We didn’t find out ‘til later that Forrest met with him and convinced him there were at least ten thousand men and nine pieces of artillery ready to make the assault.”
“There weren’t that many?” Matthew asked in order to give Abner time to breathe.
Abner shook his head, his weary eyes snapping disgust. “Nah. We found out later he had less than half that. They knew they couldn’t take us, so they tricked us.”
“Campbell fell for it?”
“Yes. He told the officers that the jig was up, and told them to pull down the flag. Then all of us marched out of the gates and became guests of Cahaba.” He coughed a while longer and then added, “Relief was on the way. There were seven hundred men coming to help. They fought their way through to get to us, right as we were marching out of the fort. The only thing they could do was surrender too.”
Matthew grimaced. “I understand General Forrest captured another eleven hundred men at the Sulphur Branch Trestle.”
“By the time we headed to Cahaba, there were twenty-three hundred of us. Getting there was no picnic,” he wheezed, the shadow growing deeper in his eyes. “It was pretty cold last December when they finally marched us to the prison. The Rebels had taken a lot of our clothes, so most of us marched through snow and ice in bare feet.”
Matthew winced but didn’t interrupt.
“We didn’t eat for a while. They finally threw us some raw corn from a wagon. A bunch of the fellas died from eating that. We thought things would be better when we finally saw some train cars. They crammed us into unheated cars lined with a half-foot of horse manure.” Abner’s voice faltered. “I reckon most of us were near dead by the time we got there. Probably would have been better if we’d just died,” he said weakly.
Matthew waited for him to regain his strength, watching as the flow of men continued up the gangplank and crowded onto the boat, spreading out to make room for themselves. There hadn’t been a break in soldiers loading the boat since Matthew had gotten on. He had no idea how many had been loaded, but he was quite sure it was over the legal limit the Sultana was allowed to carry. He had been warned the final number would be higher than the legal limit, but he wondered just how much higher. He pushed away his uneasiness when Abner continued.
“We were hoping we would be inside when we got to Cahaba, but only about half the prison was covered with a roof. It didn’t do anything to keep out the rain and cold.” He shivered as he remembered.
Matthew searched his brain to remember what he had read about Cahaba Prison. It was on the Alabama River, not far from Selma. It had been built as a cotton and corn shed measuring roughly 193 feet by 116 feet. The walls were eight to ten feet high and only partially roofed. The entire center area was left open. “All twenty-three of you were there?” he asked.
Abner shrugged. “I heard one of the guards say there were three thousand of us.”
Matthew scowled. “You were practically on top of each other.”
“Felt that way,” Abner agreed. “The water wasn’t worth drinking and food was pretty scarce. I guess I lost a lot of weight.”
Matthew stayed silent, hoping Abner didn’t know just how bad he looked. His family’s eyes, when they finally saw him again, would reveal the truth. His family would also be there to help him get better.
“Things got really bad back in February when the river flooded. It came right up into the prison. We had to stand in water up to our waist for four days.”
“It had to be freezing!” Matthew exclaimed, the vision forcing the shocked words through his lips.
Abner nodded. “It was right cold,” he said flatly. “The guards finally let us out to gather some driftwood. Me and some of my buddies hauled back enough wood to stack on top of each other. We got it just high enough to sit on top and stay above the water. We crammed back to back for two more days until the water finally went down.” His eyes grew sadder. “Lots of men didn’t live through that flood.”
And maybe they were the lucky ones, Matthew thought but again remained silent.
“Anyway,” Abner finished. “I made it, and I’m glad to be going home.”
“Where is home, Abner?”
“Cairo, Illinois,” he said eagerly. “Lots of the men have to travel more when the boat puts in dock. Not me. My wife and parents already know I’m on my way home. They’ll be waiting for me.”
“What did you do before the war?”
“I ran the post office in Cairo. I’m hoping I can get my job back when I get home.” He frowned. “I reckon it may take me a while to get my strength back.”
Matthew smiled gently and laid his hand on his shoulder. “I wish you the best.”
Abner shook away his heavy thoughts and stared at him. “Are you gonna tell my story?�
�
“I promise,” Matthew said fervently. “Your story will be told.”
Abner smiled, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.
Matthew became aware of something happening at the end of the row of cots. He made his way down through arriving men so he could hear what was being said. As he approached, he could tell the argument was heated.
“You may not take these men from the boat, Dr. Kemble!”
Matthew gazed at the angry, red-faced man confronting the other man who was obviously Dr. Kemble, the medical director for the Department of Mississippi. He finally identified the speaker as George Williams, the commissary of musters — the man in charge of allocating prisoners onto the Sultana. He edged closer.
“These men are certainly not staying on the Sultana,” Dr. Kemble snapped. “This boat is already too crowded. Men in their condition cannot travel like this.”
Captain Williams thinned his lips. “They cannot be removed,” he repeated. “Their names have already been added to the rolls,” he said stubbornly.
Dr. Kemble merely shrugged and beckoned some waiting men forward. “Then remove them,” he said flatly. He turned to the waiting men. “Take these men off this boat,” he ordered.
One of the men waiting on the cots, in about as bad a condition as Abner, lifted his head weakly. “Don’t keep us here, Dr. Kemble,” he pleaded. “My wife is waiting for me to get home.”
Dr. Kemble’s eyes softened, but his voice remained firm. “And it’s my job to make sure you get there in one piece,” he responded. His tone became gentler as he moved forward to take the soldier’s hand. “I’ll have you on a boat tomorrow,” he promised. “One that has room for you.” His scowl was directed toward Captain Williams.
Captain Williams scowled back at him but didn’t try to interfere as the men on the cots were picked up and transferred to stretchers.
Matthew watched as Dr. Kemble led the procession down the gangplank, glad that Abner was asleep and unaware he wasn’t headed home. Matthew was still watching when the doctor stopped at the head of a large line of men who all appeared to have just been released from the hospital. He watched Dr. Kemble speak to an officer who, after an intense conversation, turned around to direct the men to head back to the hospital. Evidently, the doctor didn’t feel good about anyone else being added to the boat.
Matthew frowned, wishing he could hear what was being said. His frown deepened as he saw that the line of men waiting to board the vessel hadn’t diminished at all. What was going on? Why were so many men being loaded on the Sultana? A look at the wharf revealed there were other boats that could have transported some of the men. A glance behind him at the crowded decks of the steamer increased his discomfort.
Another conversation caught his attention. He watched as a bone-thin man with erect bearing approached another man whose clothing identified him as the captain of the Sultana, Captain Mason.
Matthew moved closer, every sense on alert now.
“Captain Mason, I am Major William Fidler of the Sixth Kentucky Cavalry. I am in command of the soldiers aboard the Sultana.”
Captain Mason nodded. “I was informed. You were a prisoner as well.”
“Yes, and now it is my job to make sure these men get home safely. I fear there are far too many men on this boat for us to proceed safely,” Major Fidler said firmly.
“There is nothing I can do about that,” Captain Mason said smoothly. “All the men have to go through on the Sultana.” He hesitated. “I believe I can carry them all through.”
Matthew’s blood chilled when he heard the hesitation in Captain Mason’s voice. Even the captain wasn’t convinced his steamer could handle the increasing load.
“I tell you, they are packing us on here like hogs!”
Matthew turned in time to hear the comment from an angry soldier.
“There is no place to lie down. There is no place to even relieve ourselves. Did we suffer through the war and the prison camps to be treated like this?”
Matthew listened as the indignation rose around him. He was quite sure he agreed with all of them. What he was not sure of was just what he could do about it. The alarm bells ringing in his head said all of them were in danger, but he had no idea how he could stop what was happening. He looked around for Peter but was already quite sure he had little chance of finding him in the mass of men crowded on the boats.
He scanned the sea of men swarming around him. How many? The boat was cleared for four hundred people. There had to be more than two thousand on this boat. His frown deepened into a scowl as he moved past women and children — families who seemed completely bewildered by what was happening. Passengers were everywhere — on the hurricane deck, on the wheel-house, the forward deck, and guard.
He listened as he shoved his way to the front of the boat, knowing there was too much commotion to attempt an interview.
“They gave the slaves more room on the slave boats,” one man muttered as he tried to slide down into a sitting position by the rail.”
“Do you see the hurricane deck sagging? This is madness!”
“What will happen if this steamer catches fire?” another man demanded.
Matthew shuddered and continued to push forward. He wasn’t sure why he was working so hard to get to the front, except that perhaps it would give him a feeling of not being so closed in if the front were open to him. His anxiety and anger were making it hard to breathe.
He continued to overhear conversations as he moved forward.
“I just spoke to the steamer’s clerk,” one dignified man stated.
Matthew slowed when he realized the man speaking was William D. Snow, a senator-elect from Alabama. He listened eagerly.
“I went to him with my concerns about the number of passengers. He showed me the boat’s certificates and books.” Snow scowled. “He also told me the Sultana is transporting the largest number of passengers ever carried upriver on a single vessel.”
Matthew ground to a halt.
“How many passengers are on here?” another man asked.
Snow hesitated before he answered. “Twenty-four hundred soldiers, a hundred citizen passengers and a crew of about eighty.”
Matthew almost gagged. “Twenty-five hundred passengers on a boat built for four hundred?” he blurted aloud.
The men turned to stare at him, but no one responded. All of them just shrugged. Matthew knew they felt as helpless as he did. He turned and continued to push forward.
“This steamer isn’t just carrying passengers,” a round-faced man growled as he fought for a handhold on the railing. “There are almost one hundred mules and horses, and a hundred hogs in a pen toward the stern. Not to mention all the sugar and wine they are carrying.”
Matthew’s steps faltered, but he was being pulled forward by a force he didn’t understand.
Chapter Eight
Janie stared blindly into the vibrant green of the newly leafing maple trees surrounding Clifford’s home. It was odd to be in a city virtually untouched by four years of violent war — no battles, no destruction, no charred buildings. If she were so inclined, she could almost believe it had never happened.
She was not so inclined. In spite of the horrors of the war, at least she had felt alive. She had felt purpose. Now there was nothing to break the monotony of one mindless day after another. Shifting her chair, Janie reached over to pick up a cold glass of iced tea. She sipped it thoughtfully as the sun caused shadows to dance across the lawn.
Clifford’s home was beautiful. The sprawling white clapboard structure with gleaming green shutters was bordered on both ends by a wide brick fireplace. The circular gravel drive in front of the house was rarely empty of fine carriages transporting important men. She hated every inch of it.
Janie’s eyes narrowed as she thought of these important men. Self-important was a more apt description. She had come to loathe the purposeless days that spread out like the never-ending flow of a river, but she truly dreaded the nights
when Clifford’s beautiful home rang with the angry voices of important men determined to regain all they had lost during the war. She could not help but hear their hatred and bigotry, and she had learned their violence spawned even more anger in her husband. With nowhere else to direct it, Clifford always released it on her.
It had taken only a few days before she greatly preferred the boredom of daylight to the terror of the evenings. Janie took deep breaths as she fought to think. She could hardly remember the tough-minded, independent woman who had left Raleigh four years ago to work at Chimborazo Hospital against the wishes of her family. Undaunted, she had taken the train and started a new life. That new life included Carrie Cromwell, her family, and all the patients they treated together over the years.
In less than a week, that world had been dimmed by the brutal reality of the one she was in now. Why had she not listened to Carrie? Why had she been so determined to return to Raleigh with Clifford? Why had she thought she could change the anger that grew in him daily?
Janie swallowed the sob that wanted to burst from her throat and blinked back the tears that wanted to break free. She knew to hide the fear that beat at her breast on a daily basis. She had learned quickly that any show of fear or weakness only fed Clifford’s anger. Defiance had the same effect, so she was learning how to walk a very fine line to escape his insults and rage.
The sound of carriage wheels on the drive caused her to take a deep breath and straighten her shoulders with determination. A glimpse through the trees told her Clifford was home from his law office. The others would arrive shortly. Janie stood, took a final deep draw of tea, and walked into the house. It was a matter of principle that she not be on the porch when Clifford arrived home. She refused to give him the satisfaction of thinking his dutiful wife was waiting for his return. It was a non-significant victory, but she grasped for whatever would allow her to hold on to her rapidly dwindling self-respect.
“Janie!” Clifford called for her as soon as he entered the house, his sharp eyes scanning to make sure everything met his high standards of excellence.