Jenny's Passion

by Diane Wylie

  Louie eyed the shirt.

  “No you don’t. I need that shirt; it’s all I have.”

  Louie turned away.

  “Here, Louie, take this instead.” David held out two shiny brass buttons that had come off his uniform’s jacket before it disappeared one night during his blind spell. They had been tucked away in a trouser pocket for safekeeping.

  Louie grinned, showing rotten teeth, and snatched them out of his hand eagerly. The insane soldier opened the dirty drawstring bag he wore around his neck and dropped them in. Backing into his corner, he took up his rocking and mumbling again, oblivious to the world around him once more.

  David sighed and watched Jack’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall. What in God’s name was the world coming to when men were reduced to this kind of existence…and how in the hell can I get us out of here?

  * * *

  “It’s me,” Phillip whispered, “don’t shoot.”

  Jenny and Mr. Reynolds lowered their pistols as Phillip led Thunder into the circle of light given off by the campfire. He tied the horse with the others and weaved his way to the fire, sinking down to sit beside his daughter. A soft hiccup and a deep belch escaped his mouth, but he didn’t seem to care.

  “Ssscuse me,” he slurred. “Had to buy lotsss of drinks to get any information…and those guards sure c-can drink. ‘Course they didn’t have anything decent in a place like that, but it was alcoholic.” His drawl was even more pronounced than usual.

  “What did you learn, Phillip?” Jeffrey Reynolds asked him, leaning forward eagerly.

  “Yes, Papa, do you think there is a chance we can get David out of there?”

  He grinned at his audience, looking from his worried daughter to the equally anxious father of an enemy soldier and friend. Phillip had come to think of Jeffrey Reynolds and his son as very good friends indeed. Riding hundreds of miles and living side-by-side with a man gave one plenty of time to find out what made him tick.

  Hiccoughing again, he finally answered them. “I think we have a good chance at success, Jennifer. I found out we have a friend inside the prison already. I need you to help contact him…”

  * * *

  Dear Lord, she was ready to jump out of her skin. Nothing could go wrong, or they might not have a second chance. Mr. Reynolds gave her hand, tucked through his elbow, a pat as they approached the building that housed the Andersonville Prison office. Beyond the building she could see the huge, twelve-foot tall stockade fence that surrounded acres and acres of ground.

  The bustle and noxious smell of this place was almost overwhelming on this hot, humid summer day. The black high-necked dress soaked up the rays of the sun, and perspiration trickled down between her breasts. Jenny fanned herself with the little black fan she had also thought to purchase. She had bought it for show, like a prop, but now she was really glad she had it.

  The noise coming from that stockade was like the humming of thousands of loud honeybees, broken by the closer sounds of horses, men, and rattling wagons. She wondered just how many men were suffering behind that stockade.

  A group of gray-clad Confederate soldiers, armed with rifles, crossed their path heading for the prison gates. Their feet raised a cloud of dust as they walked, almost reluctantly, toward the stockade. They were drooping in the heat, just like everyone else.

  Jenny and Mr. Reynolds were greeted at the door by another, very young, red-faced soldier with sad eyes. “What is your business here, sir?” the boy asked in a voice filled with suspicion.

  “We would like to see Captain Henry Wirtz, please. It is a very important matter.”

  David’s father nodded at Jenny, who was holding her handkerchief up to her face and legitimately trying not to cry. She watched the boy’s eyes narrow at the sound of the Northern accent that her companion made no effort to hide.

  “This is my son’s widow,” Jeffrey continued. “We have traveled a very long distance to get here. We have reason to believe her husband died here at Andersonville.”

  The boy looked puzzled now. “But, sir, lots and lotsa men die here every day.”

  Jennifer gave a gasp and began to cry in earnest.

  “There, there, my dear,” Jeffrey patted her back and glared at the boy. Holding his gaze, Mr. Reynolds produced a gold coin and pressed it into the boy’s palm, closing the grimy fingers over it as the boy looked down in surprise.

  “Ask the captain to see us, if you please,” he paused for a moment. “I thought you Confederates prided yourselves on honor. What honor is there in denying a good Southern woman’s request?”

  The boy’s head bobbed up and down, a chagrined look on his grimy face. “I-I didn’t realize you were one of us, Ma’am.”

  Jenny looked up, allowing the tears to gather unchecked. “Why, yes, I am soldier.” Her accent effortlessly matched his. “My beloved husband was a Northerner. After we were married I went to live in that part of the country. Now I am back on Southern soil to collect his poor body, if I may.” A single tear ran down her cheek dramatically. “I-I never wanted him to fight!”

  The boy soldier opened the door, led them inside the stifling foyer, and disappeared down the hall.

  She looked up at Jeffrey Reynolds anxiously. He smiled and winked at her, something David had done more than once to lighten the mood. Instantly she was comforted and reassured. The simple gesture bolstered her flagging courage and straightened her back. They would get her beloved out of here.

  The boy came back and escorted them to the prison commander’s office. Seated behind the desk was a compact man with a square face, dark hair, and a full dark beard. He was dressed in a simple linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and Confederate uniform trousers. Captain Henry Wirtz gestured to his two hard-backed visitor’s chairs.

  “Vat ken I du fer you?”

  Jenny was taken aback by his accent. It sounded cold, thick, and foreign to her ears. He was not at all what she expected.

  Mr. Reynolds appeared unfazed. “I will come directly to the point, sir. We are seeking to get the body of my son returned for proper burial in his own hometown. His name is John Smith, from the great state of New York.”

  Captain Wirtz immediately turned several shades of red. “Vhy, Mr. Smith, Mrs. Smith, der must be at least tventy men buried here by zat name!”

  Standing, her companion loomed over the scarred wooden desk that separated the two men. He pushed fifty dollars in gold coins across the desk to the officer. The man’s black eyes lit up immediately.

  “Let me speak to someone who deals with the bodies then, sir. My son was very distinctive physically.”

  Hearing her cue, Jenny began to weep again in a quiet, dignified manner. She looked at the captain through brimming tears. “Please, sir, I am begging you, as a true Southern gentleman. Have mercy on my poor broken heart. My husband may have been a Northern soldier, but I loved him dearly. I must be able to bring him home.”

  “Az you vish.” He nodded at them both as he slid the coins into his pocket. “Ich must varn you. Der man zat oversee de burial iz a former slave, but he iz a literate darkie.” He paused and looked at them both. “Der iz nein guarantee zat ve vill find de man you seek.”

  Mr. Reynolds waved a hand in dismissal. “I am from the North, sir. The color of a man’s skin makes no difference to me. It is his honesty that I require.”

  With a brusque nod to them both, Captain Wirtz left the office.

  After a few, very tense, minutes, the door opened, and Wirtz returned. Following him into the room was a tall, lanky, young black man, dressed in ragged clothing but with a proud straight bearing. He looked at Jeffrey with curiosity, then, seeing Jenny, his big brown eyes widened, and his mouth opened.

  Immediately, Mr. Reynolds leaped to his feet to speak. “Hello, I am Samuel Smith, and this is my daughter-in-law, Patience Smith.”

  Jenny narrowed her eyes slightly and nodded at the young man.

  “N-Nice to meet you. I’m Nate Winston,” he responded with a hesitant s
mile.

  “Nein zmall talk, prisoner!” Captain Wirtz snapped. “Just let de man ask you questions.”

  Jeffrey turned to the captain. “Would you be so kind as to let us have a few minutes alone with this young man, Captain Wirtz? This is a very private matter.”

  The captain looked uncertain, so another gold coin was placed on the desk. Wirtz picked it up, pocketed the coin, and left the room without another word. Jeffrey closed the door behind him.

  Jenny leaped up and embraced Nate. She whispered in his ear, “It is so good to see you. Why are you here, and where are the others?”

  Her former student returned the hug hesitantly. She knew that when he lived on the plantation they had never hugged their slaves this way. His uncertainty was tangible. Pulling back from her, he picked up immediately on their need for secrecy and responded in a quiet voice.

  “I’s a Yankee soldier now, Miz Jenny…” His backbone stiffened proudly. “…Just like Cap’n Reynolds. The family’s all gone north to Pennsylvania. They is all safe.”

  Just as quickly he deflated. “But I gots captured and sent to this here prison while we was fighting a time back. But these Rebs, they don’t believe I is a Yankee soldier. They took away my fine uniform and give me these here rags.” He surveyed his clothing with scorn. “And they makes me bury my fellow soldiers…I always says somethin’ from the Bible, like Mama taught me, for each man so that they go to heaven.”

  The sorrow on his young face at this indignity nearly broke Jenny’s heart. She patted his shoulder, trying to console him, and leaned close to him again.

  “The soldiers are very lucky to have you, Nate. We will get you out of here,” she whispered. Then turning to Jeffrey, she nodded to the older man. “This is Mr. Reynolds, Captain Reynolds’ father. Captain Reynolds is a prisoner here, too. Have you seen him?”

  The shock registering on Nate’s face gave her the answer even before he shook his head slowly. “No, Ma’am, I ain’t…I have not,” he corrected himself.

  Jeffrey stepped closer, holding his hand out to the young man. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Nate. I have heard such good things about you from the Winstons.” He glanced at the closed door as they shook hands. “Quickly now,” he whispered, “we have a plan to get you and David out of this hell on earth.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The waiting was pure torture. Star shifted under her uneasily, frightened by the rolling thunder that flowed toward them seconds after the darkening evening sky flashed with white lightning. Hidden in a grove of trees, conveniently overlooking the prison’s large burial ground, Jennifer waited astride her mount with Phillip and Jeffrey on either side of her.

  “Tonight would be the perfect night with the approaching storm to cover their escape,” Mr. Reynolds spoke quietly to the other two. “I don’t know how much more waiting I can stand.” His voice trembled slightly, evidence of the strain he was under.

  Jenny swallowed hard at the emotion she heard in David’s father’s voice. She, too, had grown to like and respect Jeffrey Reynolds over the time they had been traveling together. David had told her that he and his father were basically estranged from each other by their differences. Perhaps this would bring them together again, unless… She didn’t allow herself to finish that thought.

  For six very nerve-wracking evenings they had watched the wagon loaded with dead Union soldiers rattle out of the forbidding stockade gates, bearing its grim load. Nate’s lean form was easily identifiable among the other black men, guarded by Rebel soldiers as they toiled in the summer heat to bury man after man.

  Cloths tied around the burial detail’s faces were mute evidence of the stench that drifted even to the rescue group’s hiding place. The first night Jenny had counted one hundred and two bodies. After that she didn’t count any more; she prayed.

  She sat and listened to the stillness. It was strangely devoid of birds and animal life in this stand of trees, so near the prison, as if even the creatures of God knew this ground to be unholy and evil. Then the sound of flapping wings caught the attention of the watchers. A flock of bats burst from the trees and fluttered erratically over the gloomy graveyard. She watched them until they were tiny black specks skittering over the huge stockade area. Shivering despite the heat, she rubbed her perspiring hands up and down her arms to erase the gooseflesh.

  “Are you all right, Jenny?” Phillip asked quietly.

  She turned to him. Her father and Mr. Reynolds both wore wide-brimmed hats pushed low over their foreheads, dark shirts and trousers, and pistols holstered around their waists. Both men also wore worried, anxious looks that probably matched hers.

  “Tell me again that Nate will find David, Papa,” she whispered. The agony was almost unbearable…so many dead soldiers. Not David, please God, not David.

  “Oh, Jennifer. Of course—”

  He stopped abruptly and cocked his head. “Listen,” he whispered.

  On the crest of a growing wind, the sweet song was carried clear and true. “Swing low, sweet chariot, comin' for to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chariot…”

  “It’s Nate. That’s the signal! He’s found my son!” Jeffrey cried softly.

  Moving the horses closer to the edge of the tree line, they looked down on prison grounds. The wagon, once again bearing its odious burden, moved slowly toward the cemetery. In the gathering gloom of evening and the approaching storm they could see the usual burial detail. Three black men carrying shovels followed behind the double team Nate drove away from the shadow of Andersonville Prison. The detail was guarded by three Confederate soldiers with rifles, walking alongside the wagon.

  Jenny touched her pistols. She was ready. Her heart pounded, and her stomach was suddenly sick with fear and anticipation. Sweat trickled down her neck and between her breasts. She, too, wore a dark shirt and trousers and a wide-brimmed hat identical to the men’s. Nervously she wiped her hands on her breeches.

  “…Comin’ for to carry me home. I looked over Jordan, and what did I see, comin' for to carry me home? A band of angels comin’ after me…” Nate’s tenor drifted mournfully across the hallowed ground.

  A light drizzle started to fall. Ghostly fingers of fog crept along the ground below. They watched the heaped wagon stop at the last rectangle of freshly turned earth as the gray evening deepened into twilight. Lightning suddenly split the sky in two. Thunder crashed, and, with that, Phillip gave the signal. The horses began to move, and the heavens opened, pouring out God’s sorrow in great teardrops of rain.

  “Go, Star,” Jenny kicked her heels into the mare’s flanks, urging her faster and faster down the hill.

  Under the cover of nature’s battle sounds, the guards did not hear their approach. The three dark riders pounded toward the fog-shrouded burial ground, pistols in hand.

  The two gravediggers looked up at the same time, dropped their shovels, and took off running, slipping, and sliding in the growing mud. A single shot rang out, and one Confederate guard went down. Where was Nate? Did he find David alive? Then she saw Nate at the back of the wagon with another man as they struggled with something dark and heavy.

  Too far! I am too far away to shoot that guard! The night became a horror of confusion and chaos. Now four figures struggled at the death wagon. The rain fell in driving torrents. Through the downpour Jenny saw prison guard number two swinging his rifle in their direction. Shots rang out again. She ducked low on Star’s back. Papa rode past her, firing, followed closely by Jeffrey. Both were firing at the hapless guard now, and Jennifer joined in. The guard went down with a cry and a splash.

  She was closer now. She could see human arms and legs in a hideous tangle hanging off the edges of the wagon bed. Despite the pounding rain, the smell of death surrounded them. Another blinding flash lit the struggling living people. One man lay on the soggy ground unmoving. Oh dear, Lord, who was it?

  Jeffrey Reynolds leaped off his horse and joined the fray, followed by Phillip. Jenny pulled Star to a stop, dismounted, and
rushed to the man who lay face down in the mud. Falling to her knees beside the man, she gently turned him over. It was not David! The man was painfully thin. A scraggly beard covered his cheeks and long, stringy hair fell over his muddy face. Who was it? She put her hand on his chest. He was alive.

  Shouts, thuds, gunfire, and the voices of panicked horses filled her ears, in addition to the pounding rain and thunder. Whoever this man was, he had come off that death wagon. She had seen Nate and a man struggling with him, so he had to be a Yankee soldier from the prison. He was someone Nate wanted to rescue. Gently she slapped his gaunt, wet cheek.

  “Wake up, sir! Come on, soldier, wake up for me now!”

  Brushing the sodden hair from his face, she raised his head. His eyes fluttered open, and he looked at her in surprise. A harsh cough rattled his thin chest.

  “Come, soldier, drink this,” she told him gently. Putting a silver flask to his lips, she dribbled some whiskey into the man’s mouth. It made him cough once again, but he swallowed.

  “A-Are you an angel?” he asked weakly. “Have I died now?”

  A movement caught her attention, and she looked back without answering the man. The sounds of fighting had stopped, but she could only see a vague impression of the wagon. A dark figure lurched out of the fog moving toward her. She pulled out her pistol.

  “Stop! Don’t come any closer! Papa, where are you?” she cried.

  “I’m coming, Jen!” She heard his reply from somewhere in the mists.

  The figure stopped. “Jenny?” The voice was hoarse and raspy. “Jennifer? It’s David!”

  “David? Oh, David, is it really you? Come closer, but go easy now!”

  Staggering slightly, the man moved slowly toward her. She could see his hands were raised above his head as the dark outline resolved into a tall silhouette of a man.