Andersonville (33 page)

Thank you, but I fail to see what good— In a place like this—

Too few retained those qualities. Some had them before they came in, and lost them immediately or gradually. I want to see you retain your strength; hence my special interest in you, and overtures on your behalf. This business of these raiders: they’re all over the place, growing worse and worse by the day. First off, it was sneak thievery at night. Then jostling and hustling by daylight. It’s getting so bad that couple of them will walk up to a man and knock him flat, right in plain sight, and take what he’s got. Only way a man can survive is to keep big enough and mean enough for them not to tackle. But the bulk of the prisoners aren’t big enough to begin with . . . some of those pests are regular giants, and they muster anywhere from a dozen to four dozen helpers and hangers-on apiece.

Nathan meditated on this. Then the only way to overpower them would be by concerted action.

I guess you’ll get along, said MacBean. He exhibited the new shebang into which he had been compelled to move when the hospital was set up in the northeast corner. Oh, he said, we had a fancy domicile to begin with. Snug as a bug. Then they got the notion of a hospital on that very site, and we were condemned out of there.

Could you not move your house?

No, twas pine. All too dry to stand moving; the tufts fell to pieces. Of course this wood which you see now—ridgepole, front poles and so on—all came from there.

Where will we newcomers get wood for our poles?

Buy it. You can buy anything here. From the guards, from other prisoners, from that skinflint sutler. If you have no money you will pay in kind, so to speak; it’s barter, but still it’s buying and selling.

Do you have any poles to spare, Sergeant?

MacBean lowered his voice. Got four beauties hid underneath that trash there. They belonged to my comrade, fellow name of Lawrence, also from the Eighth Cavalry. He died this month and I was his sole heir.

How many have died this month?

Close to seven hundred by actual count.

Out of how many prisoners?

We might have numbered ten thousand before you folks arrived.

Nathan said something in another language.

What say?

Never mind, Sergeant. It is difficult to— Ah. I should like very much to buy your poles so that we may rig our blankets and overcoats. I’ll offer you— He thought for a moment. You mentioned scissors. I have a beautiful pair. I won them in a game of bluff, he added with a grin.

Mister, said Seneca slowly, I’ll take you on that. No—hold on—on second thought, you keep ownership of the scissors, and give me something else. Here’s a proposition: how’d you like to be a barber? Shears, even little ladies’ needlework shears like they have sometimes in a housewife— They’re awful hard to come by, in here. A haircut is equally hard to come by. Suppose you set up shop as a barber right here alongside my laundry. That will give you various benefits: you can win a small income—food, bits of this and that to bargain with. It’ll all help. Mind what I said about a man retaining his qualities of leadership!
And
his power to take care of himself!

But the rations which they give you aren’t—?

You’ll see. Wait till this afternoon. Nothing but that damnable cornmeal, I’ll be bound. Our mess hasn’t tasted meat in nine days—I’ve counted. A little salt once; extra peas on two occasions. But they were pretty wormy. I warn you, Dreyfoos, you’ll go downhill unless you take extra special precautions.

I thank you for the advice. I’ll be a barber although I’ve never been one. Will it be difficult to learn the trade?

Don’t think so. Never tried it—but then I never was in the laundry business before—except as a delivery boy, back home. I suppose it’s just a case of clip, clip and more clip. If a man gets clipped close enough it helps with the bugs. Beards, same way. I haven’t got trimmed for some time—too busy washing. So I’ll be your first customer. And mind to warn your men away from that deadline. Don’t even step close to it. The Twenty-sixth Alabama guards aren’t too bad, but those damn Georgians would rather shoot than eat.

 XX 

S
ometimes General Howell Cobb, one-time cabinet officer and now serving as commander of the Department of Georgia and of the reserve troops, wondered why circumstance had ever compelled him to assume a charge which demanded so much and paid so little. Emolument was nothing. One could not set a cash value on service to one’s Country but there should be a clean spiritual benefit accruing. Howell Cobb received no pence of this sort to put in the purse of his soul. He was a big man with a mane (sometimes in dreams he saw himself stepping about in a toga; and sometimes—worse—he was uncomfortably aware that he resembled a rustic auctioneer with a loud voice whom he had known as a boy). His most important immediate duty as he saw it was the raising, arming, equipping and training of Georgia Reserves. This was not even making bricks without straw, it was making bricks without clay. He had seen the first railroad trains go through Macon, bearing off-scourings of Belle Isle and other Virginia garbage heaps. He thought that even this starved and ragged human material would have served better in construction than the scrappings allotted to him. He stood with thick pompous face set, he stood with lowered hat-brim, and reviewed in solemn gaze and more solemn spirit the worthless ranks which formed his regiments. Blank-eyed little boys with oozing noses; shambling uncouth illiterates better cast as village idiots in this dreadful drama; hollow-cheeked doddering bearded relics who stood with trousers wet, their prostate glands turned to jelly by age. His worry was such that it could admit but little space for consideration of Yankees penned by a pine wall he had never seen—Yankees stalking in a Winder-contrived cage, Yankees Winder-fed, Yankees guarded by a Winder-appointed minion.

Nevertheless someone in Richmond was hearing groans and ghost-stories, and orders could not be ignored when they arrived over the signature of the adjutant-general. Howell Cobb brushed his locks, had his servant pack a satchel, and traveled the sixty miles to Camp Sumter accompanied by his chief surgeon and whatever other staff officers might be spared from headquarters. Wednesday, May fourth, was a fine fair day. In this dressing of warm spring sunlight the stockade did not appear so ugly as General Cobb’s active imaginings had painted it. Henry Wirz, panicked into flutter by the influx of braid and crusted stars, pranced nervously on the left of the mighty slow-treading statesman as the little party toured the prison with guards lounging ahead and behind.

A general break was the first bugaboo which must be laid, and Cobb devoted his attention to this chore. Wirz prayed for battery after battery of artillery to be placed here and there; but General Cobb assumed wisely that the four pieces of cannon now in position could rake the pen handsomely if need arose. He inquired into the state of ordnance, the quantity of grape available for quick reloading; he thought the supplies ample, and said as much in a report which he began to indite within a few hours after his return to Macon.

Headquarters Georgia Reserves, Macon, Georgia, May
5,
1864

General: Under your orders to inform myself of the condition of the prison at Andersonville, with a view of furnishing from the reserve corps the necessary guard for its protection and safety . . .
ha. His service in the field had not been lengthy, but he felt at least that exposure to enemy fire had made a veteran of him promptly, completely. O curling scraps of down on cheeks of jaundiced hobbledehoys; O sodden pants of the agèd; O nitwit cropper able better to handle a hoe than a musket, and bound to chop out the corn, in your foolishness, and leave the chickweed!
There are now in the prison about twelve thousand prisoners, in an area of less than eighteen acres, with a stockade around it about fifteen feet high. I presume the character of the prison is well understood at Richmond, and therefore give no description of it.
Might one be able to box or bottle a smell? Even a small phial of smell? How shrewd it might be to ship off a well-packed box, the squat glass medical tube wrapped in cotton to prevent breakage, the label traced in an indecipherable script used by surgeons in jotting down their requirements: Contents, 10 cubic centimeters Smell, Andersonville, Camp Sumter, Sumter Co., Ga., May 4, 1864. By the Eternal, sir, it would cause a sensation in those pothersome offices with their rows of meddling clerks, their snidish field grade officers who built a supercilious wall between High Command and Reality! The unpacking, the group around the desk, the peeking and wondering, the stopper withdrawn, the stench bursting out of its concentration, the panic to follow. . . .

Howell Cobb’s massive face did not bulge in a smile, but he felt an awful smile shaping inside him. He went on writing.

I took the liberty of making several suggestions for rendering the prison more secure; and if the tools could be had, I would recommend that the entire prison grounds should be surrounded by fortifications, which could be put up by the troops, whose health would be promoted by the employment.
Health—a pretty word, a worthless one under the circumstances. What was health among troops? Health was a singing of the blood, a bellowing of energy to be released in horseplay, high jinks, conflict, the mass surge and peril and murder of a campaign. Health was a chicken roasted on a ramrod, a bayonet jammed between the ribs of a hireling, a fist-fight on an embrasure, a thumbing of the nose. Health was sacrifice, dash, shooting coolly or in frenzy, health was a Rebel yell which went aloft until it seemed that unknown stars must seize and hold it . . . contain it to be given back to future heroic generations when future heroic generations might need to hear the sound, to tell babies in their cradles to listen for that long hoot and be inspired by it when once again the drums came beating. Health was the lusty war fought by vigorous youths with braided muscles on their bones, with God’s own good hot butter husbanded in their testicles. Where were the healthy? Name the spots in no necessary order of geography or chronology: Fair Oaks, Corinth, Vicksburg, Sharpsburg, Gettysburg, how many other
burgs
?
—
Gaines’s Mill, Mechanicsville, Manassas, Pittsburg Landing. Take your spade, historian, and go to digging. You might unearth Leonidas, Varus, King Harald; or at least anonymous Jakes and Johnnies who were cast proudly in their mould. Assuredly you could not dig up these spindle-shanked Antiques and Horribles who comprised the command of Howell Cobb.

He sighed, he wished for a long just peace, and himself rising in the Senate to a Point of Order. He wrote.

The most important change is the one suggested in the accompanying report of my chief surgeon, Dr. Eldridge, that is, the erection of hospital buildings outside the prison. Upon that point there cannot be two opinions among intelligent men. It ought to be done at once, and such is the opinion of every sensible man who has examined the prison.

Here was himself, who had practiced the usage of words with dignity and color throughout his adult life, who thought that language was tonic and decoration— Prison, prison, prison; prisoners, prisoners, prisoners. Had he not a synonym in his cartouche of verbiage? What did you call a prisoner except a prisoner? What did you call a prison except a prison? Might you term Andersonville anything other than Andersonville? Call it mire, muck, sink, morass, dump, dung, cesspool, chamber pot, hog-wallow, cow-pie? Somewhere there must be proper synonyms . . . they did not come readily.

Wirz had said, General, I tell you I am a physician! Those sick should not be so many among the well ones.

I presume, Captain Wirz, that you have done what you could.

Always I do.
Himmel,
at night I keep thinking, What should I do?

I observe that you have made some attempt to provide shelter for the sick in that northeast area—

Tent flies we got, and some—what you call it?—canvas. But to make the hospital, must I have many men move from their huts.
Ach,
they make my head hurt when they yell from it! And so many more men without shelter it has now become; so, so many more sick we have. General, better I was a colonel, this should not be!

It is not a matter of your rank, Captain. It is simply a case of our possessing neither tools nor materials, nor sufficient personnel.

And such a bunch of guards, they are bad and foolish. Much trouble have I got from them, as also from these damn Yankees.

The prison is already too much crowded, and no additional prisoners should be sent there until it can be enlarged. The effect of increasing the number within the present area must be a terrific increase of sickness and death during the summer months.
Prison, prisoner, increasing, increase . . . what had befallen his vaunted claim to the majesty of words spoken or set down in ink?

Poor Alexander Persons. A good just capable dependable man in peacetime—and, thus far, in wartime, though he seemed overcritical of superiors. It gave Howell Cobb a wrench to see Persons placed in such a position. (It gave Howell Cobb an even more severe wrench to observe the position in which he himself had been placed.) Wirz was a blundering snapping sputtering little wretch; but at least he stood devoted with a whole soul to the task of superintending prisoners; he was busy at the job; you could see that he was busy at it, he was not playing checkers in a tent nor swimming in sorghum whiskey. Where could you find another Persons, another Wirz? Oh, you might replace the other, you could never replace the one. But Henry Wirz was a direct appointee of Winder; and in essence Howell Cobb would be impugning Winder’s ability if he so much as suggested a criticism of Wirz.

I understand that an order has been given for enlarging the prison. If it was possible to make another prison it would be much better, for I doubt very much whether the water will be sufficient for the accommodation of the increased number of prisoners.
Prison, prison; much better, I doubt very much; should it be If It Were Possible or If It Was Possible? Suddenly Cobb had grown weary of words.

He recalled smell and faces. Sharply, sharply. Might one not box up a face and send it to that same Richmond office to be looked at, to be regarded with horror?

The general management of the prison under Colonel Persons is good, and he manifests a laudable desire to discharge his duties in the most efficient manner.
There, that takes care of Alex Persons.
The duties of the inside command are admirably performed by Captain Wirz—

Howell Cobb’s tired sense went wool-gathering for a time . . . he recognized at last that his sense was vote-gathering, in retrospect or in dreamy ambition . . . vote-gathering must be really wool-gathering when a man had military responsibility ravaging him.

—Whose place it would be difficult to fill.
There, that takes care of the little German-Swiss captain.
I take the liberty of enclosing a copy of Dr. Eldridge’s report.
Oh, he should have said Surgeon Eldridge instead of Dr. Eldridge, but what in damnation was the difference!
I am, General, very respectfully yours, & c., Howell Cobb, Major-General Commanding.

He penned his own endorsement, and told his adjutant to have the thing sent along with the enclosure of Eldridge’s report. He wondered what other endorsements these papers would bear eventually.
Received A. & I. G.O., May 21, 1864. A. & I. G.O. Received May 26, 1864.
The best, the speediest of military mails were slower than lame blind mules these days. He thought of Richmond, and labored in the thought under that increased lethargy and blank doubt which overwhelmed any good mind when it considered Richmond and the pale clerks and ambitious limited majors skittering about like white rats denned in a cracker box. To whom might General Cooper pass along this report if indeed he chose to pass it along? To what generals, to what gentlemen in rumpled linen suits, to what musing bespectacled bigwigs in shabby frock coats—bigwigs more interested in the portraits for which they might be sitting than in the flow of life represented by neat stacks of mail arranged in square little islands on their desks, in front of yawning pigeon-holes? Howell Cobb had seen such gentlemen and such islands of mail, and knew the amazing depth of a pigeon-hole. A pigeon-hole was not a well; a well was of lesser depth, and so was a vertical mine-shaft with its steam windlasses lowering. A pigeon-hole went straight down to China, and papers fluttered out at the other end, and the Chinese picked them up and squeaked and clacked at the strange symbols, and burned them later in censers before their idols with due ceremony. Already Secretary Seddon’s endorsement had become traditional. There were carping children who told tales out of school.
Noted.
That meant that he had read the contents, or at least had cast his weak gaze across the lines.
File
or
filed.
That meant that the report should be filed or had been filed, personally.
J.A.S.
That meant James A. Seddon, Secretary of War. It was more efficient to employ initials than a signature, it took less time and required less effort.