Andersonville (78 page)

Someone touched Ira’s sleeve hesitantly. It was the old sergeant of the guards.

Mr. Claffey, sir. Wistfully. Since you can’t take them things in to the Yanks, would you mind terrible if us folks got a little of the truck? Rations are mighty poor in these parts. Always have been.

...Clothing they took back with them, the vegetables and meat they gave to the guards.

 XLIII 

O
ld Tom Gusset, Saddler, Ninth Ohio Cavalry, lingered far past the time which might have been allotted regularly to men of fifty-eight in Andersonville. His enforced retreat to a den filled with fellow Ohioans, when he fled from the wrath of the Irishman called Pay, wrought no change for the better. These were people from the Forty-fifth Volunteer Infantry, they were dying fast. Tom took the place made vacant by the demise of the ex-mule-driver, but the ex-miner and the ex-baggage-handler were in final disgusting stages of scurvy. The gums of the latter were sloughing away, he spat out wads of rotten membranes, it was feared that he swallowed other wads when he grew too weak to expel them. Only the ex-book-agent-who-longed-to-be-a-writer-of-novels was in fair shape, perhaps because he was slight and elastic to begin with. Once again this was an object lesson in the waning of the mighty athlete, the survival of the stringy and undersized.

Soon Tom Gusset let his implements lie idle, he lost ambition, he had no taste for the puny rations which his industry might have purchased. He did not wish to repair boots or straps, he said that he was too busy or too tired when customers approached. The ex-book-agent, one Woolstock, counseled and warned. Woolstock had imagination, together with a great affection for the human race and an ardent interest therein. He knew that apathy was as destructive as any of the identifiable diseases which erased the population like a sponge in the Devil’s own hand. Indeed he had manufactured this metaphor and made use of it, but Tom Gusset was not impressed.

Use your tools, old fellow! Don’t just sit.

Wooly, I feel too sickly.

You’ll really be sickly, too, if you don’t perk up.

Don’t feel like perking.

Think of your folks at home, Tom. Think of the glorious day of return, think of banners flying in the wind, and ladies strewing garlands, and—

Hell, young fellow. I’m old and I’m plain tired.

Tom had been vigorous previously, had done a young man’s job in a young man’s army, had held his own with people less than half his age. Now he sat and stared. Strangely he seemed suffering from no scurvy; diarrhoea did not wreck him; if he endured gripings he did not complain about them. He shook with no coughing, his eyes did not blaze, malarial fever did not shiver his frame. But suddenly he was become a vessel so empty that it seemed that vessel could never have contained the sauce of abounding life. Since he would not work he acquired no extra necessaries such as rice, salt, beans or bones. If he had owned any more candy he would not have had the energy to bottle it safely in a length of hollow cane. Certainly he would not have had the strength to chase a fleet young thief among the shebangs, punishing him (and thus killing him eventually; killing the shaggy Pay as well) with a belt buckle.

Woolstock quit uttering invocations because Gusset would not heed them, and soon did not even hear. Gusset ate less and less of the gnarly brick of corn bread which came his way each day. At last he ate none at all, he did not rise from the ground. The treasured implements of his saddler’s career were stolen, and he did not care. The miner died, the baggage-handler died. Woolstock himself nursed a scratch on his arm and feared gangrene, and quickly saw and felt and smelled gangrene developing, and knew in last brilliant agonizing that now he too was doomed.

New prisoners, horrified and frantic at what they found here, shoved into the shebang and occupied mud where the Ohioans had suffered. Oh, they were new, not yet emasculated, they pitied Tom Gusset, thought it ghastly that a man nearing sixty should be in that place, thought it ghastly that anyone should be there, thought it a diabolical conspiracy on the part of the Confederacy, and on the part of the Union as well, that there should be such a place. They gave Tom Gusset his ration, they scraped away other mouldering rations which he had abandoned, they began to bet on how long he could live without food.

In fact he lived a surprisingly long time . . . day by day he shrank. It was discovered that he was dwelling in Ohio. He was living with his first wife, Lennie, who had died in early middle age after bearing Tom nine children. His second wife, Ada, was a vicious little shrew hated by her entire neighborhood. Tom had left his harness shop and joined the cavalry in order to get away from Ada. Not even in final insanity could he wish to rejoin Ada, but Lennie became a warm, good-scented vision. Of course he saw her always beaming at the end of the supper table, or rising to whisk more muffins from the oven. Little faces turned admiringly toward Tom all along the board. Olinthus boasted of the groundhog he had dug up, Eva and Leora giggled about a hair-pulling which had ensued at their Sunday School pic-nic, Willis begged to go and spend the night at a favorite cousin’s. Tom Gusset, proud of his family, proud of his pink-cheeked wife and also proud of himself, spooned up the meat and gravy which his toil had provided.

Tommy boy, he’d say to his eldest, you better take some more pigeon pie.

God, said newcomers in the shebang, there the old bastard goes again. This time it’s pigeon pie.

Now, Eva, don’t say you don’t like bean porridge. You know your Ma makes the best! It’s from Granny LeMay’s own receipt.

Artie, help yourself to another chunk of squash and please to pass the plate.

Think I’ll take a little more of that hot slaw, Hiram. But help yourself first. Right in front of you.

The prisoners screamed, God damn you, old man, dry up!

He sat in mud, his thinning fingers no longer skilled and active, but frittering about with splinters, garbage, or even with rolls of mud which they took up and wadded. The splinters were Scotch scones, the garbage became tasty buttered onions with plenty of salt and pepper on them, the mud was cream pie.

Lowell boy, do have another fish ball. And Maudie’s plate is nearly empty. Pass her some more of that boiled tongue and some of them parsnips.

Help yourself to another nice baked potato, Hiram.

The prisoners tried to stop their ears. I swear, they cried, if he don’t cease that craziness I’ll go crazy too. I swear, they cried, I got a notion to lam him over the head with this pole. Finish the old relic off! . . . Oh, leave him be, Mansfield. He’s old, he hain’t got long. . . .

He had far too long insofar as these new prisoners were concerned. Ain’t this nice tenderloin, Linthus? Do take that last piece for yourself; now, hush, the rest of you—Linthus is titled to it, he split all them kindlings for his Ma while Hiram and Artie snuck away to play ball. Lowell, don’t take that cold rusk; Ma is bringing some hot ones right now—better for you hot. Leora, you and Maudie got to toss a penny to see which one wipes the dishes. Here, I got two pennies right here in my pants; I’ll give each of you a bright new cent, and you can match. Don’t know how to match? Well, Pa’ll show you. Watch careful.

I tell you, Lennie, you’ve baked some mighty good nut loaves in your time, but I never saw the beat of this one. Tommy boy, you spread that butter thick on your nut bread, for Granny always said there wasn’t nothing like butter to put flesh on young bones. Eva, pass your saucer and I’ll ladle you some more of these fine stewed cherries.

Nathan Dreyfoos strayed deliberately into remembered satisfactions with his good mind; old Tom Gusset strayed on whatever scraps of wounded fancy could still support him. The house rose before and around him, the small light green house overflowing with Gussets, the house which had supplanted the log house of Tom’s father (the house of squared logs had been moved back to serve as woodshed, dairy, cob house, general domestic repository. The children gave shows there; the minister thought it wrong for them to engage in theatricals; Tom Gusset shook his finger at the Reverend Mr. Sifert and said that his children could give all the blame shows they wanted to).

Gol damn, cried out one new prisoner in the shebang, think I ain’t lonesome for my own wife and folks? Think I don’t wish I was back in Frenchtown with Amy and Lily and Byron? Why the devil have I got to listen to this, night and day?

Oh, hang onto yourself, Melvin. He ain’t got long.

Day after day Artie was offered his asparagus, Leora her buttered onions, Tommy boy his ham. Tom Gusset had been declared killed in battle through some misinformation by an alleged eyewitness. The evil-tongued Ada sold his harness shop and settled down to live comfortably in the old green house—peeking from behind curtains at the two young girls across the way, poisoning dogs, throwing boiling water at cats (which managed fortunately to elude her), shrieking at children to stay out of her yard. Naturally none of her stepchildren or stepgrandchildren ever came to see her. Thus the news that Olinthus was killed near Atlanta and that Hiram was captured and sent to a pen in Tyler, Texas— These griefs brought her no grief. . . . The silver hair and beard of her husband crawled with lice, the prisoners declared that he had a gallon of lice on him if he had a gill, he seemed thinner than paper, you could actually see his bones through transparent begrimed hide. His raw voice cackled without let, his eyes saw fairest and dearest forms, his shrunken nostrils smelled them out of the past.

He tried to get up a while ago and just couldn’t.

That’s what I been waiting for! He tried to resist us before, but I don’t think he can resist us now.

Hospital! Good idee.

Next morning old Tom Gusset was carried to the South Gate; they carried him there before dawn so that the press would not be too great, so that they would not hear the No More Today, No More Today blasting hope that they would be rid of this nuisance once and for all.

Their luck took them to Contract Surgeon Number Six, one of the most humane and resolute of the eleven contract surgeons working at the gate. When the Yankees brought up Tom Gusset in their turn, this surgeon, a bearded little wren named Crumbley whose home was in Albany, had already sent to the hospital the three patients whom he was empowered to assign there on this day. For some mysterious reason there had been but thirty-four hospital deaths since the previous day; hence ten of the contract surgeons might each designate three prisoners—and the eleventh, four—to fill the vacancies. Dr. Crumbley begged the attention of another surgeon whose allotted vacancies were not used up, and as a result Tom was carried into a wall tent and placed with seven other patients. Four of these were in the two beds, or rather shelves with which the place was furnished; the rest lay upon the ground in trodden pine straw saturated with qualities unmentionable. From this low couch Tom’s dramatization of recreated joys reached any ears willing to listen.

This was a rich and beautiful way in which to die. For he had no recognition of pain, stench, wail or ordure. He dwelt in an established past which was as good to his demented soul as was the cold compress to the feverish, the oven-baked flannel to the chilled. He dwelt in that content without chronology, he needed none. His conscious brain was ruptured, his cracked voice talked ahead. Tell you what I’ll do, Mr. Lloyd—your boy Fred has owed me for them collars nearly two years now. Now, if you’ll pay both bills—yours and his—today, I’ll let you have that buggy whip at cost—just what it cost me. Thank you very much, Mr. Lloyd—you have been a good customer for years, but I just can’t carry a heavy load of old Accounts Due. Yes, you bet— Thank you, Mr. Lloyd. Good day to you.

A ghoul crept in at night to rob the dead and the sick too; he stepped upon Tom Gusset’s hand and broke the weakened bones, but Tom did not mind the crushing, not for long. He gave one bleat, and then muttered about it for a time, and then was beaming in his village again. Eva, you are a mighty good little currant picker! Ma told me about it, and it was a good thing you got them before the birds did, and I’m going to give you a dime all for your very own. May basket night? I thought I smelt taffy when I came in. How many baskets are you going to hang, Maudie? Eight? Ain’t that more’n last year? And last year you got ten hung to
you.
Looks like you’re a very popular young miss with your feller scholars!

A boy young enough to be Tom Gusset’s grandchild lay beside him. He was mainly unconscious (this was good, since his lower bowel was in shreds, and some of these shreds protruded from his body), but at times he emitted little owlish cries. Queerly enough Tom was aware of these sounds, and ascribed them to a June dusk when his children marched purposefully along the street and he and Lennie sat on the bench he had built under the ivy. Screech owl, they call that one, dearie. Funny they call it screech. It’s just as soft as the cooing of a squab. I do like to set and listen to it. I suppose he’s calling to his mate. Listen to them kids—that’s Willie’s voice—guess he’s captain of his side. Listen to them signals.
Danger,
he’s calling.
Danger!
Bet that means the other side is getting further and further away. It’s an old trick—we kids used to do it when we was little. Cept we called it Old Wolf, the best I can recall, instead of Run-Sheep-Run. There they go pelting off. Listen at them!
Run, Sheep,
Run!
Old Wolf’s going to get you!