The Sentinels of Andersonville (20 page)

“Dr. Stiles, forgive me, but I wish to know what is your personal motive in this.” It was Lloyd Fremont, a hotel owner. “You were taken into custody to be questioned about your own loyalty to the Confederacy; I think it important for us to understand the motive of this F.A.P. society. Is it about feeding starving men, which I can do no matter if that man is a Yankee, or will it apply
too much
gentle care for those soldiers, which may in fact
lead
to Union sympathies, and thus divert from the objective entirely? This is the fear which I believe many of us have.” He regarded the crowd, and many nodded. “I wish
to be involved in this enterprise if I can feed starving men. But I’ll have no part of comingling the purity of that effort with politics, or to bring upon my family any whisper of treason. I despise the very notion of having to defend myself as a citizen of the C. S. of A.”

“That is a very fair observation, Lloyd; goes straight to the heart of it,” said Dr. Stiles. “I had to give grave consideration to the oath I took as a young physician when asked to volunteer at the Federal hospital. In truth, I was very reluctant. But I had to ask myself, am I a Southerner first, or am I a doctor? Am I a Rebel first, or a human being? I concluded that my personal motive is to go back to my Hippocratic oath: ‘I will come for the benefit of the sick according to my ability and judgment. I will keep them from harm and injustice.’ Everything changes, Lloyd, at one look into their circumstances. I no longer see a man who wishes me ill
 
—I see a man who needs help.”

“That is all very well for you,” someone said. “But what of those with no Hippocratic oath?”

 
—

“Oh, I am so
tired
of this,” Violet groused in a whisper to Dance and Emery. “Why can’t we get on with practicalities?”

They sat at the edge of the gathering, Dance and Violet in chairs, Emery sitting on the ground next to Dance. As the evening progressed, Emery looked down the drive with greater frequency.

“You started it,” Dance said to her. He was glad she did.

“I did not start
this
. I am bored to
death
with these irrelevancies.”

“I think it’s very interesting. You’ve got the town at least talking about it.”

“They have said nothing to interest
me
.” She shook the papers she’d retrieved from the house. “I have Americus broken down by streets. All we need to do is assign one day of the month to every
street in the districts and the outlying properties, and we will have certainly made headway in supplementing government allowance.”

“What of Captain Wirz?” an elderly man was saying. “I want to hear more about him.”

“It thrills me to see it.” Violet admired her papers. “I wish to
get
to it!”

Dance put up a hand and whispered, “He’s talking of Wirz.”

“Captain Wirz is a very vulgar man!” said Constance Greer. “He said something
very
unchristian to Ann Hodgson.”

“Well, I
have
heard things about him,” said another in a cautionary tone.

“He’s a Hessian
 
—what do you expect?” someone called.

Then Dance watched Dr. Stiles closely. For just a second, Dance thought he saw something other than the patience from which Job could take lessons; but whatever that flash was, weariness or frustration, it had passed. Dr. Stiles said with his customary implacable calm, “I am not here to impugn another man’s character. I am here to learn what is in ours. This war won’t last forever, but what we do here today might.”

“But I wish to understand things, Dr. Stiles,” said the elderly man. “I am undecided as to what course my wife and I should take until I understand things. Is there no representative of the prison here?” He looked about. “I would like to hear what the administration has to say about these allegations against them.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” Violet growled under her breath. “What is there to say? Men are dying from starvation!” Then she called out between cupped hands, “Men are dying from starvation!” She ducked behind Dance.

“Where is the preacher?” Emery whispered to Dance. “He should have shown by now.”

“Seems we forever wonder that of him.”

“What preacher?” Violet said. “Reverend Gillette?”

“Dr. Stiles, you surprise me,” a voice cut clear. It was the woman who had snubbed Violet. Mrs. Runcorn.

“Friends of Andersonville Prison.
Friends.
” She pulled the word along. “Is it any wonder you were brought in for questioning?”

A silence fell across the crowd.

“There was not enough of my boy to send home,” she said, standing up. “We tracked down two boys in his regiment who saw Jamie die. The first bullet killed him, straight through his neck. He was gone; he was dead. But that wasn’t enough for those Yankees. They came up the slope, overwhelmed our troops, and forced them back. As they retreated, these two boys saw a sight to give them nightmares the rest of their lives. Those Yankees took their vengeance upon my boy.”

She took a moment. “I
will
not weep before you, and be made an object of pity.” Her eyes glowed, but no tears came. “They made sport of his body, for Jamie was a leader, and had done gloriously that day. They bayoneted him, sticking him repeatedly like demons from hell, but even that wasn’t enough. One Yank took powder from a caisson box and threw it over my son. They lighted my boy up. There was nothing left of him. Nothing but ashes. And you would be
friends
 
—” the word pulled along
 
—“to such as they who would desecrate so precious a form fashioned in the image of God. You all knew my son. Was he not a kind boy, and good?”

The crowd was silent, save for stifled weeping.

“For this and other atrocities brought down upon the South, I say of those men in that prison, if they suffer, they suffer according to the will of God, who is not mocked. It is justice. I will not interfere with the hand of God upon that place. To do so is not only treason upon the South, it is treason upon God.”

She sat down.

Emery Jones shot up. He made his way to the front where Dr. Stiles stood, his face ashen. Emery took off his hat. “I’ve been waitin’ for someone to come. He’d say what I have to say much better.”

“He’ll try and follow
that
?” Dance whispered, feeling sick.

Emery looked directly at Mrs. Runcorn. “I fought in a unit with brave boys such as yours, ma’am. Before my eyes, I lost them, good as yours. One word comes to mind when I think of the men in that prison:
mercy
. Maybe they deserve help and maybe they don’t. But I don’t know as it’s a question of deservin’. I seen a lot of things out of those Yanks the last few years, good and bad. I reckon they seen the same of us, for men are the same on both sides of the line.”

Eyes went to Mrs. Runcorn. Her look upon Emery was chillingly impassive.

“I’m posted at the prison, on dead duty. I watch over a squad of Union boys who are detailed to carry out their dead to the dead house. Sometimes I work in the Federal hospital. The condition of those bodies . . . ain’t no describin’ it. You have to see it to believe it. It is like a theater show in hell. What the doc says is true, all of it. I’ve seen
 
—” He paused. “I saw a man with scurvy try to eat a piece of corn bread. Some of his teeth and bits of gums were left behind in the bread. He gave up eating it.

“I have carried out bodies gone so bad they break apart when you pick ’em up. I’ve seen maggots and flies and lice feed upon
living
men, boys so far gone they had not the strength to push ’em away. And thin? Thin as sticks. I do not think this is the hand of God visited upon them, ma’am. I think, in fact, it is the opposite.”

Mrs. Runcorn rose.

She had remained impassive throughout his speech. She looked as if she were in a world of her own making, no crowd of people, nothing at all. Wherever that world was, all was dried up there.

She started to leave, then looked at Emery and asked vaguely, “Was mercy shown my boy?”

She looked behind for her husband and began to walk away. Then she stopped, and all eyes followed hers.

Up the drive came Reverend William Gillette, flanked by several men. His hands were bound.

“Is that Reverend Gillette?” Hettie Dixon gasped.

“He shaved his beard,” said someone in awe.

“There he is,” said one of the men flanking the preacher, pointing at Emery Jones. “That’s him.”

“Lucerne.” Dance jumped to his feet. The turnkey Emery had bribed.

“Is that the man?” Detective Joseph T. Howard demanded of his prisoner. Reverend Gillette looked up and when he saw Emery, looked down again. He nodded.

The detective motioned with his head, and two men went over to Emery with a set of iron manacles.

“What have we got here?” said Judge Tate, rising.

“We’ve got ourselves a mess, Judge.” Howard looked at the preacher. “It seems this man falsely represented his purpose for spending a night in Andersonville Prison. It appears it was not for some sanitation commission, which we have discovered does not exist. This organization, the Friends of Andersonville Prison, may in fact connect to the recent attempt by the Union general George Stoneman to break out prisoners. And that boy over there is one of the ringleaders.”

The crowd gasped.

“Why, you
traitor
,” someone hissed at Emery.

“Reverend Gillette?” another cried. “It can’t be true!”

“I thought this was all straightened out,” Judge Tate said.

“There is nothing straight about this,” said Howard. “We have
one of two very bad possibilities as to what transpired: I have a witness right here who says that boy paid him to look the other way while he turned this preacher into the stockade for the express purpose of determining its weaknesses, and so to pass that information along to the Union lines.”

“That’s a lie!” Dance shouted.

“I’m with Pickett on that part,” said Lucerne. “It wudden like that.”

“Let’s go to the courthouse and talk this out,” said Judge Tate.

“I say talk it out right here,” said Lloyd Fremont. “We have a right to know what is going on. We have all the right in the world if we have to take immediate action to protect our families.”

“All right, then,” said Judge Tate. “What is the other bad possibility you spoke of, Mr. Howard?”

“That the whole thing
was
a kidnapping, as originally believed.”

“There it is.” Lucerne nodded.

“Reverend Gillette, help me clear this up,” said Judge Tate. “Were you in fact kidnapped?”

“I read the note on the board myself,” said Arvin Probity.

Reverend Gillette sighed. “I’ve been trying to tell these men it is an awful mistake. I am not a Union conspirator.” He looked around. “You all know me! I am not a spy, nor do I even have Union tendencies. I am Southern to my marrow, and this is a witch hunt.” He looked at Emery and said reluctantly, “Yes, I was kidnapped. But it was because that boy has a friend in the prison who
 
—”

“A
frien
d
? A
Yankee
friend?” someone called.

“Oh, my goodness!” said another, clapping a hand to her head. “
Friends
of Andersonville Prison!”

“Oh, hear me out,” said the preacher, irritated. “That boy turned me loose in there for humanitarian purposes. To take off a blindfold, he said. And yes, I was blind.”

“So you
were
kidnapped,” said the detective.

“Yes, but
 
—”

“There you have it, Judge Tate.”

For a moment, not a word was spoken.

The preacher shook his head. “This is not what truth is for.” His voice rose. “Hear me, people. I went into the worst place I’ve ever been not of my own free will
 
—but I
stayed
because of it! I do not hold that man accountable.” He looked at the judge. “I choose not to press any charges whatsoever.”

“There, you cannot come to this traitor’s aid,” said Howard. He looked at the judge. “This boy is a soldier. It means this is out of your hands, for you are a civilian judge.”

“But it happened to a civilian,” someone pointed out.

“Wait a minute
 
—have we got our laws set in place as
our
laws yet?” someone else said. “Maybe that’s a
Union
law.”

“By the preacher’s own mouth, I say let the boy go,” said Timothy Bigelow. “Sounds like he was just trying to do something good.”

Judge Tate shook his head. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid it is out of my hands. The detective is right. Jurisdiction is tricky. This may even have to be heard before a supreme court. But first, they must pull together a military tribunal.”

“Do we have a supreme court yet? A
Confederate
supreme court?”

“Of course we do,” said Judge Tate, annoyed. “All is not willy-nilly. We have our halls of justice, same as they. You make us sound like bandits. Wait one minute,” he said to the men leading Reverend Gillette away. “You can at least turn the preacher loose.”

“Certainly not,” said Howard. “We have not yet got to the bottom of the other bad possibility
 
—that there was in fact a conspiracy. How will this town sleep at night until they know the truth?”

“Another night in the deep. At least there will be decent food and water.” Reverend Gillette looked at the crowd. “I had a very different
speech planned for tonight. One that I’d hoped would open eyes and set you all to action.”

“Action, is it?” said Arvin Probity. “Then tell us
 
—why did you shave your beard? I have heard of such as that, men taking an oath to undermine government, and then they shave their beards to show it. Why . . . even Dr. Stiles shaved his beard . . .”

“Goodness gracious,” Constance Greer gasped, curled ringlets swinging. “Well
 
—Dr. Stiles, certainly not. But the reverend
is
a Methodist. I do not know their doctrines. . . .”

“I shaved it, good lady, because it had lice from the stockade,” the preacher said wearily. “I did not want to bring them home.”