Crossing the Deadline (12 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

September 28, 1864, 3:00 p.m.

The crazy fellow, Grisby, who greeted me when we first entered Castle Morgan, stands nearby in formation. He points in my direction.
You cook,
he mouths silently to me.

“What?”

He shakes his head rapidly and then squeezes between two men to get closer. “Stephen, you cook tonight,” he says, pointing at me, then heads back to his place.

I have no idea what he means until the end of roll call when we have to form squads of ten and designate a cook to prepare dinner. The guy's out of his mind, but when it's time, I offer to prepare the meal for my squad.

Guards let the cooks leave prison to collect firewood. Grisby yanks my arm to join him as we pass through the gates to gather firewood. He shows me where to collect a
handful of twigs beneath an oak tree. You don't need much. With as many fires as we have to build, the more we burn, the farther we have to walk to get wood the next time.

“Get some of that dried grass, Stephen,” he says, pointing to tufts of brown near a fence post. “Dried grass is plentiful, and it helps catch the wood on fire.”

He motions with his head to return to the prison. As we walk back he says, “Wood that is rotting smokes and won't heat, so don't use it. Fresh fish always go for that because it's big and round. Don't use pine, either, unless the oaks and hickories haven't dropped any limbs. Pine doesn't burn hot enough for a low fire,” he warns. “Most of all, remember coals are hot, flames are not. So don't get flustered when the flames die out.”

* * *

We reach the inside of the cooking area through a small door in the middle of the north wall. This area is surrounded on the other three sides by a board fence. “Rations vary from day to day,” Grisby says. “Often the meat seems unfit for dogs. Don't worry; it's fine. All you have to do is roll it in the ashes and brush it off. What's left adds flavor and
makes it almost bearable,” he says. “Best part, the ashes hide the smell.”

Grisby points out the pots and rations and helps me build my fire. “Always begin with leaves or dried grass for kindling, not wood. Flames from the grass will catch dry wood pretty fast.”

“You're pretty smart. Somebody told me you were crazy.”

“Yeah, that's what I want 'em to think,” he says. “They leave you alone if they think you're touched in the head.”

Soon the cook yard is filled with low fires and smoke. At times, it's impossible to see from one wall to the other.

After our fires are going and we have our rations cooking, Grisby says, “With how little meat they give us, it won't take long for this to cook. Walk near the fence with me.”

He sees my apprehension and adds, “Don't worry. There's no deadline in the cook yard. It's hardly guarded at all.”

We walk over to the fence, and Grisby stands, his back to the guards.

He points to a hole in the fence. “See that hole that's about the size of a small apple?”

“The one at eye level?”

“Yeah. Look out that hole,” he says.

Looking through the opening, I can easily see the river off to the right.

“That's the Alabama River,” Grisby says. “The crapper on the far end of the camp empties dead into it.” He starts laughing. “Some guys escaped out the crapper and into the river about a month ago. I'd advise against that. They were back in four days.”

“You can see the town from here,” I say, pointing to the left.

“Stephen, look at that first house,” he says. “It's about two hundred feet slightly to the left.”

“Yeah. It's very close.”

“Belle lives there.”

“Who?”

“Belle. Belle Gardner. If there's heaven on Earth, it's Belle Gardner. Purty as flax in spring.”

“You don't say.”

“Oh, I do say. I cut that hole in the fence myself with my pocketknife.”

“I was told you don't really have—”

“Have a pocketknife?” he says, finishing my sentence.

“Yeah.”

“What do you call this?” he asks, producing a piece of
folded metal from his pocket. “That hole started as a rotten knot. I cut a little more every time they let me cook until it finally got that big. Sometimes the smoke is so thick in here, you can't see your hand in front of your face. That's when I started whittlin' on it.”

“Nobody noticed you?”

“How could they? I could barely see what I was doing myself.”

When we're done cooking, Grisby points to the ration table. “Take your pot back there, and we're almost ready.” He helps me divide the mess into ten equal portions. “Split 'em as equally as possible. Then ask every member in your group if they're satisfied with the portion sizes. Have a man turn his back to the food. You point to a single portion and ask ‘Who gets this one?' The person calls a name to whom that portion is given, and there's no appeal from his decision. Do that every time until the food's all given out.”

On the first night it's obvious that not everyone sleeps at the same time. There is not enough ground to hold this many men. Bunks have been placed in one corner of the compound called the roosts because men resemble chickens in a coop when it's full. The planks, stacked six tall, with barely enough room to scoot in between each level, are the
only covered area in the prison. When it rains, it's the lone place to keep dry.

All the men on a single plank lie on their sides, facing the same direction when they sleep. They look like spoons in a drawer. From time to time a member of one roost yells, “Switch!” and everyone on that plank rolls over at the same time and faces the opposite direction. A spot on the ground near the roosts will do fine for my first night in prison. It's not long before I discover there are more unwanted guests in Castle Morgan than there are humans. I scratch my head and try to go back to sleep. But whatever it is grows in numbers because, soon, both sides of my scalp feel like they're on fire. Then the rest of my body. I rub my legs against the ground to relieve the itching on my thighs. I flail my arms and wiggle my toes.

“Cut your hair in the morning, boy, so we can get some sleep,” a man says. “Vermin here are thicker than blackberries in July.”

He's right. In the morning, not only is my hair full of lice, so are my clothes. Sergeant Survant gets shears from a guard and soon has a line of fresh fish waiting to get their hair trimmed. When the last snips are done, my hair feels like short bristles on a rough board against my fingers. Sweat skids
off my head and cascades down my neck, but at least my head doesn't itch constantly.

Somebody else in my squad cooks lunch the second day while I stay in the main prison compound. Grisby rushes to me after delivering the food he's prepared for his group. “Gaston, when you arrived, did you walk through town beside the tall fella named Big Tennessee?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Were you carrying a book with you?”

“Yeah, a copy of
David Copperfield
.”

“Mrs. Gardner wants to see you at the hole,” he informs me.

“Who?”

“Mrs. Gardner. Belle's mother, for crying out loud. She said she wants you to meet her at the hole this evening. Be sure you volunteer to cook.”

“I don't know her.”

“Doesn't matter. Just be sure you're the cook tonight.”

The only thing to think about all afternoon is why this woman wants to speak to me. Reasons turn and grind in my brain as to why, but my mind's as empty as my stomach. Late that afternoon, following roll call, I volunteer to cook again.

I get no argument from the other men.

Once we've gathered our firewood, I build a small fire. I keep one eye on Grisby and the other on the hole. Nothing happens for the longest time. He flashes his palms at me as if to say, “Slow down, be patient.” The few vegetables are about finished heating when Grisby calls, “Now, Stephen. Go over to the fence now.”

Whoever's on the other side has stuck a bent spoon into the hole. It's a signal.

“Yes?” I ask peering through the hole. Nobody's there. “Mrs. Gardner?”

“Yes. How old are you, Stephen?” comes an urgent female voice. The lady steps back a couple feet and raises her head enough for me to see a face.

“How did you know my name?” I ask.

“Grisby told me.”

She's the same woman who had stared at me on the street the day we arrived. “You're the lady in the blue bonnet, aren't you?”

“Yes,” she says. “Now that we have that out of our way, my question was, how old are you?”

“Almost fifteen,” I say. “Why?”

“Then you're fourteen,” she corrects me.

“Yes, I guess I'm fourteen. Why?”

“You like to read,” she says.

“How do you know that?”

“Young man, it's odd how you answer my questions with questions of your own. We'll never get anywhere if you keep that up,” she says.

“Oh, sorry. Yes, reading is a favorite pastime of mine, ma'am.”

“Dickens?” she asks.

“How do you know that—” I catch myself midsentence. “Yes, Dickens is one of my favorites.”

“I thought so,” she says. “See that guard over there?” she asks.

I cover my head, duck, and spin to the ground all in the same motion, expecting to be shot. After a second or two, I raise my head and look toward the guard. He's holding a square black object. Through the smoke it's difficult to tell exactly what it is.

“You're not on the ground, are you, Stephen?” Mrs. Gardner laughs.

“Yes,” I say, standing and looking back through the hole. “I see the guard but thought you were warning me he was going to shoot.”

“Oh, he'll do no such thing. He's my nephew. Items get in
and out of the prison through him,” she says. “Nobody would dare shoot in my direction.”

“He's holding something, but it's too far away to see what it is.”

“It's
Great Expectations
by Dickens. It's for you. Don't worry; the guards won't take it from you.” She can tell I'm puzzled. “There was a book in your hand the other day, when you walked through town. You clutched it tight to your chest like it was the most valuable thing in the world to you.”

“It was a gift from the governor of Indiana.” I haven't told anybody that except for Dorman the day we snuck into the prison in Indianapolis.

“The governor?” she asks. “You must know important people, then. They took the book from you when you arrived?”

“Yes, ma'am, they did.”

“Don't fret about it none. You'll get it back when you leave. I'll see to it. It must be very valuable, getting it from the governor and all.”

“It is. The governor gave it to me on one condition.”

“What was that?”

“He ordered me to personally bring it to him at the end
of the war. He wants to borrow it. He told me Abe Lincoln himself recommended it for me. It's the president's favorite book.”

“Well, I came to let you know Dickens will keep you company for a couple days. My nephew may not be important like the governor, but just return it to him when you're through. Don't give it to anybody else.”

She stares at me for a few seconds, and I shift on my feet to relieve the uneasiness. “Your mother's worried about you,” she says.

“I bet so.”

“One bit of advice, Stephen. Don't trade any clothing to the guards.”

“Lots of fellows in here are without shirts,” I say. “They said they traded with the guards for an extra piece of beef or a stack of playing cards.”

“Don't do it. Alabama winters can be crippling.”

A cloud of smoke smothers us, and when it clears, Mrs. Gardner and the spoon are gone. In the hole, instead of a bent spoon are two sheets of paper rolled into a tube. Inside are an envelope, a stamp, and a pencil.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

September 29, 1864, 5:30 a.m.

This morning, prisoners and guards seem motionless; some appear to be in deep slumber. A tap on the paper and pencil hidden in my shirtsleeve lets me know they're still there, safe and sound. Getting up, careful not to step on anyone, I search for an area to hide them. A spot beside the privy, where nobody goes because of the odor, works perfectly.

I dig a shallow hole and cover the paper and pencil with a thin layer of dirt. While spreading dirt with the palm of my hand, footsteps approach from behind me.

“Whatcha doin', Stephen?”

“Uh . . . nothing,” I say quickly.

“Don't look like nothing,” the voice says. “It looks just like you're doing something.”

“I . . . uh . . . lost something.” It's not a good lie, but it'll
have to do on such a short notice.

“Want some help?” he asks.

“No,” I say quickly. “I guess it's not here, after all.” I stand, put my hands on my hips, and look at where my stash is planted. One corner of paper sticks out of the dirt. A push with the edge of my boot dumps soil on top of it.

I turn around to find it's Charles Evans, a bugler for Company A. Charles is a huge boy. I wouldn't stand a chance against him in a fight. “Want some help looking for it, Stephen? There's nothing else to do,” he says.

“Naw, Charles, there was a picture of my mother I smuggled in. It got lost, and I remembered looking at it over here a couple days ago. I thought maybe it was dropped but probably not.” I shovel more dirt with the toe of my shoe while Charles looks me dead in the eye. A quick glance down shows only dirt and no sign of the paper.

Charles shrugs. “It's getting cooler at night,” he says. “Have you noticed?”

I'm thankful for the change in conversation. “Yeah. It is getting cooler. They'll have snow back home soon now that it's nearly October.”

“I'll be glad when it cools a bit during the day here, too,” he says.

“Yeah, me too.” I walk away, glancing back to make sure everything is still buried. If anybody sees it, there's sure to be a fight—and some explaining to do.

I walk over to the shallow water trench running through the middle of the camp, bend down, cup water in my palms, and splash my face. I look back to see if Charles has found my stash. He's gone. I'll go back early tomorrow morning and retrieve it.

The water's cool on my face, but it smells like rotten eggs; we were told it's sulphur. I'm amazed how quickly fresh fish get used to it. The first couple days, it bothered me. But now, not so much. It washes the dirt off my fingers and cools my face, and I'm thankful for that. One fellow from Ohio said the water flows out of a spring in town and runs along the streets of Cahaba before coming to the Castle.

“I bet they traipse their dogs and pigs through it. And we get what's left,” he said.

Three sunken barrels, their rims inches above ground level, catch the water and serve as reservoirs. A story retold in camp is that in August a man, drunk from Alabama's heat, climbed into one of them to cool himself. “We drink that, soldier. Get out now!” a sergeant yelled at him.

“Going to float across the Jordan River,” he sang.

Everyone thought he was kidding, but the man knew his time on Earth was up. Minutes later there's a dead body in everybody's drinking water.

Death visits us almost every day. Though it's taking me longer to get used to than the smell of the water. I've heard stories of a place in Georgia where there are so many deaths that everybody knows somebody who dies every day.

The next morning I wake to a thin line of blue painted low in the eastern sky. It's not light enough to see well, but ample. There are a few quiet conversations, not unusual because many soldiers, not used to the Southern heat, sit up all night and sleep in the roost, out of the sun, all day. I step over men on my way toward the privy and duck around the corner. I clear the dirt with my toe, looking for my secret stash.

It's gone. Charles, that no-good river rat, took it.

I wake Big Tennessee and tell him everything: how I had met Mrs. Gardner, how she gave me paper, how I buried it, and how Charles saw me hide it near the privy.

Big Tennessee raises on his elbow and squints his eyes. “Where's he at?” The two of us tiptoe around groups of sleeping men while making our way across the compound. When we find him, Big Tennessee kicks Charles's foot like he's knocking mud loose from his boots.

“What?” Charles says as he spins on the ground.

Big Tennessee straddles above him, one leg on each side of his body. “You have something that belongs to my friend,” he says in a hushed voice. “He would like to have it back.”

Charles's eyes dart first at Big Tennessee then to me and back again. “Maybe the guards would like to know what it is,” he says.

“Maybe the guards are overworked and couldn't care less what you have,” Big Tennessee tells him. He bends down, puts his knees on the ground, and sits on Charles's stomach. “If you want to see the day break, you'll do the right thing.”

“Can't breathe,” he manages to get out. When Big Tennessee's full weight is lifted off his body, Charles fishes into his pocket and hands over the paper, envelope, stamp, and pencil.

Big Tennessee gently pats Charles on the hip. “Thank you, young man. Now please, go back to sleep.”

I sit against the privy wall and, with just enough light from sunrise, write a letter to Mother.

Dearest Mother,

I'm fine, but in a southern Alabama prison. Don't worry. I'm eating enough, but always want more just like at home.
Sound familiar? I'm able to write due to the kindness of Mrs. Gardner. She reminds me the world of you. I miss you more than words can say.

Please write to me at Castle Morgan in the town of Cahaba. Any news concerning home is welcomed. The Alabama River runs beside us. One hundred Paddy's Runs could fit in it with no worries.

I lost one of my best friends and fellow bugler, Henry Dorman, at a place called Sulphur Branch Trestle. I can't bring myself to tell you the whole story on this page, but perhaps one day I will tell you what a great friend and soldier he was. For now, it is enough it to say he died serving this great country.

Send my love to friends. Save a share for yourself,

Stephen

The letter folds neatly into the envelope. I seal it, address it to my uncle's house, and put the extra sheet of paper and pencil in my pocket. They won't be safe there for long with pickpockets taking things from people while they sleep. The only place nobody will think to look is inside the hole of the privy. I wait for the last man to leave, go inside, and stick my head deep into one of the openings. Although not well lit, a thin stream of light does reveal a shelf of sorts tucked along
one side. Something is odd, however. A gold glittering speck reflects light back at me.

I grab for the light and discover it's a metal frame. Somebody has stashed a picture of a young woman. Her hair, dark and pulled to the back of her head, is crowned with a black bow. She sits sideways in a tall wooden chair, her hands folded gently in her lap. On the back of the picture is a handwritten note. “Dearest Matthew, I'll be waiting for you. Hurry home.”

I replace the picture along with my single sheet of paper and pencil. One secret will keep the other safe and out of sight.

* * *

Tonight's a good one for food. We have beef. Every ten days or so real meat finds its way to us, or so I hear. Chicken is rare. Rotting pork is more common. Before gathering rations, I pat the letter in my pants pocket to make sure it's still there. I hope Mrs. Gardner comes to the hole so I can give it to her to post. I start the fire and begin boiling water for the ground corn. Hopefully, when it's cooked into a mush and the meat's added, everything will be edible.

I keep one eye on the pot and one on the opening in the fence. Soon, the sign appears. I wait for the guard to turn away and dash for the wall. “Mrs. Gardner?” I call.

“Yes,” she answers. “How are things in the Castle this fine day?” she asks.

“Fine, thank you, ma'am,” I say, peering out of the opening.

“Ma'am?” she echoes my word in surprise. “You were raised right.”

“Thank you, ma'am. My mama would love to know that.”

“That's how my son was raised,” she says.

“Your son?”

“Yes,” she says quickly. “Do you have something for me?”

I had almost forgotten about the letter. “Oh, yes. Yes, I do.”

Mrs. Gardner smiles at me and pauses. “Can you give it to me?”

“Ohhh, yes.” The coiled envelope passes easily through to her. I have no idea where the boldness comes from, but I need to ask her for more. I feel there are two debts to be repaid. “Is there any chance to get two envelopes and one more piece of paper? I have one sheet left but need to write letters for two friends.”

Without hesitation, she fishes into an apron pocket and
passes me two envelopes, already stamped, and paper. Did she expect the question?

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“You're welcome,” she says quietly. Then five pieces of sliced pumpkin pie slip through the hole, one at a time. “Perhaps these will go well with the feast you're having in the Castle tonight.”

“Indeed, they will,” I tell her. “Bless you, ma'am, bless you.”

Mrs. Sarah Dorman,

Today is painful as pen is put to paper to write you. I do not know you personally, but feel I do through your husband. Henry served in the same company with me. He was a fine man, and his passing is a great loss to the Union. When we arrived at training, he could only make what might have been called goose sounds with his bugle. But he worked at it, sometimes after drills were over, to make sure he was an asset to the army. It may not be of any comfort, but Henry died experiencing no pain and was holding a bugle in his hand.

He spoke of you often, and his son. His comments were always kind and gentle. Every soldier he met could tell by how Henry talked about you all that he was a good family man.
Henry is surely with God, looking upon the two of you as you read these words.

Although I do not know your grief, my only brother was lost to the war two years ago. The pain of your loss will never go away and things will not be the same without Henry, but life can still be good.

Please know that Henry said he loved you to the moon and back. He said those words often. If it's not too much to ask, I'd like to borrow those sentiments and use them when speaking of the ones I love. As I do, I'll also think of my dear friend and your husband, Henry Dorman of the 9th IN Cavalry.

Yours,

Stephen M. Gaston,

Centerville, IN