Chance Encounters, page 14
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“I read Harper’s Weekly, when the camp adjutant is done with it and lets me have it.”
“You get it every week?”
“Three, four days later...”
Much better informed but more cynical, Chance left the medic. In his barracks he ran into another conference. Cobb was explaining about a new program. Whoever was willing to swear allegiance to the Union would be eligible for release and promised transportation back home.
“How can they do that? The war isn’t over yet...” someone protested.
“It’s as good as over,” Cobb said harshly. “The question before us is what do we do. It’s clearly treasonous to the Confederation to swear to uphold the Union. Yet I can’t blame anyone for wanting to go home.” He looked around the room. “What will or what ought the Regulators do about it? Colonel Wilcox thinks that in this case, we shouldn’t interfere. The war’s almost over. Our cause is tragically lost.” One of the younger men started crying, hearing the fate of the South dismissed in so few words. “Life however goes on,” Cobb continued in a kinder tone. “And we owe it to our families to survive. We owe it to the South to take our memories home and in time build a new and better country.” People dispersed after that, sad and pensive.
Except for the morning and evening roll calls, the guards didn’t interact with the prisoners very much. They made their counts and if the numbers agreed they were content. The only other thing was that the no man’s land around the stockade walls was sacrosanct. Anybody who, with or without intent, wandered into that off-limits area was to be shot on sight. A few committed suicide by forcing a guard to shoot them from the watchtowers. On the whole the guards wanted to get the job done and not let their feelings into it. They closed their eyes to the misery around them. Of course there was always Frank Madison from Ohio, better known as Brutus. He liked to demonstrate his authority, freely swinging his baton, with or without provocation. He enjoyed walking down the main path watching people scurry out of his way.
There was jubilation among the guards. Two of the escapees had been caught and brought back in chains. They were marched over to the punishment block and hung by their thumbs, shortened to force them up on their toes. In no time the two were exhausted, shaking with cramps and fatigue. Brutus came to add to their misery, striking them with his baton on the kidneys, enjoying their cries of pain. Prisoners collected and watched morosely, a few begging him to cease. Pleas seemed to fuel his rage and he struck harder. “For the love of God, please stop,” Sergeant Oliver implored. “Can’t you see he’s passed out?” Enlisted man Donald Potts hung unconscious by his thumbs. Brutus laughed and turned his full attention to Oliver. The blows rained down, striking him indiscriminately. Soon, he too hung there limp, but still the brute lashed out.
Sick of heart, remembering, Chance had a flashback to the infamous Sunken Road, his regiment trapped behind a waist-high stone wall, with a hail of bullets impacting or zinging by overhead. To look above the wall was certain death. Sergeant Oliver was part of that. He’d survived for what, for this?
Against his better judgment, Chance reached up to stop the baton. “He’s had enough, can’t you see?” he said in calm voice.
Brutus’ face lit up with glee. “But you haven’t, soldier.” He made a motion and two guards grabbed Chance and in a minute he was suspended by his thumbs beside the other two, and the beating began. Blow after blow fell, sometimes regularly, sometimes unexpectedly, accompanied by taunts. Pain exploded through Chance, and soon every part of his body hurt. Relentless Brutus continued even after Chance passed out.
It was night when Chance came to, becoming conscious of the pain. Everything hurt and burned with agony. He rose onto his tiptoes to ease the weight off his thumbs. He ached so much that he couldn’t decide what hurt most. He heard a groan beside him and turned toward the sound. Sergeant Oliver hung there, limp and static, like a butchered side of beef.
“Come Sergeant,” Chance croaked, “we’ve been in worst situations before.”
“I don’t remember when...” the other groaned again.
“Trapped in the Sunken Road... taking our fallen friends to the field hospital... watching them bleed to dead.” The memory dimmed the present pain for the moment. “How’s the other guy?”
“Dead. The piss pot bastard beat him until he died.” Dark anger filled Chance, pumping heat through his veins. If he ever got a chance to pay it back, he would...
The night passed with incredible slowness, every minute of it filled with agony. “Hang on,” Chance told Oliver. “Hang on,” he told himself. His limbs turned icy: the heat of burning pain fighting with the bone-chilling cold. Desperately he thought of Emily, picturing her emerald eyes, the faultless symmetry of her face, the shape of her mouth. She was playing the piano, her expression lost in the music. Standing with her parasol on the cliffs of Gibraltar, smiling up at him. Locked up in the same room with her in Tunis and the last look as they parted in Cairo. He looked up at the dark-night sky, at the scattering of stars. Maybe, at this very moment, Emily is looking at these selfsame stars somewhere... and if she is, maybe she is thinking of him... The pain receded behind the curtain of these recollections and wishful thinking.
Light finally dissolved the interminable darkness and at long last, the bugle announced reveille. Doors slammed as the prisoners poured out the barracks for roll call. Suddenly Cobb was there, one by one cutting the three down. In the arms of a soldier, Chance slid to the ground, groaning, as every little movement stirred up every bit of hurt. Beside him Oliver was moaning as he tried to gather his legs under him. Cobb grabbed Chance under the arm and dragged him to the main quadrangle for the count. Further down, in front of Barrack 25, was laid out the body of Donald Potts. That morning there were four other corpses to join him flat on the ground. The count agreed, but the adjutant could not resist taunting the prisoners. “See, no one escapes from here. Alive or dead you belong to me. If you want to survive the war, you must obey and make no trouble...”
After, a large group collected around Sergeant Oliver, wanting to know every detail of his escape.
Cobb confronted Chance. “Major, you’re a fool! If you want to survive, you can’t stick out and call attention to yourself with idiotic actions. Now Brutus will be looking for you everywhere... there’s no place for you to hide.”
“It doesn’t matter. Brutus is dead, I promise you that.”
“Who? You? In your condition? Don’t make me laugh.”
“I’ll get better, but he won’t...” Chance grimaced, his thumbs and shoulders blazed with pain at the slightest movement.
Cobb on one side, Chance was taken to the medic in Barrack 15. Edwards inspected the swollen black and blue thumbs. “I think they will be alright. Often after such punishment we have to amputate, but we’ll try to save yours.” Relief flooded through Chance, because he’d been afraid of losing his thumbs.
Edwards examined the rest of the bruises but found nothing to concern him. “The bastard likes to dish out pain, the longer he can make it the more it pleases him.” The medic put some salve on some bruises that had broken through. “If things get infected, I might send you to the hospital.”
“Not the hospital!” Chance refused immediately.
“Relax. The Sanitary Commission arrived, and better still, some nurses. Some spunky ladies, who told the Chief Surgeon off the first day. The man blustered and spluttered but made no dent in those iron wills. I think from now on, the hospital will be a good thing.” Edwards chuckled. “Right away they started cleaning up, disinfecting everything, insisting on absolute cleanliness. And best still, there’re five nurses. One or two who’ve worked in the Crimea with Florence Nightingale.”
“Who is she?”
“According to Harper’s, she’s the patron saint of all wounded. She’s a shining example of proper medical care, insisting on strict hygiene and nutrition. I tell you she will change medicine, or maybe she already has.” Edward’s eyes were aglow with enthusiasm. “She claims that more soldiers die of medical malpractice and disease than from bullets. Haven’t I said that all along? That we have to keep things clean around the sick?” Then his face darkened. “Of course, the doctors don’t like the nurses coming and telling them what to do, but these women are strong and won’t be intimidated.”
It took a week for the swelling of Chance’s thumbs to go down. A week for a companion to do things for him, to button his coat for instance, or even to put a spoon in his hands. For a while he couldn’t grasp anything. In two weeks Chance regained the full use of his thumbs, but both remained oddly misshapen and prone to odd twinges of pain.
That same week the first batch of 50 parolees were assembled, carefully checked off a list and marched out the gate. 50 men who had sworn an oath of loyalty to the Union were now free to go. Some prisoners jeered and called them “turncoats.” The guards, too, taunted them, “Now behave Johnny Reb, or we’ll have you back in your luxurious accommodations.” And they laughed. The troop marched out the gate, into Elmira to the train depot to be shipped to City Point, Virginia for final processing. The first successful discharge reignited the debate in camp whether to resist the program or take advantage of it. There was a stigma attached for signing on. Certain only was that the next 50 places were quickly filled.
That night, Colonel Davis Butler committed suicide. He simply chewed on the corner of his blanket, choking on it. It was said that the hero of the battles of Shiloh couldn’t face the impending demise of the Confederacy, made so visible by the “desertion” of the parolees.
Medic Edwards checked Chance over. He manipulated the thumbs, rotating the joints, and finally pronounced him healed. “I tell you the hospital is doing much better. The death rate has dropped dramatically. From the first day they arrived. I don’t know if you noticed but better food is served to the whole camp. All because the ladies insisted and the Sanitary Commission backed them up. And when they’re not tending to the sick, they’re writing for them. The first letters have gone out and replies will be allowed. The sick love the nurses, worship them. I tell you they are angels of mercy. You don’t know how long I’ve been praying for better care of our sick.” Overwhelmed by emotions, Edward started crying. Chance looked away; it was too painful to watch. He had seen shell-shocked men in the gun pits, trying to hold themselves together, crying uncontrollably. Vicksburg had been like that after a prolonged bombardment.
Chance kept track of Brutus, but stayed well clear of him to avoid inciting a fresh beating. Throughout the day he shadowed the man, noting every instance of the man’s callous brutality. It seemed that Brutus couldn’t control his impulses but lashed out at every opportunity. It astonished Chance that the command didn’t keep a tighter rein on him. From sunup to sundown, Chance knew where Brutus was. For instance, he learned that after receiving his pay, Brutus would buy a bottle of whiskey and drink it in the dead of night behind the mess hall. The nearness of the Pond didn’t seem to bother him with its stench. The next day he would be even more vicious, taking out his hangover on the prisoners.
Chance learned that Brutus wasn’t liked among the guards either; the underlings barely responded to his commands. His superiors tolerated him, but otherwise ignored him. The man vented his frustration on the prisoners. All this Chance saw from a careful distance.
Cobb noticed. “You’re not about to try anything? The war’s nearly over, just hang on, don’t give them a reason to hold you.”
“No, of course not,” Chance lied but didn’t convince the barrack Captain.
To fill his days, Chance attended the many lectures organized by the Prisoners’ Committee. People were taught to read and write, arithmetic, geography and history. Books and literature were discussed. Of course there were few books in camp, and the few passed from hand to hand, but there were many public readings and recitation of poetry people knew by heart. Anybody with any expertise was encouraged to contribute to the teaching, enlarging the prisoners’ knowledge and awareness. Chance himself taught principles of steam engines and engineering. Suddenly Chance found himself in great demand with a cache of students anxious to learn all he could teach them. To his surprise he found great satisfaction in enlarging his pupils’ knowledge.
“How goes it?” Cobb asked one morning after catching Chance staring out the window, spying on Brutus.
“Well. Things have been improving in camp. Better food, more distribution of blankets and clothes. Look we’re even given more wood to burn.”
Cobb made a face. “True, but every improvement here means things are going worse for the Confederate cause. More defeats. Hard to see how General Lee can pull us out of this mess.” He spit on the floor. “But to happier thoughts. Any idea of what you want to do after all this is over?”
“No use going back to Fayette. The Yankees won’t let me keep the place. But before the war broke out I sent a steamboat I had a share in for safekeeping to the north. Perhaps I can start something with that,” replied Chance.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do or what I’ll find at home. I shudder at the thought of what my family must be going through. It’s going to be a much different world from what we knew before.”
“How do you figure?”
“Well, we won’t have a voice in our affairs,” said Cobb. “The North will speak for us and decide. It’ll be like a country occupied. And who knows what the former slaves will do? There’s a century of resentment there.” He was chewing on a wad of tobacco and sent regular spurts into the spittoon in the corner. “We must adjust and it won’t be easy for many. Lot depends on how arrogant or fairly the North will deal with us.”
“In my life I’ve learned that things will happen whatever I plan or do,” Chance mused. “You have to bend with the wind. To hold onto old things can make it hard to adapt to new circumstances.”
“How true. That’s why you should let Brutus’ own evil nature destroy him. We’re this close”—he showed a narrow gap between thumb and forefinger—“to getting out of here. Don’t risk it.”
Late on Thursday night, Chance knew exactly where Brutus would be. Braving the curfew, he sneaked out silently, dashing from barrack to barrack under a half moon sky. He hugged the shadows, picking his way to the mess hall. Around the last corner he could hear Brutus singing a dirty army song. Already he sounded drunk, slurring his words.
Chance stepped around the corner, and froze. Brutus wasn’t alone; he had a drinking buddy with him. The two looked up, surprised.
“I know you.” Brutus staggered to his feet, pointing with the bottle. “Wassa matter boy? You couldn’t sleep? Try sucking your thumbs.” He laughed until it turned into hiccups. Then it dawned on him that it was curfew and no prisoner should be out and about. “What’s you doing out of your b’racks? You’re violating the rules...that must be punished.” He stepped forward and pulled out his baton. His companion was a bit slower to size up the situation; belatedly he blustered and came on a little unsteadily.
“Ambrose, you take him on the left, I’ll take the right.”
Chance backed up to keep them both in front of him. Brutus attempted a charge, swinging his baton wildly. Chance stepped out of the way, closer to Ambrose, to force the two tighter into each other, impeding their movements. Again Brutus swung; Chance ducked under it, and the blow caught Ambrose on the sternum so hard that the other staggered back, trying to catch his breath. Crouching low, the baton held more like a knife, Brutus stabbed out with it. Chance deflected the wooden stick with his forearm but it left his arm numb and useless. Brutus grinned fiendishly, and moved in to finish Chance. “Now you’ve done it, dung-eater. Time to pay the piper...” He swung hard. Chance ducked, and the baton passed harmlessly over him but hit Ambrose on the side of his head with a sickening crunch that flattened him. Brutus stared at his fallen companion for a second, uncomprehending, as the blood spurted from the man’s ear and nose.
“Why you shit face ass...! Now I’ll kill you!” Brutus charged, his face contorted into a mask of rage. He lifted his baton to strike Chance down. Chance dropped to the ground, pivoted and swept Brutus’ feet out from under him and kicked hard to the midsection. Brutus went flying back, bellowing in pain. He dropped to his knees and rolled over. Chance leapt forward and before his opponent could get up, kicked him hard in the groin. Brutus staggered back; the baton dropped from his right hand, but he still tried to slash out with the whiskey bottle in his left. Again he missed, and the glass shattered on the mess hall siding. With the broken bottle neck thrust forward Brutus charged and raked Chance with the jagged edge. They were now close, hand to hand, holding each other off in a desperate shoving match. Their feet slipped down the embankment, ever closer to Foster’s Pond. Brutus yanked them both into the putrid mess, the stirred-up miasma nearly choking both of them. Brutus jerked his left hand free and the bottle again glanced off Chances’ ribs. Hissing with pain, Chance retaliated with an elbow to the throat, and followed up with a punch full on the chin. Off balance and only half conscious, Brutus staggered back, deeper and deeper into the ooze, until he was chest-deep in the stinking waste. He tried to get out but the soft bottom held him fast, and sucked him deeper with every move he made. The peril of his situation finally penetrated the alcoholic fog and he panicked, thrashing to get out, but he only sank deeper into the muck, floundering. He yelled in terror, in horror of what was happening. In seconds, he was up to his neck, then to his lips and nostrils. Distended with horror and denial, the eyes looked one last time, before the ooze swallowed them. The slime cut off his cries, then his head disappeared and just his hands thrashed on the surface as the pond claimed him. Only his cap remained, floating on the surface of the sludge.
