part 2 chapter

32

o blivious to the freezing temperatures as night fell, i stum bled across the snow-

covered ground to the farthest edge of the pen, while blood roared in my ears. i was no longer

worthy as a leader of others. maybe i’d never been. fragments of conversations with bibb

haunted me. now he would never see his home and family again. he’d never experience the

adventure of california, or the satisfactions of holding margaret ellen in their marriage bed. my

thoughtless actions had destroyed all those possibilities.

that lead bullet had been meant for me. meant to burrow into my chest. i wished it had. i’d

withstood sickness and battles when so many others hadn’t—to do what? to be responsible for

the death of a shattered man who was straining to save my life for the second time. in combat,

i’d dispatched strangers, but bibb was my friend and a member of my circle to protect. the

killing field was behind us. how could i have been so stupid? i had loved this boy as i had loved

the memory of my younger self, before i had been undone by so much carnage.

i couldn’t conceive how i’d face the boys in the bunks again. i knew the consequences of

violating special order number 157 as well as anyone; yet only i taunted the guard past the

edge of danger. i was convinced that, somehow, i could change the prison circumstances. that i

alone could make a difference, when no one else had. what vanity, what false pride!

i had lost not only john bibb that day, but these other comrades as well. as their sergeant, i

had held their trust and confidence. now i’d violated that trust and led those closest to me into

this dangerous stunt. that afternoon the fellows ignored me, their eyes purposely fixed on the

opposite wall or engaged with one of the others. i couldn’t go back into the division, even if the

last vestige of light had faded and my teeth were clacking. i’d stay in the frigid yard until i

found my own place of final darkness.

just as i was overcome by convulsive shivering, sam lucas appeared across the yard. i

squinted my eyes to sharpen my focus, not believing what i saw. it was sam! he’d stepped out

of the shadows of what appeared to me to be a darkened rail station. my heart split asunder, and

i sobbed as i hadn’t since william valentine’s death at manassas. next to sam strode tayloe,

zeke skinner, and all the augusta boys who had perished. william valentine was there too,

with his hand resting on old suzie’s velvet head. behind them marched a crowd of soldiers,

blues and grays, blacks and whites, some without an arm or a leg, some without heads, hands,

noses or ears, some barely there at all. and then swaying toward me were mourning women,

thickly veiled in black crepe, their ebony skirts rustling around them. mothers, sisters,

sweethearts of both races. a horde of blacks in chains—men, women, and children—stepped

quietly behind, followed by the entire new jerusalem church choir, swathed in yellow robes,

voices soaring in a requiem. at the rear, there was tatternook in his white shirt and black suit. i

saw myself as a young boy, then as a tall, melancholy old man. my fingers and toes were in

agony, but i hardly noticed as the advancing figures drew me to them.

piercing the fog that shrouded my senses, a familiar voice called to me from the barrack door.

i couldn’t respond and wouldn’t have, if capable. beards’s strong hand was suddenly on my

shoulder, and i was being shaken, then supported between two men who directed my frozen feet

toward the brightness of the barrack door. they propped me near the stove, my head fallen

against the bunk, and swaddled me in their blankets. finally, they rubbed my arms and legs until

warmth began to circulate, and full alertness returned.

“man, have you gone mad? john wouldn’t have wanted you to pay for his death with yours.

that cur of a guard killed john, not you. it was just damned bad luck.” in spite of what beards

said, i knew that if i’d quit my taunt when the guard barked the second warning, john bibb

would have been traveling home when the war ended. i would have found ways to keep him

alive until then.

as january plodded along, i craved punishment for john’s death. repeatedly, i asked myself

why the official review had ignored the identity of the “nuisance” instigator. eventually, i

concluded that we were punished if we tried to break rules, but not after the rules were broken.

and after the war, i learned that the federal authorities couldn’t have cared less about the

welfare of their prisoners. nothing was enough to make up for what their boys had endured in

the confederate prison at andersonville, georgia. the more we suffered, the better. the

inspectors probably knew about special order number 157 before they visited fort delaware. i

was a moron to think my trifling plot would dislodge ahl and hike or affect schoef’s hold on

the place.

every day, my ears echoed my father’s voice when i’d committed some stupidity at home. i

remembered pa’s anger when i’d risked his horse by riding her to sam’s house without allowing

her to cool down after his ride to staunton. and his harsh words when i’d once forgotten to lock

the hen house. a nighttime marauder had eaten them all. the list went on and on, a running

narration of worthlessness. bibb’s death taught me as nothing else had why anger shouldn’t be

allowed to swallow reason. now it was too late.

nights were worse than days. images of milton’s hell crowded my dreams, and demons

lurked at the edges of my bunk to pluck me into their world. i stayed to myself and didn’t enter

into pen games and harmonizing. failed attempts to draw me into play or our old memorization

contests convinced the others to leave me alone.

in my self-imposed silence, i relived john’s and my times together. i missed the sound of his

deep voice, his thoughtful conversation, and his kind nature. sometimes i caught a flash of his

crooked grin and crinkled blue eyes on the edge of my vision, but when i looked in that

direction, there was nothing.

finally, in late january, i decided to write a letter to john’s family in charlottesville. he’d

want their minds to be eased with details of his last days. i was obsessed with composing just

the right words in my head, trying out one version and then another. finally, i used my last sheet

of paper, hidden until now under the shelf. i wrote only that john had been fatally wounded by a

prison guard and assured his family that he was a brave man of faith and goodness well prepared

to meet his maker. i reported where his body was buried on the river’s new jersey shore. the

mass grave was hundreds of miles and many days from charlottesville, but maybe his father

could manage a trip after the war ended. i concealed the details of the shooting. the family

would find no solace in discovering their loss was an accident caused by someone’s idiocy.

when the letter was finished, i tucked it deep in my haversack until prisoner letters to the south

might be allowed. i’d hoped that putting those words on paper would give me some relief, but it

didn’t.

on february 8, just when my spirits could go no lower, beards burst into the barrack so

excited he could hardly spit out the news. “prisoner exchanges are going to start up again! by

the end of the month or by early march!” the confederacy was so desperate for soldiers that it

was granting freedom to any male slave willing to serve in the confederate army and had vowed

to trade a black union soldier for a white confederate one, man for man. lincoln then had

agreed to prisoner trades.

“how can you be sure?” i asked, knowing the commander forbade any communicating with

guards. only they would be privy to this sort of information.

he grinned, “let’s just say that somewhere along the line, a guard leaked the news.”

“probably a fellow from the maryland unit. some of them take a little more pity on us

southerners,” jim blue said.

“i’m not saying, but one thing i’ll tell you—no one’s going anywhere unless they swear to

the united states oath of allegiance and pledge to quit the rebellion,” beards said.

“you won’t catch me swearing allegiance to these sons of bitches,” blue blurted.

“not even if it’s a chance to be free?” i asked.

“free? where? you won’t be going home,” beards said. “the yankee boats are standing

ready to take us north, not south. we’re still at war, remember.”

“do you think your pennsylvania uncle would be willing to take in three former enemies?”

blue asked me. “otherwise, we’d be without shelter and food.”

“no, i don’t expect so. he doesn’t even know me.” i thought for a moment. “if we sign that

oath now, we’d be considered traitors at home. probably for the rest of our lives. our families

and neighbors are still suffering, and we’d have taken the easy way out.”

the other two nodded their heads and then fell into silence. i finally spoke. “i recommend we

stay. this hell can’t go on much longer. lee’s going to have to surrender soon. the last group of

captives made that clear. we’ve lost every battle for months.”

“you’re right. even if there was some way to get south, we’d be forced back into combat,

and i’m not about to risk my life again for a losing cause. this place is dangerous enough,” blue

said.

we made a decision. not one of us would abandon the other two. we’d wait until lee

surrendered.

on february 27, over one thousand men pledged loyalty to the union and left fort delaware

on the steamboat cassandra headed north. the boat left only twenty-four hours after ahl made

the announcement from the pen wall. beards and jim blue were as downcast as i’d been for the

preceding two months as they watched the chaotic leave-taking. even though their reason told

them staying was the right thing to do.

i still was in the grip of such profound heartsickness that i gave it little notice. there was

strange comfort in being in the sole company of fellows who knew the worst about me; i could

wallow in self-contempt without having to explain myself. once home with its demands, and

removed from the inactivity of prison life, how would i satisfy the curiosity of keen observers

like mary, ma, and tish? they’d notice immediately that something wasn’t right with me.