The Sentinels of Andersonville (22 page)

L
ACK OF EVIDENCE
and personal recognizance cleared Reverend William Gillette of all suspicion of treasonous activities. Lack of evidence cleared Corporal Emery Jones of the same, but before kidnapping even made it to the table, the convened assembly at the Americus courthouse, consisting of both military and civil counsel owing to the involved nature of the charges for both men, found Corporal Jones guilty of something else.

A representative for the prosecution cited Article 41 of the Articles of War for the Government of the Army of the Confederate States: “All non-commissioned officers and soldiers who shall be found one mile from the camp without leave, in writing, from their commanding officer, shall suffer such punishment as shall be inflicted upon them by the sentence of a court-martial.”

The morning the reverend was kidnapped, Emery Jones had gone to Americus without leave. Americus was ten miles from the military barracks at Andersonville. Corporal Emery Jones of the 22nd Alabama Volunteers, Company C, was court-martialed for desertion.

With Atlanta threatened, affairs of every nature were put in order
as quickly as they could be, and the affair of Corporal Jones was settled by the minimal amount of commissioned officers required for a court-martial. Because Corporal Jones had not only deserted but had given cause for suspicion of Union fidelities, the court-martial handed down the full measure of punishment as directed by the General Orders of the War Department regarding deserters: that those convicted were “to be shot to death with musketry, at such time and place as the commanding General may direct.”

Shot or hanged.

Corporal Emery Jones, incarcerated in the camp barracks at Andersonville Prison, was sentenced to hang by the neck until dead on Saturday, August 6, 1864. He had four days to live.

The court-martial adjourned, leaving behind a stunned Stiles family, a stricken young sentinel, and a pale Corporal Jones.

 
—

Sherman harried Atlanta, Americus prepared for invasion, and Dr. Stiles took to his office.

The Home Guard drilled daily with freshly pressed men from all over the county. Overage volunteers from Americus were assigned to guard duty at Macon or at Andersonville. A hospital began to set up wards in a series of buildings on the west side of the public square. Newspapers could not keep up with battles and troop movements. Military personnel hurried about with hateful telegrams and posted some of them on the bulletin board where many citizens took to hanging about.

If Atlanta fell, where would Sherman go next? Would he head east for the other major cities, Augusta and Savannah? Or would he continue south, for Macon and then for Americus?

“He ain’t gonna head south. That’ll stretch his supply line too thin.”

“What of that? They are amply supplied and live bountiful off
our land. They gonna blow right through to the tiptoes of Florida. The South is finished.”

“Atlanta’s the prize, not ’Mericus. Either way, Sherman takes Atlanta, and yes, sir
 
—we are finished.”

“We’ll see how that John Bell Hood answers.”

“He ain’t Johnston.”

“He ain’t. But he’s what we got.”

“Say, it’s a shame about that boy.”

“Yes sir, it is.”

“Reckon they gotta stick to the cuss end of the law.”

“There’s gotta be law.”

“It is a necessary evil.”

“Yes sir, it is.”

“I just wish they weren’t gonna hang him. Meant well.”

 
—

Posey cried for two days. Then she wiped her nose and said, “Posey Stiles, you shore yourself up. You will do Emery no good.”

She sought her father to see what good she could do, and all he said was, “Draw him a picture.”

“Draw him a picture,” she scorned as she stomped away from his office. “A thumping lot of good that will do.”

She brightened a little. Emery was from Alabama. He did not know Sumter County. She could draw a map on the back of the picture in case he escaped. The jailer would not notice if she drew it very lightly. She knew just the pencil for the job, and she ran for the Pressing Needs box.

 
—

“Well, look at those dark circles. The only word I can use to describe you right now is
wan
. I do not like the word, nor do I like the state you are in. Do I see another victim of Andersonville in front of my eyes?”

Dr. Stiles looked up from the newspaper. Hettie Dixon stood in the doorway of his office, a basket on her arm. She shut the door. “You are not even reading that.”

“Polly send for you, did she?” He looked at the paper. “General Winder is fortifying the Andersonville stockade with an outer wall against an imminent Sherman attack. Hadley’s editorial says all this conscription of the citizens for horses and mules and slaves amounts to nothing less than taxation.”

“Polly told me you had a visitor the other day. A Colonel Chandler.”

“He was sent to inspect the prison.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Everything. It seems at last the prisoners have a voice.”

“They had one in you.” When he didn’t answer, she said, “Do you think Colonel Chandler will be heard?”

“There, my faith falters. He plans to tell the truth of Andersonville. Such will be put down.”

Hettie sat in the consultation chair in front of his desk. She took knitting out of the basket and began to knit.

“Polly hasn’t seen you like this since little George. That’s the last time she sent for me, regarding yourself.”

He put the newspaper on the desk. He took off his glasses, folded them, and put them in his vest pocket. He sat back to look out the window.

Hettie’s needles clicked.

“When will you get back to seeing patients, Norton?”

“Oh. Shouldn’t be long now.”

“When will you get back to the Federal hospital? Today
is
Thursday.”

“That is out of my hands. They will not renew my pass. Do you know, I think they liked the
idea
of helping the prisoners? The
thought of feeding an enemy has a fine revolutionary pull, for it is a radical kindness. Perhaps we fill up on thoughts of radical kindnesses and find ourselves sated. If on vapors.”

“Intentions and actualities seldom meet on the same plane.” Hettie’s needles clicked. She pulled a length of yarn out of her basket to keep up. “What I wish to know is when we will have the next F.A.P. meeting.”

“There are no friends of Andersonville Prison.”

“What about Colonel Chandler?”

He didn’t answer.

The clicking stilled and Hettie said, “Norton, out of curiosity, what other things were you going to say at that meeting before it was interrupted? I was particularly interested in your plans for the hospital.”

“Hettie
 
—please.”

“Just tell me one thing you were going to say.”

He was still for a moment, then abruptly snatched a sheaf of notes from a corner of his desk and shoved them at her. He resumed perusal of the day outside the window.

She selected one at random, held it out as far as she could, and read aloud: “A Confederate surgeon reports that one in four amputations in a field hospital results in death.” She looked at the doctor. “What were you going to say about that?”

Dr. Stiles answered only because he had fallen to a distracted state. “I envied those odds. Nearly every amputation at Andersonville results in death. It is hard enough for a healthy man to stand an amputation, but a man decimated by Andersonville . . . They have one in four who die. We have one in four who live. And that is a good day.”

After a moment, Hettie put the note back.

She knitted long enough to turn the heel of the sock and then
asked, “Norton, do you know why we must
visit
widows and orphans in their despair instead of merely sending them a note?”

He didn’t answer.

“Because everywhere we go we carry the divine spark. We can all do with a little more of the divine spark if it sits down next to us for a spell, can we not?”

“I see nothing divine or sparkly about severing a gangrenous limb from a body shortly to follow. I have no pass, Hettie. I am cut off. There is something comforting when you realize there is nothing more you can do. You have done your best, and it is out of your hands.”

“Oh, you should not be comforted a whit, Norton Stiles. Whoever told you it was out of your hands? Has
God
dismissed you from your duty? Hmm. In our most trying times, God has the temerity to ask us to walk a little farther. And that is what he wants you to do,
pass
or no pass. He wants you to get back to it.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’ve taken time to be tired and you are done, sir. You’ve got seven women on the other side of that door walking all over their hearts, they’ve gotten so low ’cause of your ‘tired.’”

“I’m still tired.”

Hettie rested her knitting in her lap. “Isn’t it a puzzling truth? The very thing that makes us tired is the very thing that refreshes once we get back to it; and we must not get back halfhearted.” After a moment, she added gently, “I think you came upon something extraordinary in its evil scope. It would tire anyone.”

“Oh, it’s not just that. Emery Jones will hang in two days because he wanted to help others. The law is for lawbreakers
 
—he is no lawbreaker, not by the spirit of the law, of which we do not seem to be custodians any longer. There is only the letter of the law, and it kills. And I am tired, tired of it all.”

“Norton Avery Stiles, look at me.”

He did so.

“I am sixty-four years old. I’ve got at least a dozen on you. I have come to know that we must accustom ourselves to pain and injustice and things we just don’t know what to do about. But we are
fitted
to other things. Made to meet ’em. And those we carry best as we can. Now God has someone else fitted to that boy. He is not yours to carry. Yours is Andersonville. You are fitted to it. Now get back to it.”

He didn’t know what to say.

Hettie said, exasperated, “Yes, it is as simple as that. Behold, you are sprung from your dark cage. Mercy, but revelations come cheaply enough. Putting feet to ’em
 
—now, that is something else.”

He still didn’t know what to say.

She said kindly, “Action is a tonic, Norton. It is precisely when a body does not know what to do that the answer is easy
 
—do anything. Preferably something small and kind. When we attend small things, the other part of us works on ways to get back to big things. What has Ellen got in the larder?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes. It’s not for you.” Sounding much like Ellen, she muttered, “How
long
will I be with you? How
long
will I put up with you?”

“Who is it for, then?”

“What time is it?”

He looked at her for a moment, and then consulted his pocket watch. “Quarter past twelve.”

“We have time enough to catch the one-fifteen. Do not stop and think, sir, or you will fill up on vapors.” She put the knitting into the basket and stood. “Rise up, Norton Stiles. Let us raid the larder and make off with the goods. I will distract Ellen, and you will fill my basket and cover it with knitting. Today we shall visit the Federal
hospital and find ourselves a hungry man. I dearly love to feed hungry men.”

“Oh, what good will it do, Hettie? The need is too great.”

“Oh, for
 
—it will do good for the one we
feed
. Ask him, if you don’t believe me! Come, let us away! I may be sixty-four years old, but today I feel fifty.”

“I don’t have a pass.”

“Well, Jesus did not have a
pass
. I can’t think of everything. You have a ten-mile train ride to figure that out.” She held out the basket.

Doctor Stiles studied it for a good long minute, and finally took it.

“We don’t have to
raid
the larder. Ellen would give willingly.”

“What fun is that?”

 
—

“Do you know how many times I had to recite the Articles of War? All hundred and one of them, plus sections? Never thought one should spell my demise. Article 41 is a shorty, too. You’d think a man’s death would be more complicated.”

Emery was being held at Castle Reed, a small walled stockade just east of the Andersonville depot. It formerly held Union officers until they were transferred in May to a camp near Macon. It now served as a guardhouse as well as a punishment facility for Confederate guards. Emery was allowed two visitors per day, and this was his second
 
—Dance had passed Reverend Gillette on the way in.

Dance sat on the floor against the wall. There was only a cot in the room. Emery sat on the edge of the cot, his knees bouncing up and down. “Do you know how many times I’ve slipped away from camp without a pass? We’d sneak past the pickets and go on foraging sprees.” He chuckled. “Went to a Yankee dance, once, if you believe me. I can dance pretty well and so they forgave my heritage. I hope
you have not come to be glum. Rest yourself content, Mr. Pickett, for I do not intend to swing. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“Why do you look like you swallowed sunbeams?”

“You’d rather have me all laid out and squallin’?”

“I’d have you face reality.”

“Well, I may have figured a way out of this fix. But I need to sit with it some.” He chuckled. “Sunbeams . . .”

“The preacher looked as shabby as I feel.”

“Did you hear me? I may see a way out.”

“Is that so?”

“The answer is so plain a blind man can read by it. I have already given a clue.”

“What clue?”

“Oh, you’re a smart boy
 
—figure it out.”

“You’re tunneling out.”

“When did I give that clue?”

“You bribed the guards.”

“Nope.”

“You have dangerous friends. They’re coming to bust you out.”

“All my dangerous friends are with the 22nd Alabama, beatin’ Sherman.” Emery hummed a snatch of “Bonnie Blue Flag” and said, “Wish I had somethin’ for my hands to do. They won’t let me finish weavin’ that stretcher. I don’t see how rag strips are implements of bust-out. The preacher brought a Bible, and that was nice, and a picture from Posey Stiles. Look here
 
—she drew me a map for escape on the back. That’s me right there, knifing a guard.” He grinned. “That little girl. We woulda been best friends if we was kids together.”