In the morning a warm, westerly breeze was blowing across the river
where it flowed past the city just to the west. Tim noticed that a
railroad ran close by. As he looked to the north he noticed that it
followed the river’s course. In the east the sun was rising, round
and red above the Statehouse roof. The war seemed far away from this
peaceful Southern city. There was a fine green park nearby, and just
across the street, in the side yard of one of a row of neat clapboard
houses, a line of white sheets flapped in the breeze.
Red was still asleep as Tim got up. He pulled off his boots and shook
out his socks, then put his socks and boots back on again. He walked to
a well near the corner of the lot. A guard standing nearby nodded to
him, and Tim pumped some water and doused his head. “Is the water good
for drinking?” he asked.
“I reckon so.”
Tim cupped his left hand and pumped and drank the clear, cool water.
When he straightened up he saw the Confederate lieutenant walking
toward him. “Good morning,” the man said. “The rations will be along
shortly.”
Tim smiled. “That’s good.”
“My name is Davis,” the lieutenant said suddenly. “My home’s in
Georgia. How about you?”
Tim smiled again. “Bradford,” he said. “I’m from Connecticut.”
The lieutenant raised his hand in a kind of salute and moved off,
walking easily among the prisoners, talking to Dawson first and then to
some of the other men.
A wagon rattled into the lot, driven by a big young Negro boy perched
high on the wooden seat, smiling proudly and nodding to the Confederate
lieutenant. Some of the early risers helped build a fire. They heated
water for coffee, and the colored boy passed out rations to the men
who were awake. The other prisoners opened their eyes, stretched and
shambled over to stand in line.
Red was one of the last to stir. When he saw Tim sitting near him with
a corncake in his hand he sat up straight. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he
asked accusingly.
“There’s plenty of food, and I figured you needed your beauty sleep.”
“And so I did.”
When they had finished breakfast and settled themselves with tin cups
filled with steaming bitter coffee Red leaned forward. “You and I
are going to get away,” he said. “From this point forward we’ll bend
ourselves to that one end.”
“This country is good,” Tim said. “I should think a man could live off
the land.”
“We can’t depend on doing that. The more supplies we can take, the
better off we’ll be.” Red laughed. “But we’re getting ahead of
ourselves.”
“By tonight we’ll probably be in that jail,” Tim said, waving toward
the gray roof that stood above the trees “We’ll have to make our break
from there.”
Red looked along the tracks. “It would help if I could swim,” he said
with a touch of bitterness.
“We’ll ask the guards to give you lessons in the river yonder.”
“And then in three or four months, when I’m good and ready, we can beg
their leave,” Red said with a grin.
* * * * *
About midmorning a man, who must be Captain Senn, and a fat,
dull-eyed corporal walked with Lieutenant Davis to the middle of
the lot. Senn was a humorless man who wore his immaculate uniform
awkwardly. He sported a blue forage cap and white gloves tucked into
the crimson-edged belt that was looped around his slightly oversized
blouse. He carried no pistol, but a long sword bumped against his side.
His stiffness contrasted with the easy manner of Lieutenant Davis.
The lieutenant asked the Yankee officers to step forward. “This is
Captain Senn,” he said, “Commandant of the Post Guard.”
Senn cleared his throat and faced the five. “You will be in my charge,”
he said, looking at Dawson. “You will be imprisoned on the second floor
of the jail. If you try to escape--and you don’t get shot--I’ll give
you a spell of solitary confinement.” He tapped his foot, fingered the
tassel that hung from the handle of his sword, and smiled frostily.
“And where would you go?”
Senn nodded to the fat corporal, who had a large ring of keys dangling
from his belt. “This is Corporal Addison. He will show you to your
quarters.”
Addison’s heavy-lidded eyes moved dully from one Yankee face to
the next. He stuck out his lower lip, motioned with his head, and
shouldered his rifle. The five Yankee officers understood that they
were to march at the corporal’s side.
[Illustration: Richland Jail in Columbia, S. C., 1863