They crossed the street, walked through a grove of trees and approached
the back of the jail. There was a stout wooden enclosure around the
jailyard. Addison pounded on a solid wooden gate at the back of the
yard. “Addison with prisoners,” he shouted.
After a sliding of wooden bars the gate was opened. The courtyard had
an earthen floor. Close to the jail building and against the right-hand
fence stood a small one-story brick building with two doorways facing
the courtyard. At the near end of the small building was a rudely
built woodshed, its back wall formed by the courtyard fence, its far
side adjoining the small building. The other two walls were of thin,
weathered planks that bulged outward near the bottom.
Besides the guard who had admitted the prisoners, there was one other
man who paced off a vigil along the fence. He stared with sharp
hostility as the little column passed his station. The prisoners were
taken through the door at the back of the jailhouse.
Tim’s spirit was chilled as they passed along a dank corridor to the
stair well at the front of the building. The door to the stairs was
made of heavy wood. It had a small barred window near the top.
The corporal unclipped the key ring from his belt, and after some
deliberation picked out a key. He inserted it in the lock, turned it
and pulled the door open. The five prisoners waited as the corporal
replaced the key ring and fumbled with his rifle, signaling them to
precede him up the stairs. They waited again in the dusky hallway
on the second floor as the corporal lumbered up. Tim thought how
easily they could overpower this lubberly man, get his keys, and let
themselves out the front door to the street, but he remembered the
guard who had stood under the lamp. He gritted his teeth and clasped
his hands behind his back.
Corporal Addison pushed a heavy unlocked door on the other side of the
corridor. It swung open, revealing a room about ten feet by twelve, at
the far end of which was a small fireplace flanked by barred windows
facing north. The floor was made up of splintering planks. The room
was without furniture. The corporal pointed to a small doorway in the
right-hand wall. “There are two pails in there, one for water, one for
waste.” He turned on his heel, stepped into the hall and slammed and
locked the door.
As the sound of the corporal’s footfalls died away Dawson moved to
the window and stared through the bars. For the first time Tim looked
closely at the two strange officers. They appeared to be members of
the derelict group who had joined them at the Charleston depot. They
looked half-starved. Their tattered uniforms hung loosely on their bony
frames. The shorter of the two was already settling on the floor, but
the other smiled faintly. Tim held out his hand and introduced Red,
Dawson and himself. Dawson turned briefly from the window and nodded.
“I’m Lieutenant Peter Mills of the Eighth Michigan,” the stranger said,
looking mournfully at the little man who had stretched himself out on
the floor. “I was captured more than a year ago at James Island. I’ve
been in Charleston jail all year, treated as a common criminal.”
For just a moment a flame of anger lit the man’s sunken eyes. “I ran
out of money long ago,” he said, “and I’ve got none from home. The
rations in that jail weren’t good enough to feed a pig. The place was
filled with criminals and slatternly women. I saw hundreds of them come
and go. Once when I was sick they put me in a hospital just behind
the prison yard, but as soon as I was better they put me back in jail
again. Now I’ve lost the will to escape and almost lost the will to
live.”
The effort of speaking had exhausted the man. He sank down beside the
smaller fellow, who was already lost in sleep. “This man was taken from
a Charleston hospital,” Mills breathed. “He must be sick. He hasn’t
said a word.”
Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out a molasses cake and the one
remaining orange that had belonged to Private Greene. He handed them
to Lieutenant Mills. “Thank you,” Mills said with an expression of
gratitude. “Do you mind if I eat the orange later?”
“Eat it when you want,” Tim said. “I’m sorry it couldn’t be more.”
Dawson turned from the window and clasped his hands behind his back. He
glanced at Red with mild hostility.
Red scratched his beard and looked at Dawson. “We’re in this together,”
he said. “We have to live together in this room and make whatever plans
might benefit us all.”
“I guess Bradford has told you about my fault.”
Tim spoke softly. “Forget about that.”
Dawson nodded almost gratefully. “But you can leave me out of your
plans,” he said, looking down at Mills who had fallen asleep with the
orange in his hand, “and these poor wretches couldn’t walk as far as
the city limits.” Dawson stared out the window again. “You’d have to
have wings to get away from here,” he said with a bitter laugh.
Red turned away impatiently and sat down on the floor. Tim moved to
the other window, and reached through the bars and raised the creaking
sash, propping it up with a stick he found on the sill.
Just across the way Tim saw a white building that seemed to be a
school. It was closed now, but a scattering of children romped in the
yard. Four little girls were playing tag on a patch of grass, and two
boys laughed and wrestled under a tree.
Beside the school was a one-story house, neat and clean, with a garden
in front. A woman with a basket over her arm was just coming out of the
house.
In the vacant lot the guards were ordering the prisoners into ranks.
Tim watched as they moved along the street toward the east.
The river glistened like a sheet of polished steel in the citron light
of the summer sun. Tim could see the shapes of islands where the
Congaree joined the Saluda and the Broad. Columbia Canal followed the
near shore of the Congaree and disappeared behind trees near the edge
of town. The city was laid out in squares, their pattern broken by a
handsome park just across the way.
He heard a train whistle, and an engine and a line of cars--much like
the ones that had brought them to Columbia--came into view. The train
was heading north. Tim watched until it disappeared among the trees at
the edge of the city and the last bit of smoke blew away. As he turned
from the window the whistle sounded again, this time far away.
He sat on the floor below the window, reached into the inside pocket of
his blouse and pulled out his billfold and a couple of dog-eared pieces
of paper. He fumbled in a pocket and brought out the stub of a pencil.
The other men were all asleep. Red was slumped in a corner of the
room, sleeping peacefully with a ghost of a smile across his face. Tim
smoothed out a piece of paper against the surface of his billfold. Red
must be dreaming of home, he thought. He sharpened his pencil against a
brick, licked the point and began to write:
RICHLAND JAIL
COLUMBIA, S. C.
July 12, 1863