The following Monday Addison’s shout rang down the hall and the
prisoners began to stir. Tim slept in a second-tier bunk. He opened his
eyes and pulled up his blanket to shield himself from the chilly air.
This left his feet sticking out. He stared, as he had stared a hundred
times before, at the rough-hewn rafters and the boards that formed the
floor above. He threw off his blanket and sat on the edge of his bunk.
One of his boots was lying on the end of the mattress. He reached for
it and turned it over in his hands. As he looked he began to frown. If
he had some money, he could send out his boots to have the soles and
heels repaired. He’d noticed they leaked the last time he walked in the
jailyard after a rain.
Addison finished checking the beds and poked his head through the door.
“Ready to go to the kitchen, Lieutenant?”
Tim slid to the floor, found his other boot and pulled it on, balancing
himself against the bunk. “Combed and manicured. Ready for another day.”
“You seem right cheerful this morning, Lieutenant,” Addison said
accusingly.
“I like to cook. It makes me happy.”
Red pulled his blanket away from his face and looked sleepily down from
his bunk. Then he pulled the blanket up again.
Dawson and Mills were dead to the world.
When Tim stepped into the yard he could hear Devil singing chanteys in
the Navy kitchen.
Devil poked his head through the kitchen door and rubbed the bristles
on his chin. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”
Tim went into the Army kitchen and started a fire in the stove. He
pulled his toothbrush out of his pocket and held it between his teeth
while he drew a cup of water from the big tank. He moistened the
toothbrush, sprinkled it lightly with salt and brushed his teeth. He
drew his thumb across the bristles before putting the brush back into
his pocket.
He cooked up a mush with cornmeal and sorghum molasses and heated a
pail of coffee. When he finished cooking he took the breakfast to the
Army mess with the help of a guard.
They carried out pails of tin plates and cups that had been soiled the
night before and set them between the kitchen doors. At ten o’clock a
couple of prisoners would go under guard to the pump at the corner of
the vacant lot to rinse the dishes, while other men, also under guard,
would carry the waste pails to a stream that ran to the river through a
culvert under the canal.
Tim ate a bowl of mush and drank his coffee. He scraped the stove and
tossed a couple of wooden spoons into one of the pails outside the
door. He had finished his work. He stood in the doorway for a moment,
then wandered into the Navy kitchen.
Bell was stirring a potful of clothes with the broken handle of a
broom. “Good morning, Lieutenant,” he said.
“Too busy to talk,” said Devil.
During warmer weather the prisoners had had a weekly swim in the river
and the Army men had done their laundry in wooden buckets while they
were at liberty in the yard. Now it was too cold for swimming, and
most of the men--finding it unpleasant to do their laundry in the open
air--had given it up. Tim had been waiting for a chance to talk to
Senn, to see if the Army prisoners could have an extra kitchen hand, as
the Navy had, to do the wash and help carry the food. If they couldn’t
have baths, at least they should have a way to wash their clothes.
Tim passed the time of day with Devil and Bell until it was time to go
back upstairs.
At ten thirty the prisoners were taken out for their morning airing.
Tim and Red were among the first to enter the yard. They found the Navy
prisoners still there.
Everyone in the yard was watching Addison and the guards who had
escorted the dishwashers to the pump and the pail carriers to the
stream. Members of the detail were standing by the fence, their faces
white as chalk.
One of the guards stood close to Addison. His body was racked by sobs.
His hands hung forlornly at his sides and he drew in his breath in
shuddering gasps. “God help me,” he wailed, “I just meant to stop him.
I never meant to kill.”
The stricken boy was suddenly aware that Army prisoners were filing
into the yard. He shrank back in fear. The guards brought up their
muskets, and the Army men found themselves held at the end of the yard.
An uneasy silence was broken by the intermittent sobbing and wailing of
the guard. Addison finally mumbled something to the sentries, and he
and the boy left the yard by the wagon gate.
When the Navy prisoners had been taken back into the building a tall
Confederate private sauntered toward the soldiers, his gray overcoat
swinging at his knees. “Take your exercise,” he said gruffly. “Spread
out and take your exercise.”
Red spoke up. “What happened outside?”
“Shut your mouth and mind your own affairs.”
The sentries stood along the fences and by the buildings. The guard was
almost double now. The early morning shift was staying on duty in the
yard.
The prisoners who had witnessed the shooting mingled with the others.
Now one of them, a man named Frazer, began to explain. “Remember Jones?
Well, he’s dead. Shot by the boy who went out with Addison. We’re
washing the waste pails in the creek, and the guards are joking with
us, and I notice that Jones is working his way downstream to a place
near a thick grove of trees, making a big job of rinsing his pails....”
The tall Rebel private shouted from his place by the gate, “Break up
that group. Spread out, or I’ll send you back inside.”
Tim pretended to drift away but he and Red stayed close enough to
Frazer so that they could hear how Jones had been killed.
Frazer went on. “Suddenly Jones gets up and looks around, smiling at
the guard in what he means to be a casual way, and points to a place
in the creek. Then he says, ‘There’s a pretty stone.’ Well, the guards
kind of notice, because Jones’s voice shakes and his face is pale.
Suddenly Jones wheels and dashes among the trees toward the bridge that
crosses the canal. Two of the guards are older men, but this young one
dashes after Jones, quick as a rabbit, and drops him with one shot.
Then he lets his rifle fall and runs and bends over Jones, quiet, while
we all stand there like mutes. Then the boy starts to shake Jones and
cry and carry on....”
Frazer kept talking, but Tim and Red had heard enough and they started
their walk around the yard. “Did you know Jones?” asked Tim.
“Hardly at all. He was a quiet man. I wonder what was in his mind.”
“There would be sentries on the bridge that crosses Columbia Canal. I
can only think he must have gone mad.”
“If he went that way he wasn’t heading north. He must have been
thinking of Beaufort, if he was thinking at all.”
Captain Senn came out of the jail. A soldier was with him, carrying a
pasteboard box.
Senn raised his voice. “Army prisoners come here.”
The men gathered around. “You have heard by now,” Senn said, “that
one of your number tried to escape. He was shot. He should have been
shot. It will serve as a lesson to you not to be foolish when you leave
the prison under guard. The soldier who shot this man said he wasn’t
shooting to kill. I told him it is the duty of a prison guard to shoot
an escaping man. I told him I would have shot the man myself. I would
not hesitate to shoot one of you. Not at all.” He fingered the pistol
that hung at his side and smiled his frostbitten smile. “And now there
are better things to talk about. In this box we have some mail.”
The soldier reached for the letters one at a time and called out names.
There was a letter for Jones. Senn snatched the letter. Red’s name was
called. Red took his letter and turned away. Tim heard his own name
called.
He reached for the letter and saw that it was addressed in Kate’s fine
hand. His hands trembled as he turned it over several times, then
tucked it into his inside pocket.
When the mail had been distributed Senn cleared his throat. “Three
of you are lucky. Bradford, Brown and Frazer received money in
the mail. We have a system now.” He frowned. “To prevent illegal
exchange. I give you printed slips. You fill them out. These authorize
our quartermaster to convert your money to Confederate currency at
Government rates. The quartermaster keeps the money in his care....”
As Senn droned on, Tim lost the hope of ever seeing his cash. He heard
Senn’s words again, “... but the sutler won’t come to the jail as he
did before. You will give your requests for goods to Corporal Addison
or me, and the wagon will deliver your things to the jail. A list
of goods and prices has been posted by the door at the end of your
corridor.”
Tim reached for his slip. His family had sent him a hundred dollars. He
filled out the slip and gave it back to Senn, who nodded with a show
of friendliness. “Your goods will be brought in on Thursday, if the
quartermaster has what you want.”
Red’s face was like a happy child’s. “Nancy’s fine, and she says the
little fellow’s well. Looks just like his dad, she says.”
Tim grinned. “I’m glad she’s well and the little fellow too. I’m glad
he has good health to make up for his looks.”
Red smiled and walked away.
Tim sat on the steps of the Army kitchen. He took out Kate’s letter and
read:
STONE’S BROOK, CONNECTICUT
October 27, 1863