Red slept, but Tim was too cold to sleep. He looked up at the boughs
of the sheltering tree. He gazed into the cold night sky. A full moon
was shining somewhere behind the pines. The wind moaned softly in the
boughs, filling the valley with mournful music. The brighter stars
winked clear in the crystal air. Tim rolled out of his blanket and
moved away from their camp, swinging his arms and working his knees to
restore circulation.
He sat in the open on a jagged rock and picked out fragments of
constellations. There was Pegasus to the west, and if he turned his
head he could see Orion’s Belt above a hill in the east.
This was their second night under the stars since the death of the
woman.
Tim had kept his mind on things that lay ahead. He had dreamed of home,
of sleigh rides and skating on the pond behind the schoolhouse and
thawing out in the blacksmith shop.
Now he remembered a winter so cold that the river had frozen clear
across. He and Peter Gleason had skated all the way to the other side.
Cold was fine, as long as you could thaw out, sitting by a fire with a
cup of chocolate in your hand.
For the first time he let himself think back to the thing that had
happened on the ridge.
They had stripped the cartridges off the dead men and taken their
firearms. They had left the bodies where they had fallen. They had
ordered the third man to mount his horse and had sent him on his way,
burbling off a stream of thanks for sparing his life.
The ground had been frozen solid and they’d had no tools for digging,
anyway, so they had buried Missus Flint under a cairn and set her
musket, muzzle down, in the top of the pile of rocks.
When they had turned to go Tim had looked back again the way they had
come. Smoke had still curled above the cabin.
Tim studied the stars again, trying to remember the pictures they made
and which way was right side up. Then he gave it up and went back to
his blanket. As he lay there he remembered a far-off day in spring when
he had walked with Kate. All at once she had picked up her skirts and
started to run.
He remembered having been in a solemn frame of mind. Somehow he hadn’t
caught her spirit. She had stood in the path and waited for him,
suddenly serious, trying to share his solemnity.
Now he closed his eyes and her face came clear. He drew his blanket
close around him and went to sleep.
Tim woke up before the sun had cleared the hills. Snow had fallen
during the night and their blankets and coats were sifted over with
flakes. Tim looked down at his feet, wrapped now in the strips of
blanket wool. The cold had numbed his feet and hands, and when he felt
his face it seemed like ice.
He woke Red and they made breakfast. When they finished eating they
pushed on into the wilderness of white. When they had walked for an
hour or so they came to a stream that tumbled through a gorge, into a
valley below. Their route lay across the stream and they were scouting
along it to find a crossing when Tim caught sight of something moving
in the trees in the valley below. He grabbed Red’s sleeve and together
they watched as three horsemen made their way south along the valley.
The horsemen were several hundred yards below, but the air was clear
and the sun struck their uniforms. This time there was no room for
doubt. They were Yankee soldiers.
Red cupped his hands and shouted. The horsemen stopped, turning their
faces up. Tim waved his arms above his head and he and Red jumped
carelessly into the water. They ran down the hill, slipping and
skidding on the snow-covered rock, their firearms knocking against the
coats Missus Flint had made them. The ends of their mufflers flapped
behind them.
As they approached the horsemen they looked into the muzzles of Yankee
firearms.
One held a pistol. He wore no visible insignia. He had a black pointed
beard and bright eyes. The visor of his cap stuck out from under a blue
knitted scarf that was tied around his head. He carried a sword in a
brightly polished sheath. “Stop there,” he said, “and raise your hands.
Who are you and where have you come from?”
Red gave their names. “We escaped from a jail in Columbia, South
Carolina. We came across the mountains.”
The man smiled faintly, studying their overcoats. “Looks as if you
might have had some help along the way.”
Tim nodded. “Without help we wouldn’t be alive.”
One of the men was a sergeant. He sported a big sand-colored mustache.
Beside him, sitting his horse a little stiffly, was a very young man
who reminded Tim of Private Greene. They both held rifles.
The man with the pistol, who must be an officer, turned to the young
man. “Corporal, relieve the gentlemen of their arms.”
As the corporal dismounted the officer looked sharply at the rifle and
the shotgun. Red said, “Both of us carry revolvers in the right-hand
pockets of our coats.”
As the corporal took their arms the man with the pistol looked straight
at Tim. “Where did you get the rifle and shotgun and the pistols?”
“We had a fight with some guerillas back in the mountains. Our guide
shot one and Lieutenant Kelly here shot another. The third was a poor
excuse for a man. We took his shotgun and let him go.”
The officer questioned them closely about their capture and asked to
see their identifications. They showed him their papers and opened
their coats and showed him their tattered uniforms. When the officer
was satisfied that they were neither deserters nor spies he holstered
his pistol and motioned toward the man with the sandy mustache. “This
is Sergeant Scully, and the man who searched you is Corporal Simms.
I’m Captain Platt. I’m thankful we found you alive. My detachment is
quartered in the farmhouse of a loyal Unionist, just north of here.
The man has gone to war. We’ve been resting a while with his wife and
children. We start for Knoxville tomorrow. We’ll take you along.”
Tim said, “We heard that Knoxville was under siege.”
“The siege was raised in early December.”
Red asked, “Where were you bound when we caught sight of you?”
The captain laughed. “We were going out to find a tree.”
“A tree?”
The sergeant grinned. “Tomorrow is Christmas.”
Red said, “Well, fancy that. Did you say there were children at the
farm?”
“Three girls and two boys. Attractive little devils.” The captain
looked down at the feet of the men who stood in the snow. “You must be
perishing from cold. Sergeant Scully and I will take you back and set
you by the fire. Corporal Simms can find us a tree.”
The corporal touched his cap. When he smiled he was even more like
Greene. “You can trust me, sir. The other boys would have my hide if I
came back with a scraggly tree.”
Post Script:
Captain Chamberlain, on whose story this book is based, was not as
fortunate as Lieutenants Bradford and Kelly. He was recaptured and
returned in chains to Richland Jail, where he was imprisoned until late
in 1864.
There is a sequel to his story.
Captain Chichester, the Confederate officer to whom Chamberlain
had surrendered his sword, survived the war and lived until 1900.
One of his last wishes was that Captain Chamberlain’s sword, which
Chichester had prized during his lifetime, be returned to its original
owner. Captain Chamberlain had died seven years before but the sword
was returned to his widow. It is still a proud possession of the
Chamberlain family.
At the time of the return of the sword there were articles in the
Charleston and Hartford papers telling of the gallantry of both men,
their experiences in battle and the fate of the sword.
By almost mystical coincidence, Captain Chichester’s father had been
born in Connecticut and his mother’s maiden name had been Chamberlain.
The two captains had been born in the same year, within two months of
each other.
_Acknowledgments_
Mrs. Ruth C. North and Rodman W. Chamberlain, two of Captain
Chamberlain’s ten children, were especially helpful in gathering
material for this book. Most of the volumes listed in the bibliography
were found in the New York Public Library, and I owe a vote of thanks
to Mr. Gilbert A. Cam for putting the facilities of the Frederick Lewis
Allen Room at my disposal so that I would have a place to study and
work from these volumes.
Thanks to my brother Duncan Burchard for information about small arms
of the Civil War period, and to my friend Victor Darnell for checking
my descriptions of Naval vessels.
For their cordial help, thanks to Kate Swift and James Pickering of the
American Museum--Hayden Planetarium.
A special vote of thanks goes to my friends in South Carolina: Jack
Snow of St. Helena Island and Howard Danner of the Beaufort Historical
Society, Robert Ochs, Chairman of the Department of History at the
University of South Carolina, Lester Inabinett of the South Caroliniana
Library and Virginia Rugheimer of the Charleston Library Society.
Bibliography:
Black, Robert C., _The Railroads of the Confederacy_. The University
of North Carolina Press, 1952.
Carse, Robert, _Blockade_. Rinehart and Co., 1958.
Cochran, Hamilton C., _Blockade Runners of the Confederacy_. Bobbs
Merrill, 1958.
_The Columbia City Directory_, Columbia, South Carolina, 1860.
Drake, J. Madison, _Fast and Loose in Dixie_. The Author’s Publishing
Company, 1880.
Emilio, Luis F., _A Brave Black Regiment_, History of the 54th
Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry. The Boston Book Company, 1891.
_History of the Seventh Connecticut Volunteer Infantry_, compiled by
Stephen Walkley, 1905.
Isham, Davidson and Furness, _Prisoners of War and Military Prisons_.
Lyman and Cushing, 1890.
Knox, Dudley W., _A History of the United States Navy_. G. P.
Putnam’s Sons, 1948.
Manucy, Albert, _Artillery Through the Ages_. U. S. Government
Printing office.
Sabre, G. E., _Nineteen Months a Prisoner of War_. The American News
Company, 1865.
Swanberg, W. A., _First Blood_. Charles Scribners Sons, 1957.
Tourtellotte, Jerome, _Windham County Boys in the Seventh
Connecticut_, A History of Company K. 1910.
Trumbull, H. Clay, _The Knightly Soldier_. John D. Wattles, 1892.
_Other_
In addition to the books listed on p. 187, use was made of the letters
of Captain V. B. Chamberlain, written during his imprisonment in
Richland Jail. Transcripts of these letters were lent me by Captain
Chamberlain’s son, Rodman W. Chamberlain. Microfilm copies of these
transcripts are now on file at the South Caroliniana Library in
Columbia, South Carolina.
Rodman W. Chamberlain’s unpublished paper, entitled “The Return of the
Sword,” furnished the information used in the epilogue.
The circumstances of Captain Chamberlain’s capture and escape have
been reconstructed as accurately as possible, but the character of
Lieutenant Timothy Bradford, Chamberlain’s counterpart, is entirely
fictional, as are most of the characters in this book.
The Confederate Captain Chichester lived and fought at Fort Wagner. The
Union officers, General Strong and Colonel Rodman, lived and fought on
Morris Island.
Captain Senn, Commandant of the Post Guard at Richland Jail, and
Corporal “Bull Head” Addison were real people. They have been
represented as they were described by men who were imprisoned in
Richland Jail in Columbia, S. C. The original Richland Jail no
longer stands, but the author has constructed it from descriptions
of prisoners and the drawings of Major Henry Ward Camp, Captain
Chamberlain’s companion in escape. Major Camp was killed in action in
1864.
Many of the incidents in the story are taken from history. The ladies
of Charleston served coffee and food to Union prisoners, wanton
stabbings of Union prisoners are matters of record, and the young woman
in Columbia who lived across from Richland Jail and “whose heart
beat for the Union” really lived and waved her handkerchief when the
prisoners sang patriotic songs.
The extent of Unionist sentiment in North Carolina and eastern
Tennessee has not been exaggerated and there were plenty of women like
“Missus” Flint.
The descriptions of the map that Kate sent to Richland Jail were based
on a map she might have copied, one published in 1861 by J. H. Colton,
172 William St., New York. This map was also used in verifying the
spelling of the names of counties, towns, rivers etc. In most cases the
spelling of the period has been used.
_About the Author_
Peter Burchard is a professional writer and illustrator.
During World War II he served in the U. S. Army Signal Corps as a
radio operator on a troop transport in the North Atlantic. His first
published drawings appeared in YANK Magazine.
He graduated from the Philadelphia Museum School of Art in 1947.
His active interest in the Civil War began when his grandfather’s
diaries came into his hands. His grandfather, William Brokaw, joined
the 96th New York Regiment at the age of sixteen, served first as a
drummer boy, fought in sixteen engagements and was a Brevet Major when
he was mustered out in 1865.
Mr. Burchard lives with his wife and three children in a converted barn
in Rockland County, N. Y. The war experiences of his wife’s grandfather
provided the basis for _North by Night_.