Welcome to Fifth Minnesota Fiction!

Update 1-26-15: Ladies and gentlemen, the show is coming to an end. For all of you who have read, supported, and encouraged this blog and my writing--thank you. While many of these stories have already been previously published in book form, I am about to join the 21st century and publish in electronic reader format. As such, this blog will vanish into the ether March 1st. Thank you all, I hope you have enjoyed my meager offerings.

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This is a blog dedicated to the essence of what my experience doing Civil War living history is all about--telling a good story. In the case of the Co. A, Fifth Minnesota, we strive to tell the stories of history--everyday lives caught up in the turmoils of strife and change. Our purpose, is to give room for some of those stories to grow, and find an end for themselves. The process of good Living History is much the same as that used to write a story, the difference is that with the written word it is the reader that acts it out in their head. With Living History, the participants take those great narratives and give them life themselves in action and word.

Sometimes, I sit about and think about what it was like for the people we portray; how they coped with those issues that are touched on at an event, but never quite get to live out. I know I have always wondered what those first days were like for those companies of the 5th that had initially been left behind in Minnesota, upon rejoining their regiment in the south. Were they accepted? Did people question their skills, and ability to handle the pressures of battle? This is what spawned the idea for my first short story about the Fifth Minnesota; and this collection.

Here those stories we have begun can go on. I hope you will enjoy them as much as I do writing them! A word of warning though--be patient with me. Posts may be spread out a bit (I write these whenever real life allows) but something new is almost always cooking; it simply may take time to get them served up at the table.

A. Wade Jones





Wednesday, November 17, 2010

In the Presence of Mine Enemies


When the trouble started, O’Malley wasn’t a bit surprised. Corporal Fry had been on the men of the detail from the beginning, testing them for a weakness to exploit; for an excuse to take out his anger at someone. O’Malley was assigned to the gathering detail, since he couldn’t really chop or saw the larger wood with his still recuperating arm as it was. As such, he gave ‘Rooster’ a burning glance of warning and caution, and wandered into the brush along with the other men who’s injuries post or previous to capture necessitated such duty. He spied some good twigs and snapped them up; placing them in the sling he wore upon his healing left arm. It was a bit scratchy against his exposed wrist, but ensured he’d be able to bring back his quota without trouble. Corporal Fry was subtly teasing some of the men on the saw crew, his harsh voice made worse when he was speaking in a simple conversational tone. Ahead of him a short ways, O’Malley locked eyes briefly with one of Fry’s lads, who smiled crookedly and patted the butt of his musket.

“That’s right Yank, I’m here watching you. You wanna skin out, you go right ahead; I could use the practice with a moving target..” “O’Malley just resumed work and ignored the sentry, who just laughed to himself. He stood up from the collection of another twig when he heard ‘Rooster’ say in a firm, but calm tone--

“Why don’t you leave him alone, eh Corporal?”

O’Malley looked up at the sentry, who was already ushering the men of his detail back to where Fry and the others were working at slitting and cutting the larger chunks of wood for fuel. They were herded back into the clearing of scrub and lanky pines in time to see Corporal Fry turn and look back towards ‘Rooster’, who was on the split and maul crew.

“What was that? Who said that?” asked the Corporal as he spat at his feet. A recent arrival to the camp--a disheveled wreck of a man--stood nearby the saw, his head dropped into his breast looking miserable. It was clear enough what was happening. Fry had started riding the new man; and ‘Rooster’, despite warnings and orders to the contrary, had objected to the Corporal bullying the man. O’Malley swore beneath his breath, and watched Fry cast his beady eyes about the group of men before him.

“I said--WHICH one of you sick brained cowards SAID THAT?” Fry shouted this time, spittle flying before him. Inwardly, O’Malley prayed ‘Rooster’ would not be the hero; that he would listen for a change and keep his mouth shut. He knew better, and he was not disappointed.

“It was me, Corporal.” ‘Rooster’ said, stepping forward with a defiant look in his eye. O’Malley could see what was coming, and started to step forward but stopped when the guard nearest him slammed the butt of his musket into his injured shoulder.

“Where you going, eh?” said the guard with a sneer, as O’Malley’s whole side erupted in a plain like fire burning deep within his flesh. He gasped, his knees buckling a moment before regaining his place--just as Fry slapped his musket stock in a cross strike to ‘Rooster’; spinning the young man round in place before he fell flat. The corporal stepped forward and kicked ‘Rooster’ twice in the side, shouting--”You all don’t speak to what aint yours to comment on! Dirty little cuss, don’t you EVER speak at me again--you hear!”

“Rooster’ let out a grunt, and two of the other guards dragged him to his feet. He looked a mess, blood seeped from his nose and a nasty bruise and gash ran across left cheek; but his eyes looked more defiant than before. He spit at Fry when he came closer, and said loudly--’you watch your back Fry, cause you’re a dead man!” The corporal just laughed at him.

“Hear that boys? Insulting a superior rank, threats too! You shackle that cuss to the wagon bed, and when he gets back he goes straight to the stocks for punishment! And the rest of you--” Fry said rounding on the group of prisoners, “Form up to stow the wood! Detail concluded!”

The guards gathered them up roughly; collecting first the tools they had been assigned. Normally they would have counted these, but the corporal was now in a rage and no one seemed to want to slow the process of obeying his orders. O’Malley worried for his young friend, but what was done was done. In some ways, ‘Rooster’ had done good for the men there with his spirit and defiance, and it showed in the spring of their step as they followed after the wagon; now piled high with the gathered firewood and the battered young soldier who had been shackled hand to ankles. O’Malley caught the eye of his friend once, and nodded gently. ‘Rooster’ simply grinned weakly back, and hung his head. That boy will get himself killed, O’Malley thought. He will never be able to hold himself back enough around the likes of Fry; and I will end up burying him.

If Fry had his way, ‘Rooster’ would be locked into a makeshift version of the old fashioned public stocks situated out on the parade ground. In and of itself, this punishment wasn’t so bad, but what made it truly rough was the lack of shade. The longest O’Malley had ever seen anyone punished this way was three days; but they had been very hot without a break in the sun. By the end, the man was used up and spent the fourth and fifth day recovering in hospital. Besides, knowing Fry and his bunch, it wouldn’t JUST be the stocks; there would be more “unofficial” punishment after dark when ‘Rooster’ would be vulnerable. O’Malley knew his options were few, but he would do whatever he could.

When the detail returned to the great palisade that was Camp Ford, corporal Fry and two guards dragged ‘Rooster’ from the wagon and made their way to the small clapboard house that constituted the offices of administration. O’Malley and the rest went with the wagon to unload the wood they had collected into supply depot. As soon as he could break free, he made his way back towards the administration building only to run straight into corporal Fry and one of his bully-boys.

“How’s that feelin’?” Fry said gesturing to his arm. “Terrible shame if it went bad, an ended up havin’ to be chopped off.”

O’Malley nodded and smiled quietly. Fry frowned and started to move on, but stopped and poked O’Malley square in the chest.

“That little friend of yours, he done made a big mistake an he will pay for it smartly. I can tells you are lookin’ out for him, but it aint gonna help you none. You can’t watch him all night, and then he’s mine.” Fry smiled crookedly and continued on. Clenching his fists, O’Malley made himself continue on and found ‘Rooster’ bent over locked into the stocks just he knew he would.

“Well, now you’ve stepped in!” said O’Malley as he rounded to the front and knelt down to look his young friend in the eye.

“I suppose this was the sort of thing you meant when you said stay out of trouble, eh?”

O’Malley chuckled and slapped the top of ‘Rooster’s’ head. “A fair approximation, I should think.”

“I’m sorry Mick; I let him get to me.”

“Aye, ye did--an now you’re in a bad place. I aint too sure there’s much I can do for you either.”

He was silent for a long moment; ‘Rooster’ hung his head. Then at last, he looked up with a steely look in his eye. “I’ll take my licks, if it comes to that.”

So he KNEW Fry and his bunch would come back at him later, off the record. O’Malley nodded and decided to not underestimate the strength of this young soldier again.

“Make as much noise as ye can, it’s liable to bring the Colonel. Aint pretty, but it’ll get ye a reprieve if they go too rough on you.”

‘Rooster’ nodded and smiled. “I’ll remember.”

“Ye need water?”

He shook his head. “No, Colonel made them let me have a whole canteen before they locked me in. He seems an honorable sort--certainly didn’t like Fry none!”

O’Malley found his curiosity peaked. “Why do ye say so?”

“Colonel brought Fry up sharp when he saw how he dragged me in. Told him that if he kept abusing the prisoners he’d have Fry up on charges--even made them sit quiet while he asked me my side of how it went.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“The truth, Mick. He caught me off guard with his manner, and besides I enjoyed saying I would kill him to his face again without his being able to respond to it.” He chuckled to himself, his shoulders shaking with his laughter.

“I suppose you were for it either way.”

There was a long silence before ‘Rooster’ said clearly--

“This weren’t your fault. I lost my head, and let that bugger get me pitching thoughts as black as hate.”

“Well, ye accomplished it well.”

“Go tell the boys how I got myself, I want to start working on my new reputation and you can start the gossip but good!”

“You sure ye don’t need nothing’?”

‘Rooster’ nodded and flailed his hands at him in dismissal. Taking the hint, O’Malley rose and made his way back to their shanty. He talked up the incident of the day, and all the while worried for his friend. When the evening roll was done, ‘Rooster’ produced a mass snicker when he wiggled his hands vigorously to the sound of his name being called. Making his way back with the others for lights out, O’Malley cast a glance back towards his friend and found himself wondering if he would live to see the day.

*****

O’Malley awoke with a start to the sound of a man crying out in pain. He looked about the shanty as other men sat upright, eyes glowing white in the darkness.

“What in blazes was that?” said someone with alarm.

O’Malley rose up, and went out into the dimness of the shanty street and noting how the lines of braziers from up the hill were flickering in a pattern. The guards were out, and marching along the streets to rouse the population. Others had shuffled into the street now with him, curious about what was going on.

“What a sound to wake to--you don’t--I mean, do you think that was ‘Rooster’?” asked Thomas Wentz, leaning close to O’Malley as the sentries appeared closer in the flickering light of the braziers.
O’Malley had worried the same when he first woke, especially after the advice he had given to the boy. But something in his gut had a definite and ready response for Wentz.

“No. I don’t feel it was our boy--but I think something has happened all the same.”

The column of sentries reached them, and a detachment remained in their area as the others moved along. As the butternut clad soldier, bayonets glinting in the light of the iron braziers reached them, a sergeant called out. “You men out of the way, and back into your places! I want the designated leader from each dwelling at attention in the street, ready to account for each man!”

The group turned and looked at each other, then made to obey. Had someone escaped, or been caught in the attempt? The only time they were made to account for their numbers previously had been in such a situation--did the sound they had heard relate to an escape? If so, then indeed this would probably not end happily. O’Malley ushered the men in his hut back inside, making a mental count. Everyone but ‘Rooster’ was there, but provided he had not somehow tried or made an escape, ought to be trussed up at the stocks. So O’Malley waited, all the while the brazier crackled and the count went on somewhere out in the darkness. As it turned out, he didn’t have long to wait. A captain accompanied by a corporal and a private approached him from the dark and stopped directly before him.

“Sergeant O’Malley?” asked the captain.

O’Malley saluted, and nodded. “Yes sir, I am he.”

“Follow me if you please sergeant.”

O’Malley wasn’t sure what had happened, but all the same his stomach became a sudden tangle of knots. The darkness seemed to crowd in, and the light from the braziers cast forbidding shadows. He felt the air become thick, and time began to crawl as he was escorted up the slope towards where he had last seen ‘Rooster’. Every step closer to the top of the slope saw his sense of dread grow; a gnawing sense of the impending horror of it. He likened it to the same sick sensation soldiers often felt as they approached the enemy across the battlefield, every closer, anticipating when at last the officers would give the command to fire. He steeled his nerves as best he could, fighting the fear--but like all soldiers he could still feel it even if he wrestled a modicum of control away from it. When they crested the slope at last, his heart was pounding in his chest. A crowd of soldiers and officers clustered near where the stocks where, blocking his view. His escort slowly parted the onlookers, and his first glance caught the sight of Corporal Fry laying spread eagle a short ways from the stocks. His throat had been slashed, and though O’Malley had seen many a gruesome sight in his days the violence with which the corporal had met still turned his stomach a bit. It was clear that whoever had killed Fry had done so with passion, and malice. Then, his eyes fell upon ‘Rooster’, standing under guard a short distance away. His friend looked at him with pleading eyes, and he stammered--”I didn’t do it Mick, I swear!”
O’Malley nodded and stepped forward. “Of course not--how could you locked up as ye were?”

But it wasn’t ‘Rooster’ that answered, but instead a strong and cultured voice. “The problem was--sergeant--your friend wasn’t locked up as he was supposed to be. My men first on the scene discovered him leaning over the body of corporal Fry; and given what had passed between the prisoner and the corporal earlier--well, you surely can appreciate how things appear?”

O’Malley turned, and found himself face to face with Colonel R.T.P Allen--commander of the camp. His grey eyes scanned the sergeant a moment, his drawn mouth turned down into a frown which seemed to project a sadness and fatigue under with otherwise jaunty mustache and goatee. At last, O’Malley spoke.

“I admit, circumstances are a bit poor for the boy proclaiming hisself innocent--but he’s all talk Sir, I promise ye Private Beyer never done such violence.”

The colonel stared back into O’Malley’s eyes quietly, and then cleared his throat. He looked over at ‘Rooster’ briefly, and then looked over at the captain who had brought O’Malley up the hill.

“Captain, I think we are able to send the men back to sleep now. Have the sentries stand down, and then have this prisoner escorted to the guard house. He is to be treated gently captain, understood?” The captain nodded, and they pushed ‘Rooster’ away towards the cells in the guard house. O’Malley caught his friend’s eye, willing him to know he would do whatever he could for him and hoping he had the sense to not give the guards any excuse to use more force than necessary. The colonel took a step towards the body of corporal Fry, and stood staring down at it quietly. Swallowing hard, O’Malley began to try to feel his way towards defending his young friend, despite the damning promise to kill the very man who lay dead now at their feet--a promise witnessed by not only himself but the colonel too.

“I don’t understand how Private Beyer could have freed himself,” said the colonel suddenly as he stared at the body at his feet, “and somehow come across a weapon--or would he had had it hidden upon his person perhaps--kill Fry, but then NOT flee to avoid capture?”

“I’m sorry sir? I don’t follow ye.” said O’Malley as he stepped forward to stand beside the tall, aristocratic man he somehow had a hard time seeing as the enemy. The colonel turned and regarded the sergeant a moment before continuing.

“Well sergeant, it’s a matter of logic. To begin with, Private Beyer was locked into the stocks, from which he certainly did not escape from without a key. One has only to glance at the locks to see they are whole, which means someone released him. Now, unless some of you men have stolen a key or found a way to copy one that suggests the private had help from someone from my administration.”
“Did the private make any suggestions as to who might have helped him?” asked O’Malley, suddenly intrigued with the mystery he had walked into.

Colonel Allen shook his head. “None. He stated only that some party unlocked the stocks from behind where he could not see them, and departed. He worked himself free from the look of the way the lock bars are situated.”

“And corporal Fry?”

“You cut to the heart of it, I approve. Fry--at least according to your young friend--had come to accost him, but someone drew him away. I must assume this other party stood roughly where Fry fell. Of course lying as he is, it is reasonable to think your friend neither saw the corporal’s attacker nor the deed being done. Hard to see to the right and behind of one when still stuck into the lock bars of the stocks.”

O’Malley stared at the colonel for a moment, and shook his head. “You already know he didn’t do it.”

“Yes sergeant, I do. But I also am painfully aware of the necessities for my men to feel that justice is done when one of their own--however odious to me--is murdered.”

Sergeant O’Malley hung his head, and stared in anger at the gravel. Colonel Allen’s meaning couldn’t have been any clearer. “So, ‘Rooster’ takes the blame then, an’ one of yours--what truly killed him and seems to have tried to make it look the boy done it--goes free just to protect morale?”

“Not if you find this man before the start of the trial I must convene, Wednesday morning at nine O’clock. I will do what must be done to maintain order and safety for everyone here sergeant; but if we can bring the proper party to justice I should prefer it. I did not join to serve my country so I might hang innocent men simply because it was convenient; despite what you might believe.”

O’Malley looked at the colonel and nodded. “I have your leave then to look into this--officially?”

“You shall, but don’t expect me to openly support you either. I suspect you understand the delicate nature and balance I must maintain.”

O’Malley nodded and Colonel Allen offered his hand. After a moment, they shook firmly. The colonel nodded to him, and then had the remaining sentry escort him back to his hut. The orderlies arrived as they were leaving, none too carefully tossing the remains of corporal Fry onto a canvas stretcher to carry him away. As he made his way down the hill with his escort in tow, Michael O’Malley began to consider the labors now before him. He still had to do his best to root out a possible traitor in their midst--at the request of a gathering of fellow prisoners the commander of Camp Ford would very likely disapprove of. Of course, he was also now commissioned indirectly and unofficially by that same commander of Camp Ford to find the real culprit behind the murder of corporal Fry--and if he didn’t poor ‘Rooster’ would serve as the sacrificial lamb in just two days time.

With a groan, Michael O’Malley began to wonder if perhaps he was cursed.

*****

He realized that ‘cursed’ was indeed the proper term when the next morning O’Malley was accosted by Peel, whilst waiting in the chow line. The cold and accusatory manner of Peel was sharp, even for a man not known as warm and cuddly.

“So, you’ve met with Colonel Allen then?” he said with hard eyes, bumping roughly into O’Malley from behind and he cut into the line. It looked like the man who had been budged in line thought to make issue with Peel for a moment, but then thought better of it.

“Word gets around fast, don’t it?” responded O’Malley with a grunt.

“Oh yeah, don’t think we don’t know everything.”

O’Malley looked back at Peel. “Careful now lad, I might think ye are accusing me of something’! If you knew everything, you’d know why I met the Colonel and that I didn’t choose to do so--I was summoned.”

Peel frowned, but nodded in acceptance. “Well, don’t worry yourself. The committee has decided to suspend your investigations for now.”

“They did what? When did this happen?”

Peel grinned in a way O’Malley found curiously feral for a man he had never felt at odds with previously. “This morning, I’m afraid. It was thought that with young Beyer to worry about, and your private conversations with Colonel Allen--that perhaps it was for the best.”

O’Malley frowned but said nothing, realizing that their conversation was beginning to draw attention around them. He would take this up with Robinson later, and try to understand what was going on. What had made the Escape Committee believe he could possibly be up to something behind their backs? It had been they who had pushed for him to take charge of the investigation to begin with! He regretted the nagging suspicion which told him that Peel was in some way involved in this turn of events--but why? What had he done to draw such ire from the man? For now, he would have to ignore this new trouble; he had work to do in clearing ’Rooster’ of the murder charge. Peel wandered off, vanishing around the corner of one of the nearby buildings.
“That fellow seems an ass.” said the man behind O’Malley suddenly with a smile. O’Malley just nodded and left the chow line to visit ’Rooster’ in the guardhouse. He didn’t feel hungry anymore anyway.

*****

The guardhouse was not far from the Colonel’s house, as well as the barracks where the soldiers that guarded them quartered. He was accosted several times by sentries seeking to know why he felt he had any right to see someone in the guardhouse--that is until he mentioned the Colonel. It would seem that although he suggested he was to be largely uninvolved, the Colonel had at least made it clear that if a prisoner--
Sergeant by rank and Irish by nationality--asked to see the man being held in the guardhouse, he was to be afforded respect and admittance. Smiling as a burly corporal opened the door to the small building which passed for a guardhouse, O’Malley walked in to find ‘Rooster’ a bit worse for the wear but otherwise well.

“How’d you get in here?” asked a surprised ‘Rooster’ getting up from the straw tick in the corner to greet him.

“Influence son, influence.” chuckled O’Malley with a wink. “Don’t get too excited yet though lad, you’re in trouble sure--an’ unless I can find them what done the deed, you’ll pay the piper!”

‘Rooster’ looked serious and nodded. He turned away towards the wall and leaned against it facing away from his friend. “I know, the corporal was telling me all about that this morning with breakfast.”  O’Malley reached out and turned his friend around to face him.

“Then you know why we haven’t a moment to waste! Tell me what happened last night--everything you can remember.” For a moment ‘Rooster’ frowned, and then he sat down and began. O’Malley paced the floor as he listened to his young friends’ account of the events the night before. It seemed that indeed, in the dead of the night corporal Fry had turned up to harass him. Surprisingly, he had only taunted and cursed him, though ‘Rooster’ had been certain when he saw Fry he was sure to be beaten while locked up and helpless. After a few moments, Fry seemed to catch sight of someone just out of sight behind where ‘Rooster’ was tied up and called out in a loud whisper--”Here now, what do you want?”--before stepping out of the field of view afforded to a man locked in the stocks. Fry seemed to be gone for only some few minutes when ‘Rooster’ heard a strangled grunt, and then suddenly felt the lock bar of the stocks loosed behind him. He never saw another person, but experimenting with his suspicion of the bar being unlocked, he struggled for some minutes and worked his way free. He had literally stumbled over the body of Fry in the shadows, and realizing that the man was dead cried out in surprise. This seems to have been what had brought the guards who discovered him leaning over the body of one of their own and assumed, understandably, that they had caught him in the act. As to the identity of the person who had distracted Fry and clearly drawn him to his death, ‘Rooster’ hadn’t a clue. It was an awful situation, and though O’Malley felt serious despair over the lack of anything to suggest who actually had done murder on corporal Fry, he tried not to show it. It didn’t work.

“It’s pretty hopeless Mick” said ‘Rooster sitting down and wringing his hands, “I don’t know that there is much to go on.”

“Maybe, but I have to do what I can for you. I don’t know that it helps any, but that Colonel Allen knows ye didn’t do it--he as much told me so last night.”

“That will be a great comfort when they hang me, Mick.” O’Malley smiled sadly at his friend, but said nothing. What was there to be said? He clapped ‘Rooster’ on the shoulder, and called for the guard to let him out. Stepping back into the light of day, O’Malley shaded his eyes briefly from the sun, and turning his head saw Peel. At first, he thought that Peel was skulking around after him trying to dig up more dirt for the escape committee, and the sudden distrust the Iowan was fermenting against him. But then he realized with a shock that sergeant Peel was in fact making his way to the Colonel’s home; to the heart of the administrative center of the camp. O’Malley stood dumbfounded, realizing that Peel hadn’t seen him. As he watched, the man made his way to the sentry, spoke for a moment before being allowed forward. He walked up the short stairs and in through the wide door with an ease that did not suggest he had been summoned or even that this was his first time through that door. When the door closed behind Peel and he had gone from sight, O’Malley stood pondering. He felt a weight in the pit of his stomach, and a light queasiness washed over him. His mind buzzed with the theories, and possible meanings of all that had transpired. He felt a sudden sensation of overwhelming pressure, and inwardly he ranted that he should face such responsibilities. He had never claimed to be terribly clever; nor had he ever considered himself so. Now he faced the confusing motivations of the events at hand, and he feared he would not prove able to handle them. He forced himself to relax, took a breath and tried very hard to consider the facts at hand, one tangled string at a time.

Peel was a member of the escape committee, not one of the founding members but early enough along that it was very hard to imagine he had been deliberately planted amongst them by the enemy. There had been a number of escapes that had ended in failure since O’Malley had come to Camp Ford, but not all of them had had the blessing or assistance of the committee either. Men sometimes just tried their own luck, without going through the loose hierarchy of the organized resistance to their capture. As such he couldn’t imagine any easy way to look for any pattern that might point the finger towards an insider’s involvement in the committee. Sure, there was known to be someone within the camp that was aiding the administration; O’Malley’s short lived investigation had been about just such a person. But no one had ever considered the possibility that the leak was in the committee itself.

O’Malley scratched his chin, feeling the rough stubble, and hit a mental roadblock. Peel himself had been the one that had pushed fervently in the meeting that any traitor be silenced, and had even offered his assistance. Could that have been to keep himself abreast of O’Malley’s findings, and head off anything that might incriminate him? Or was Peel’s meeting with the Colonel simply unfortunate coincidence misconstrued as his own had been? Was Sergeant Peel simply misconstruing the conversation he had had with the colonel the night of the murder (where had he heard about that, he wondered? Camp gossip he supposed) as some complicity with the enemy, which would explain the Iowan’s sudden turn in opposition to him?

There we two things--O’Malley realized with sudden clarity--that he could do to begin unraveling this mess. He could wait for Peel to leave the colonel’s residence and then confront him directly. While the thought of the confrontation with the man who had besmirched his name gave him a slight feeling of joy, he also realized that if Peel was somehow involved with murder (and God knows what else) he would simply be tipping his hand. No, the smarter move would be to begin with the other members of the committee, where all of this had begun. With a sudden sense of confidence, O’Malley turned and set off towards the hospital.

*****

“I don’t have time to talk to you right now sergeant, I have a man in there who has allowed a wound on his toe to corrupt and--” said hospital steward T.J. Robinson who was forced to abruptly stop when O’Malley placed his hand across the doorway blocking the other man’s path.

“I appreciate ye are busy, but this won’t wait.” smiled the Irishman. Robinson sighed, rolled his eyes and nodded in surrender.

“Fine, two minutes then. Come into the office.” The “office” turned out to be little more than a closet sized room with a small desk and two very wobbly old chairs, a makeshift shelf and what appeared to be the hospitals meager and guarded medicine stores. As soon as the door was closed, Robinson sat and gave O’Malley a look that suggested he intended to enforce the time limit.

“Well, what is so blasted important?”

“Why was I pulled from the investigation?”

Robinson got a sheepish look, and sat forward in his seat. “Sorry about that Mike, but we had to take precautions.”

“Ye all about shoe-horned me into that job in the first place, and then ye just shut me down because I got dragged off to talk to Allen on account my good friend seems a sure fit for a murder!”

Now Robinson looked confused. “We didn’t shut you down, we decided simply to postpone until this matter with Beyer is concluded. Didn’t Peel tell you that?”
O’Malley paced the few steps possible and kicked the leg of the empty chair. “Peel made out that you all had decided I was colluding with the enemy, and had pulled me for fear of my loyalties! Did you know that?” Robinson stood up and put a hand on O’Malley’s shoulder.

“No, no--I had no idea Mike! That wasn’t the point at all that the committee reached when we heard about Beyer! We thought the colonel might try to use poor Beyer’s situation to lean on his friends--looking for information on goings on amongst the prisoners in exchange for vague promises of clemency. To be honest none of us thought that likely with you, but we postponed the investigation to ensure everyone’s safety. Peel must have misunderstood.”

A sudden thought came into O’Malley’s head, and he scratched his head. “Wait--you pulled me from the investigation--”

“Postponed it..”

“--right, postponed the investigation because of Beyer being accused of murder. Not because I met with Colonel Allen the night Fry was discovered killed?”

Robinson nodded. “Peel told us about that meeting, and that was when Felman realized the potential danger to us all if the colonel tried to put pressure on you using Beyer’s fate as leverage. Beyond that--as far as I understood--your meeting with Colonel Allen was understood to have been anything but clandestine.”

“Yet somehow, Peel came away feeling I was cooperating with the administration of the camp. Not only that, but he suggested that such was the opinion of the committee as well.”

Robinson looked uncomfortable, clearly putting together the facts and not liking how they seemed to fit. It wasn’t exactly enough to say for certain that Peel was up to something, but then it also raised enough doubts as to warrant a good sit down chat with him. “I’m sure he just misunderstood the situation Mike--but I think we need to have a talk with Sergeant Peel. Any Idea where he is?”

O’Malley hadn’t meant to hold this card until the end this way, but now he almost felt some pleasure in the surprise his words wrought. “Last I saw Sergeant Peel, he was going into the colonel’s residence.”

There was a knock at the door, and one of the volunteers that served as an orderly poked his head in. “Hughes is waiting with his toe. I think I could take this one, if you need me too?” Robinson nodded and smiled at the man.

“Thanks James, if you could I would appreciate it. I’ll need you and Bill to mind shop until I can get back--I have to tend to a serious case which the sergeant here has just brought to my attention.”

They left without a further word between then, and suddenly O’Malley felt a slight pang of unease. What if they were wrong about Peel, and it was just an odd pattern of unrelated coincidence? Maybe he had somehow insulted Peel, and this was simply a childish bit of mud slinging for some slight real or imagined. His doubts evaporated though when Robinson finally broke the silence between them, stopping briefly at the shanty that Smythe and Felman resided in.

“I wish I was more sure--I mean, what if we’re wrong?” said O’Malley quietly as they stopped before the door. The normally calm Robinson turned and shot a nervous glance towards O’Malley.

“It was Peel that we sent to spread the word of the false escape attempts with Lea and Borland. I need to be sure, but I think it may have been Peel who also originally floated their names as possible collaborators to Felman, who brought it to the committee. Felman will have his notes, so we can be sure.”

“What would that mean though?” asked O’Malley, trying to take it all in.

“It may well mean that you found our traitor after all Mike--and he might have been one of us all along.” Robinson knocked loudly three times, and kicked the dirt.

“But, why? I mean, what was the motivation?” asked O’Malley. Before Robinson said another word, Smythe opened the door and smiled in greeting. His smile fell away quickly though as Robinson’s expression made clear this wasn’t a social call.

“We need to discuss something Smythe, fetch Felman and his notes.”

*****

“I surmise--from that fact that you are here at this time of the day when no doubt you were seen--that you have something important to tell me?” asked Colonel Allen as he sat behind his desk, tapping his slender fingers on the blotter. His guest smiled, but it was immediately apparent to Allen that this bravado was bluff. He was scared, plain and simple. The colonel sighed deeply, and turned his gaze at the plaster ceiling above. “Well, let’s have it then--what have you to tell me?

His guest looked around the office, a small but comfortable space. “I have information that you will find very interesting.”

Colonel Allen sat upright, taking in this spineless excuse for a man and hating himself for stooping to such levels to maintain the camp. He lamented briefly, as he so often did, that an officer of his quality should be reduced to such a posting. The place wore away at dignity and honor on both sides--and it seemed the harder you tried to stay above the petty, dirty requirements of running a prisoner camp, the more you resorted to the very same unsavory methods. Dishonorable approaches to duty such as informants; men willing to sell out their own comrades in arms to ensure they had a little more than everyone else. This man was no exception. But despite how he might feel as a soldier, Allen knew his duty very well. “Let me guess. I suspect you have names of those who have organized to support and promote escape from my post? I seem to recall asking if you had any knowledge of such a rumored group previously, and now you just happen to have found out something?”

His guest cocked his head to one side, and seemed to consider his answer before speaking. “I have my reasons colonel, and this seems a good time.”

“Well then, the names?” said the colonel, grasping a pen in hand and laying a clean sheaf of paper before him as he inked the nib and prepared to write.

“I need some assurances first colonel, and your word on the deal.” responded his guest firmly. Colonel Allen set his pen down, and considered the man before him. He was still trying very hard to mask a sense of urgency and threat to himself, and had not Allen the keenly honed instincts he possessed the act might have worked.

What was it then, thought the colonel. This man had been a reliable source of information for several months on planned escape attempts, allowing for safe capture of over 15 men without incident. He had given them names in a well organized theft and smuggling ring amongst some of the New Yorkers--the conclusion of which had finally explained where a steady stream of the officers mess supplies had been disappearing too. Those times, he had betrayed no emotion expect a veiled pleasure at reporting what he knew--like the tattle-tail sibling that catches out the normally puritanical older sister or brother. But not this time. What had happened to change his approach?

“I think I have always been true to my word with you,” said Allen nodding to the man.

“You have, but this time what I know is worth a lot more. If I tell you, I will need more than extra privileges. I will need some protection.”

Protection? Ah, so they know about you, or you suspect they know.

“Fear of reprisal then?”

The man nodded, but Allen felt sure it was even more than that. This fellow was in deep, that much as clear. Playing two sides against the middle? Clearly, he had conducted games for which he no longer felt disposed to pay the wager. The colonel debated his options, feeling reluctant to reward this coward for his duplicitous actions. Of course, those actions were in the ultimate service of the Confederacy, but Allen still could not fully reconcile himself with that.

“Perhaps I simply cut you loose, since an informant under protection is hardly able to gather further information. What use would you be to me?”

The man looked wide-eyed back at him, his lip trembling slightly. He looked around, as though someone might be watching, and leaning forward.

“I can give you the name of the man who truly killed your man Fry.” Now, he truly had Allen’s attention, but he had to be sure that this man wasn’t simply doing anything to save himself, suggesting he knew something he really didn’t.

“If that is so, you might know something about the particulars of the killing too.” responded the colonel calmly, staring into the mans eyes. “You’d know, for instance that the corporal was beaten with something heavy--dragged out before the stocks and left in the dirt.”

The man blinked, swallowed hard and shook his head.

“His throat was cut, with a shiv improvised from a mess spoon. I don’t know about after that, but when I saw him he was left where--where the fella I saw do it jumped him.”

Colonel Allen leaned back, his hands over his mouth and nodded. This man knew. Looking him over quietly, Allen nodded. “Alright, you have my word--I’ll find a way to protect you--but you will have to tell me everything. Agreed?”

A look of relief washed over the mans face, and he sighed loudly. “Of course, everything--anything you want.”

So, who?” asked the colonel impatiently.

“Sergeant Peel. It was Peel who killed Fry, I was there and I saw it happen.”

Allen let that awareness settle, then went on. “Why, what was his reason? Why were you both there?”

The man shifted uncomfortably for a moment, before answering. “We were on our way back from meeting a sergeant over in commissary--we had a deal with him for luxuries. We ran into Fry by mistake, but Peel wasn’t about to let the chance meeting go by--we used to work with him, but business with Fry had gone sour. Fry had started demanding a bigger cut from the proceeds for our operation--Peel went crazy and told him off. Fry threatened to blow our whole deal to you if Peel didn’t come around and gave him a couple of days to think about it. That’s how Peel lured him over to talk, when we saw him taunting ‘Rooster’ in the stocks. When he got close, well--Frank went crazy! He had Fry in his hands so quick I couldn’t believe it! He kept muttering that it was no different than cutting a hogs throat--I want to be sure he doesn’t find out I told you this. He’ll kill me, I know it!”
The colonel motioned for calm, and realized this man was being truthful. He stood, came over and patted the mans shoulder. “ We’ll see what we can do.”

At that moment there was a knock to the door, and his aide stepped in a short way. Colonel Allen looked over, straightening up to his full height.

“What is it, captain?”

Captain Saunders had the kind of face that never seemed to change in expression no matter what he said. “Colonel, there is a prisoner here with one of your passes who would like to see you.” Colonel Allen had issued numbered and personally signed passes to his few informants in the camp to allow them to make their way through the internal guard posts. This of course allowed the informants to secretly report to him after dark and avoid being discovered as traitors amongst their own people. With an uncomfortable shock, he realized that this was how Peel and the cowering man in his office now had affected their illegal enterprises which had ended in murder.

“Who is it Captain?” asked the colonel, suddenly trying to stifle his surprise as the waiting informant shouldered his way past captain Saunders  and looked from him to the man seated.

Peel frowned as he looked from the colonel to the now blubbering man seated next to him.

“Oooh…..Frank…..I…I didn’t…..” babbled the man softly, but Frank Peel interrupted him.

“Well, hello colonel--Felman, what a surprise to see you here.”

*****

“I haven’t seen Charlie since earlier today when Frank Peel was over.” said Smythe with a shrug.

O’Malley and Robinson looked at one another, while Smythe looked confused.

“Peel was here?” asked Robinson.

“He was, and not in the best of moods. Sometimes I think I know that man, and then he shows up like he did today! I’m surprised you two couldn’t hear them arguing!”

“Arguing?” asked O’Malley quizzically.

“Yes, Felman and Peel really got into it over something---I never did quite figure out what it was about--but whatever it was Charlie left here shaken.”
O’Malley sat back on the rickety wooden chair he had been offered inside the hut and closed his eyes. He was very tired, and his arm was stiff and painful. He was tired of this puzzle, and realized with dread that he still had no idea who had actually killed corporal Fry. It was Monday afternoon, and he was out of time. Robinson was groaning to himself, and O’Malley heard him stand up and start pacing.

“My God Smythe! Felman and Peel? I mean, is it possible?” said Robinson suddenly with a clear burst of exasperation. Smythe, for his part not yet acquainted with what any of this was about, said nothing. O’Malley opened his eyes and hung his head.

“We can’t assume nothing’ yet Robinson.”

“Can’t we?” rounded Robinson. “We got those names through Felman from Peel. Peel comes here earlier, they argue and now we cant find either of them. What is, those two were both working something on the side and needed Lea and Borland out of their way? Competition conveniently sidelined? Or, were they trying to throw us off the scent of the real traitors since they knew we in the committee suspected we had a leak?”

Now Smythe looked very attentive, and he clearly had begun to piece what they were talking about together for himself.

“Do you mean,” he said quietly, “that the Felman and Peel might have been giving information to the enemy all a long?”

O’Malley nodded. “Its looks so.”

“We have no idea really, but it’s clear they were up to something. We need to find them.” said Robinson as he took up a place on an empty chair. Suddenly there was a knock at the door and Fitzgerald strode in purposefully.

“O’Malley, there you are--Robinson too. You’re both wanted up at the colonels office, they didn’t say why they wanted either of you.” said Fitzgerald, looking a little nervous as his red hair nearly glowed in the dusky light of the hut.

O’Malley and Robinson look at one another, various thoughts of the possible reason for their being summoned running through their minds--none of them good. Smythe and Fitzgerald watched them go, wondering when they might next see their friends--and if there might be a summons for their names next.

*****

When they approached the colonel’s house, it was clear that something was going on. There were extra guards on the front porch, and every one of them was alert in a way rarely seen day to day. The pair exchanged a look as they paused briefly, before starting on toward the last gate and entry into the administration compound.
“So, what do ye think it is they want us for?”

Robinson frowned as they walked on towards the waiting sentries.

“I don’t know Mike, though I am sure you are thinking the same as I as far as possibilities.”

“Yeah, that with Felman involved in something--an’ if that something be ratting to the enemy--the whole committee might be asked to join this little party.”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

The sentry stopped them at the gate of the unpainted picket fence and asked their business. When they gave their names, the sentry called out to another standing nearby and had them escorted to the colonel’s house. A sensation of tightness, as though he was being squeezed into a small space came over O’Malley as he passed the group of sentries arrayed on the porch. He began to say a silent prayer for all those he knew, and an apology to poor ‘Rooster’ for whom he felt at a loss to do anything now. They passed into the hall, with their escort behind them and suddenly both men were confused by what greeted them. The smell of blood was sickeningly apparent, more to Robinson who was used to such things in Hospital, but the tang of it stung O’Malley just as much. They passed into the office, and there matters became clearer and yet more confused. Peel was dead, having been shot through the head near the colonel’s desk. Felman too was here, slumped forwards over a chair nearby. They could not tell how he had died, but a cruel looking shiv laying nearby gave them a strong suggestion. A captain, judging by his uniform, lay along the wall near the door. He too had clearly been stabbed, and the gash across his throat was testament to the violence that had played out here. Their eyes fell on the colonel at last, who was sitting at his desk, a small pocket revolver laying before him amongst his papers. He looked up at them, taking his eyes from the body of Peel, and sat up straight.

“You may wait outside private.”

The sentry obeyed, and closed the door behind them. O’Malley and Robinson stepped forward, trying to avoid the dark pools of blood.

“Sad state of affairs, isn’t it?”

The pair looked about at the carnage, and for the first time O’Malley began to wonder if Colonel Allen had snapped and done this himself. But a close examination showed the pain and distress in the colonel’s eyes, and he realized that if anything Allen was more disgusted by this scene and perhaps close to breaking down.

“What, what happened here colonel?” asked Robinson looking around.

“The sins of a man come back to roost gentlemen, even if those sins are done in the service of his duty and with all honorable intent.” responded the colonel, before stepping over to a window and opening it wide to allow fresh air into the room. He stood there a moment before launching into the story of what had gone before.

When Peel had discovered Felman in the colonel’s office, he had gone mad and attacked his fellow conspirator before anyone could stop him. No one had thought to search Peel for weapons--because of the pass he carried given to him by the Allen--and so he made quick work of the blubbering Felman. Captain Saunders had fallen next, in trying to subdue Peel. Allen felt sure that surely he would also have joined the dead had he not withdrawn to his desk and produced his pocket revolver from the drawer. Even so, Allen said, Peel had charged with a wild look in his pale blue eyes. The shot had brought the sentries outside, but it was already too late.

“And so gentlemen, it seems that in the pursuit of my duty I have abated such monsters in my own camp. It was Peel, at admission from Felman that killed corporal Fry. I have ordered Private Beyer to be released, Sergeant O’Malley--hence the reason I summoned you.”

O’Malley and Robinson looked at one another, working through all that they had been told.

“Thank ye Sir,” said O’Malley, “and Robinson?”

The colonel looked at Robinson as though it was the first time he had seen him in the room, nodded and returned to his desk. “Oh, yes…the steward--I understood you kept a list of those who died within camp, and knew you’d want to be made aware of your men. Will you take charge of them? I will attach several men to assist you in moving them.”

Robinson did his best not to show his relief, and nodded. “Yes Sir, thank you very much.”

The colonel nodded in return, reached down amongst his papers and offered one to O’Malley. The Irishman stepped forward and took it, discovering that it was an order of release for ‘Rooster’. The colonel then scribbled a note on a sheet of paper and signed it, before waving Robinson over.

“Give this to the sergeant outside, and he will detail you the men to move these bodies. Tell him also I want a second detail to be made up to get this office cleaned up.”

“Yes Sir, thank you Sir.” Robinson saluted the colonel, and Allen returned it. The pair left the room, sighing relief to themselves. When they had gone, Colonel Allen opened a drawer and put the revolver away. From a second drawer he took out a small stack of passes, and examined them for a moment before tearing them in two and tossing their remains into the small stove across the room.

O’Malley smiled heartily at ‘Rooster’ when he came out of the guardhouse, covering his eyes from the light.

“I suppose this means I owe you now, huh?” asked ‘Rooster’ with a scowl which was quickly replaced by a smile.

“Ye can do me laundry for the next month, then we’re square.”

“Good, then at least I can be sure no one is stinking up the hut--I got used to clean upkeep whilst the colonel had me at a guest in the ‘Ford Hotel’ here.”

The pair laughed, and made their way through the ramshackle streets of Camp Ford. Somewhere, a crowd clapped and roared with laughter as they watched the Ohio boys in their newest show.

 

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Unspoken Wounds


Looking up as he crossed the wide, muddy street of late April, Daniel Dills felt a part of him relax which had been screwed up in knots for days. Not that anyone around him really would have known this, since he had never been much for sharing his inner thoughts. Age had afforded Daniel little inspiration to part from this course of habit, but had rather had afforded improved abilities for camouflaging the turmoil within himself. But he thought, I can find peace amongst those who understood without any explanation. He could spend an hour amongst them, knowing that these men knew what he still sometimes saw when his dreams became demons which robbed him of sleep. They knew because many of them had seen as he had. Many had experience equal or worse than his own had been. It was the unspoken wound; one that could not be seen or understood in the same way that the loss of a leg or eye could be. He stepped up upon the wooden walk as a large farm wagon rattled past, eyeing the well painted sign over the door--” ‘Robson’ Post 5, G.A.R.”--and smiled to himself. He winced briefly with a painful stillness in his legs and decided that getting older was often exasperating. If only he felt old, he thought. He opened the creaky front door and was greeted by several of those older men clustered around one of the tables in the room. Pipe smoke drifted thickly out the door passed him, and like some kind of fountain of youth--Daniel Dills felt the weight of his troubles evaporate from his body. Shuffling over the threshold, he closed the door and slipped his hat over one of the pegs on the wall.

“Dan, you looking a little stiff there today.” said the mustached younger man who was tending the plain, but well stocked bar.

Dills smiled and shook his head as he stepped over and tapped his calloused palm upon the rosewood bar top. “Just taking my time coming in for your overpriced, watered down drinks Roger.”

Roger smiled gap-toothed, and brushed his mustache with a chuckle. “Now you’re hurting my feelings, Dan.”

“You never had any feeling Roger,” Daniel laughed and smiled crookedly, “how are you today?”

Roger considered a glass he had taken from below the counter and poured dark liquor into it before placing it before the old man at his counter.

“I’m good today Dan. But you remember our deal! If the Doc comes around and sees you with that--I DID NOT give it to you, YOU HELPED YOURSELF when I wasn’t looking.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Cause I don’t want another one of those lectures of his, like the last time!”

Dills nodded emphatically and patted Rogers hand with his own. “Yes, yes my boy, I know. Doctor Blackmer means well, but he always was long winded even in the old days.” Roger nodded, and resumed some work he had counting bottles and checking inventory. Dills, taking the glass before him in his hand, sipped the dark liquor and sighed with pleasure. “Good--all the more so for being so illicit. Between the Doctor and my Rebecca, this drink here is down right sinful!”

Roger smiled and wagged his finger. “I figure you’ve earned it, which is why I gave it to you, but just you remember if anyone catches you…”

“Yes, I helped myself--I do recall.” Interrupted Dills with a wink, as he took another sip. Looking up, Daniel noted again the broadside for the upcoming encampment hosted by the G.A.R.--the Grand Army of the Republic--an organization of chapters set up for the veterans of the war by those men who had often longed for the company of their brother soldiers after the conflict had ended. For many members, the G.A.R. was mostly a social institution; while for others it assured the collective grievances of the wounded and maimed from the war did not fall on deaf ears. For some, it was a place where one could find men who understood the difficulties of going from the army and a war, to the oddities of civilian life. For Daniel Dills, this was where he can to find his center again; and escape his well meaning but sometimes nagging wife. At regular intervals, the G.A.R. would host encampments and even ‘sham battles’ for those members who wanted to relieve the “glory days”. Dills had yet to attend one of these, and had always suspected that those members most excited about the battles in particular had likely seen little real combat during the actual war.

“So, you thinking of going to this one? They say it could be a good sized one, especially since it’s in the capital and all.” asked Roger, breaking Dills from his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The encampment, in St. Paul this year. I thought perhaps you were thinking about going this year.”

Dills stared at Roger briefly, and shrugged. “We’ll see. I think I may be too old for the cold ground anymore.”

“I know Charlie is talking about going, so I thought maybe you might too.”

Dills sat up. “My son? Whatever is he thinking of? That boy has always had too much fire to his blood for his own good.”

Roger smiled and resumed his work, whilst Dills quietly berated his son in absentia. Charles H. Dills had been the one who had initiated the whole affair to begin with. It was 1862, and without warning, 17 year old Charles H. Dills had enlisted as a soldier after he had run across Tim Sheehan and Francis Hall whilst they were recruiting for company C. When the news was broken, Daniel had been encouraged strongly by his wife Rebecca that it was his duty to join up as well to look after “their patriotically impetuous” son. Charles, Daniels younger brother had decided to go along as well--and so they had ended up as soldiers in company C of the 5th Minnesota, off to fight the rebels and secession. Now his son was thinking about trekking all the way out to St. Paul for some grab for the old days, when his wife Jessie needed him at home on the farm with his two young children. He would have to knock some sense into that boy, and remind him of his responsibilities. Dills looked into his glass, still half full, and noted the aged reflection staring back at him.

Was that really the reason he was angry that Charles Henry might go to the G.A.R. encampment, or was it his own trouble with his memories of those days? His own inability to so far attend a single event, for fear of the feelings it might dredge into the light of day? It had been 15 years since he had been mustered out of the army for medical issues--chronic dehydration and diarrhea during the start of that horrible siege outside the town of Vicksburg--and still he had rarely spoken of his experiences. He wondered why Charles Henry seemed to be so uninhibited about the war, especially given that he had served through to the end and undoubtedly had seen equal horrors. The door opened behind him, and Dills turned to see his brother’s son, Irving, scamper over and grab a hold of his sleeve. His nephew was 10 years old, and the spitting image his father. Dills started to explain that he was just holding the drink in his hand for a friend, when he realized Irving wasn’t paying any attention. His eyes were serious and wet.

“Uncle Daniel! Pa wants you quick, Mama is not doing well!” said the boy, on the edge of panic. Daniel knew that Irving’s mother Maria (who happened to also be the sister of his own wife Rebecca) had been in poor health, but this seemed much more serious than he expected. He followed the boy out as fast as he could, asking questions as they went.

“Did you fetch your Aunt?”

“Yes Sir, Pa went looking for you and Aunt Rebecca at the house first. He took her over and sent me along to collect you up!”

Daniel patted Irving on the shoulder, trying to reassure the boy as best as he could that everything would be fine. Daniel felt his attempts come to naught later that night, when Maria died quietly in the throes of a fever. He comforted his wife for the loss of his sister, holding her close as she sobbed loudly into his chest. Irving looked back at his uncle Daniel once, before turning back to keep vigil over the body of his mother.

They buried Maria shortly after, and for two weeks following Irving and his 21 year old sister Adel stayed with Daniel and his wife on their farm. His brother Charles felt he needed a period of solitude on the farm he had built in Bancroft with his wife, and it seemed a reasonable request. Rebecca seemed determined to ensure every need was met for his sister’s children, to the point that Irving began to seek escape by hiding in the outbuildings. So it was that one day, as Daniel was working in the granary, he was startled by the youthful voice of his nephew from the loft above.

“Hey Uncle Daniel.”

“You took me by surprise Irving!” responded Dills as he moved so he could peer up to where the boy was situated. He was snuggled amongst some grain sacks, only the top of his light brown hair visible. “What are you doing up there then?”

“Hiding.”

“Oh, I see. You look like you are doing a fine job of it. What are you hiding from then?”

“Aunt Rebecca was pestering me. I know she means well, but--I just wanted to hide for awhile.”

Daniel Dills nodded as he looked up at the tuft of hair her could just glimpse. “I understand Irving; sometimes a fellow needs to be alone. I find myself hiding from your Aunt out here myself sometimes.”

There was silence for a few moments before Irving said quietly, “Don’t tell her you saw me, okay Uncle Daniel?”

Daniel Dills nodded and raised his hand in the approximation of a solemn oath.

“I promise I won’t.”

Resuming his inspection of his hay forks for cracks and splits in the wooden handles, Daniel Dills had almost forgotten the boy when he spoke again.

“Uncle Daniel--”

“Yes Irving?”

“You and my Pa are brothers, right?”

Daniel nodded to himself as he resumed his inspection. “We are, Irving, brothers, like it or not.”

There was a pregnant pause before the boy spoke again.

“Being his brother and all, you must know all about him then.”

Daniel stopped his work, and shuffled over to where he could see that tuft of hair again in the loft above before he responded.

“Irving, climb up here where I can see you proper.” He said, waiting as the boy’s ruddy face popped into view over the edge of the loft.

“Why”, asked Daniel curiously, “are you asking what I know about your Pa?”

The boy looked sheepish a moment, a flash of sorrow behind the eyes that tore to the heart of Daniels soul and made him sorry he asked. But the boy answered, and though his voice was quiet it did not break with emotion.

“With Mama and all--it’s just, I don’t know much about Pa--is why I asked.”  The boy looked away, as though he were reluctant to explain himself further. Daniel understood though, and his heart went out to the boy. Irving was only 10 after all; his closest sibling in age was his 21 year old sister Adel, and after that his brother Clark, 29 years old. Irving, now bereft of his mother, was trying to feel closer to his father. He probably didn’t quite know where he fit into the scheme of things with his 57 year old father.

“Have you ever asked your Pa about any of this?” asked Daniel, trying to gauge his brother’s relationship with his young son.

Irving shook his head, and rested his chin on folded arms. “Yes Sir, but Pa was always so busy with the chores and such. I think he was troubled for Mama‘s bad health of late too.”

Daniel Dills had been many things throughout his life, but the older he got the softer his way seemed to become for children. Perhaps it was due to the turmoil of his own youth, or advancing senility and the infirmities of age. Whatever the answer, Daniel sighed, smiled crookedly and took a seat with a grunt of stiff joints upon a nearby barrel.

“What is it you want to know about your Father?”

Irving smiled brightly and sat up, looking happier than he recalled seeing in some time. It was then that Daniel saw a flicker of Charles Henry in the face of the boy above him, just a momentary glimpse of another moment in this same building some years before.

*****

“Charles Henry Dills! Where are you boy! God help me, where are you?” shouted 44 year old Daniel Dills, as he stormed into the granary and kicked a coating of snow from his boots in frustration.

“Up here Pa, look up.” said his 17 year old son from above in the loft. He appeared over the edge with a wary smile, and that look of wild determination Daniel knew only too well.

“What have you done? Do you realize it is illegal for you to join the army at 17?”

“They let me sign up Pa, they put this paper in my shoe and--”

“Don’t you realize this isn’t some game? This is a war, boy! A WAR! Serious as anything and twice as lethal! Do you want to get shot dead?”

“Oh Pa, with my luck it’ll be over before I even get a chance to shoot a rebel!”

Daniel growled his frustration, pacing back and forth below his son as the February wind howled outside in the yard.

“I don’t want you to do this Charlie.” said Daniel at last, staring hard at his son. But as he knew from the look on the young man’s face from the start, Charles Henry had made up his mind.

“I respect you Pa, and I know you abide love for me as a father ought. But, I’m going to fight the rebels because I believe it is my duty.”

It was useless arguing, and Daniel knew it. He had his mothers steel will, and so there was nothing for it.
“Well, your mother won’t let you go without someone to look after you--so if you insist on doing this mad thing I shall be coming with you.” responded Daniel at last shaking his head and turning for the door to the yard. As he walked with a crunch onto the frosty ground, he heard Charles Henry call out to him in response.

“Go with me? But Pa, you’re so old!”

******

Irving had climbed down, and the two of them sat astride a pair of barrels situated in the corner of the granary. The boy smiled quietly as his uncle finished relating a story of when his father had been a little boy and made himself sick on blackberries.

“Pa still doesn’t care for them much.” added Irving with a nod.

“So, what else would you like to know about your father?” said Daniel, feeling a spot of warmth within him for making his nephew brighter than he had found him. He should have expected it, but the question caught him off guard.

“What was it like when you and Pa were in the war?” asked the boy, blinking those great brown eyes with innocent of the impact of such a question to his uncle.

Daniel sat upright, feeling torn between a desire to answer a simple question by a child and the rising sense of unease some of those memories dragged up.

“I, I don’t much talk about those days Irving. I prefer to leave them in the past.”

“My father wont talk about it either, but I can tell when he’s worried about it because that’s when he drinks all night.” said Irving matter-of-factly, revealing something Daniel hadn’t known of his own brother.

“How often does that happen?” he asked of the boy, suddenly curious.

“More often since Mama was sick. She used to try to get him to talk about it too, but he wouldn’t.” Irving was quiet a moment before he added, “some nights I would hear him tell her he didn’t know how to tell her things, and I think he would cry. I never used to believe it, until Adel told me she saw father crying in mothers lap.”

They were quiet for a long time, before Daniel Dills spoke.

“Your father was a very good soldier, Irving. He and your cousin Charles Henry were very brave, as a great many of the boys in our regiment were in the war.”

Irving looked confused a moment, but elated that at last someone was answering his questions. “Why does it make him so sad Uncle? Wasn’t it exciting to fight in the war?”

Daniel smiled sadly and shook his head, feeling himself torn apart inside with memories that seemed to be determined to escape. “War is not very exciting Irving; to be honest it’s boring a lot of the time--and then terrifying. It‘s nothing like when you may play at war with your chums in the school yard. I remember we thought it would be exciting at first too, but we learned quickly how very wrong we were.” The boy nodded quietly, leaning closer to his uncle.

*****

The sky overhead was pale blue, and the stubby clouds which drifted overhead seemed out of place in a world so fully out of control. They had all thought when they heard that the Dakota had risen up and slaughtered some settlers, that though the Indians might be fierce against un-armed farmers and their families it would be a different matter against them. Even when they had run into the first fleeing refugees who had actually witnessed attacks, their resolve remained firm. Of course, this did not mean that it did not affect them. The misery was alarming, sparking anger and rage amongst many of the men--often thinking of their own wives and children. “Don’t go on!“ the refugees often would shout up to the Lieutenant as he rode in one of the commandeered wagons they had taken from a farmer outside New Alban. “They’re all dead! If you go that way, you’ll only join them! “

“We are for Fort Ridgely” Sheehan would reply, “No Indian will keep me from my duty! “. The terror amongst these fleeing people set them all on edge, creating a sensation of anxious fear mixed with a true desire to tangle with the enemy and destroy them. The pomposity of their officer helped many of the men, Dills included, to feel immunity to the dangers before them. This was eroded slightly when they had come across refugees who were wounded, some of them grievously.

One woman, still clutching a dead child of 2 or 3 years of age, had been too much for some of them. Every one of them had seen death; it was part of the reality of life. They had seen blood and gore as well, given that a great many of them were farmers by profession and had slaughtered stock. But this was different entirely. Their eyes could not look away from the battered woman as she passed them; singing to herself in a stupor of what Daniel Dills supposed was madness. Her dress was tattered, her ankles torn by brambles in her flight. Her child lay motionless in her arms, its skull crushed and hardly recognizable in shape--but she did not seem to notice.

“Sergeant! Have some one see to that woman best you can, and then rejoin the company!” shouted Lieutenant Sheehan from his seat in the wagon. Sergeant Blackmer nodded and tapped Daniel Dills and his brother Charles and leaned in close to them as they marched behind the wagons.

“You two see what you can do for her--but don’t waste time. Off you go.” the sergeant said with a jerk of his thumb, indicating his desire for speed.  The brothers nodded, and trotted away from the column towards the woman. Daniel stopped once and looked back towards the wagon with slight hesitation. They had been ordered to deposit their muskets in the wagon, to aid in their speed in marching to Fort Ridgely and reduce the fatigue of the company. The feeling was that there was little real danger from the Dakota here, but now with the presence of the fleeing people that seemed a less and less accurate assessment.

“Come on, you heard the sergeant!” said Charles with urgency. He turned and followed his brother and they made their way to the woman.

“Pardon me Ma’Am.” said Charles as they approached the woman, but she did not appear to hear. Charles looked back at his brother. So close, they could see now that she was an attractive young woman. They could see too that the remains of the child she held with such determination appeared to have been a young boy; its little body was stiff now having been dead for at least a day. Daniel shrugged and stepped closer to the woman, reaching out a hand to touch her arm as he did.

“Ma’am, can we offer you any--” he started, but as he touched her she suddenly seemed to come alive and began to shriek at the top of her lungs. The woman started in apparent terror from them, and spun away from his touch. She ran as fast as the tall brambles here would allow, and she succeeded in tearing new strips from her soiled dress. Startled for a moment, the brothers stood dumbfounded and horrified. As the bruised young woman ran she stumbled, but was up again like a frightened animal pursued by a predator. Neither of them had ever heard some make sounds like she was--a mixture of utmost terror and anguish mixed into a wail which made the hair stand on end. Daniel felt he almost wanted to cover his ears against the sound, when another voice broke the spell.

“By God sergeant! I said aid that woman, not make her call every savage with ears down upon us!” came the shout of the Lieutenant from the wagon. The Dills brothers watched a moment before turning and rejoining the column at a run. Suddenly they did not feel themselves invulnerable or the enemy so far away.

*****

Irving looked hard at his uncle, and then reached over and took his calloused hand in his own. Daniel Dills, who realized with a shock that he had grown quiet in a moment of memory, smiled at the child.

“Sometimes when I get scared, I used to sit with Mama and talk to her.” the boy said suddenly, seeming to see right through his uncle with clarity beyond his years. Daniel swallowed hard, and sighed.

“Some things are hard to talk about, even when we grow older.”

Irving nodded with a sage look in his small face which made Daniel smile despite himself. “Cousin Charlie must be the bravest soldier ever then Uncle Daniel; on account he will tell you anything you want to know about the war.”

Daniel Dills nodded, feeling a funny mix of shame and pride for his son Charles Henry. “He always was fearless, and I suppose some men are made of harder stuff which lets them walk through fire without much hurt.” Suddenly Irving gripped his uncle’s arm.

“I didn’t mean that you and Pa weren’t brave or strong Uncle Daniel!” the boy said with obvious alarm at realizing how his words could be taken. Daniel put an arm around his nephews shoulder and squeezed. He had a sudden thought of how different he was from how his own father had been in showing his thoughts and feelings to his young nephew. Or was it just that age had mellowed him?

“No no Irving, I understood what you meant. You are an honest boy, and you speak your mind. I respect that about you. Besides, I think you are correct--your cousin Charles Henry was one of the bravest soldiers I ever saw.”

*****

The sky was grey towards evening, and many of the men felt they would have rain. Daniel Dills shifted his position again, trying to work a bit of stone where he could remove it from torturing him--no luck.

“Where are those bastards?” asked the impatient voice of Dennis Porter from further down the barricade line. His impatience was forgiven, as he was feeling a bit aggrieved after having taken buckshot in his chest and leg earlier in the day. Some suggested to him that he might want to have them removed, but old Porter had never been one to shirk or turn from a fight, so he stayed at his place. Daniel Dills wondered if he ought to worry that his own son, Charles Henry was becoming a fast companion of such a rough and ready type--but given the situation decided that it would be best to worry that relation later. They had been under assault by at least some 500 Dakota for better part of a full day, in a fort without walls. Luckily there had been enough barrels, wagons and cracker boxes handy that an improvised defense had been constructed at the corners of the posts buildings--further shored up with the batteries of the able sergeant Jones and his crews drawn from the lads of company B. Fort Ridgely was holding, but they faced serious issues. There were only about 150 of them to defend the fort, and they had no idea when they might be relieved. They had no proper ammunition stores for their muskets and had been forced in some places to use cut square nails as projectiles. In addition, there were a great number of refugee women and children in the fort, who were both terrified and seemingly determined to prove a nuisance. The tall grasses and stands of trees around the plateau upon which the fort stood provided the cunning Dakota amble ability to play their cat and mouse style of warfare to the hilt.

“Is that one?” asked someone on the barricade.

“No--wait--maybe. Watch that clump of grasses James, no to the right.” came his son’s voice. Another young man, James Honan answered him.

“Could be, and if it is--I’m about to get myself an Indian by God!”

“Careful, don’t waste your shots! We may need ‘em before long with dark coming!” said a slightly panicked voice Dills didn’t recognize.

“Aint a waste if I kill one of ‘em is it?” responded Honan defiantly. Honan’s musket discharged, a funny buzzing sound declaring that he had been loaded with one of the improvised cut nails followed by a sharp cry from the grass beyond. The echoing sound of the shot was drowned out by a cheer from their barricade, as it seemed indeed that Honan had shot an enemy. William Road, one of the men from company B stationed at the nearest barricade to theirs, trotted over at a slight crouch to see what the excitement was. He had hardly opened his mouth to ask after the celebration when concealed Dakota warriors suddenly opened fire upon them. Buckshot and round-ball sang through the air like hornets, crashing into barrels and spraying splinters. Private Road grunted loudly as a ball struck him dead center in the forehead, and he dropped hard to the ground. Charles Henry jumped up, and grabbing Road like he had many times bales of straw on the farm, started off under fire to the infirmary.

“Charles Henry!” shouted his father once, but it was of no use. His son seemed unaware of the target he had made himself, and Daniel Dills found that each time he tried to get up to follow an aimed shot would crash so close he dared not move. With his heart beating a furious cadence, he watched his son weave untouched across the open parade ground and arrive safely at the infirmary.

“He sure his one lucky bugger!” said one of the men, turning from watching Charles Henry.

“Let’s hope we all are!” responded Porter.

*****

“Did Cousin Charlie really do that?” asked an impressed 10 year old boy, leaning close.

Daniel nodded and smiled with a feeling of pride. “He did Irving. Your cousin was a very good soldier, and had a knack for being very lucky. Don’t tell your aunt I told you this--she’ll think I’m teaching you wrong on gambling--but your cousin was so lucky he even got a nickname from the boys, Full House.”

Irving, clearly innocent in the terms of such card games as poker, looked confused.

“It’s a very good hand in a gambling card game. He got that nickname because he was lucky so often, the boys wouldn’t even play against him in cards after awhile. They used to say ‘if Charlie Dills draws a hand in this game, he’ll just get a full house right off’.”

As some level of understanding dawned, the boy smiled and nodded with appreciation. “Did that man cousin Charlie carried away die, uncle?”

Dills shook his head. “Surprisingly to everyone, he didn’t. Now from where he was hit, I would not have bet against that we would be stone dead, but somehow the ounce ball that struck him bounced. Will Road always was a hard headed man though, so I suppose it figured.”

They both laughed, and Daniel Dills was suddenly aware that this felt good. He turned and looked at his nephew with a sudden and intense appreciation to this child who had somehow found his way into a place which had been locked up against exploration for some time.

“What about the others? The man who shot the Indian in the grass--and the brave man who kept fighting even after he’d been peppered with buckshot?” asked Irving with excitement.

Daniel felt a slight prick of unease, but proceeded on. “James Honan is still as brash as ever he was; he even came to our place once on furlough before the end of the war. As for Dennis Porter--I was in hospital by the time it happened, but I understand that he was captured on picket duty during the Vicksburg siege--they murdered him.”

Irving frowned, and laid a hand on his uncles own. “I’m sorry Uncle Daniel.”

Daniel Dills nodded, and patted the child’s hand. “I used to feel sadder about it, but I think maybe talking to you has made me feel a bit better.”

At that moment, there came a rap at the door of the granary, and Irving’s sister Adel shuffled in with an annoyed look on her face.

“There you are! Look, I understand Auntie Rebecca might be driving you crazy Irving--but I really need to keep studying for my exam, and without you about Auntie won’t leave me be!” Daniel nodded. Adel was a studious young woman, and was preparing to take the state exam for work as a school mistress. He took Irving by the hand, and stood up.

“It’s time we all got back to the house. Come on Irving, if you’re ready we ought to think about some supper. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds wonderful Uncle Daniel! What did you have for supper in the army days? “Irving beamed and led the way out.

“Well, it depended upon where we were at the time you understand--” responded his uncle as he went out the door. Adel, left in the wake frowned and shook her head before following them.

*****

He had practiced to himself over and over what he would say during his trip to Bancroft. The mules had listened politely, which Daniel Dills had appreciated greatly. Of course, now as he came in sight of his brother’s farm he felt that he had no idea how to say what he realized needed to be said. The previous day’s time with his young son Irving had been an awakening for him, and he realized he must seize on this feeling. Not that he had changed overnight in anyway, but some kind of healing had begun. He found Charles Dills sitting on a splitting stump in the rear yard behind the house, slumped over asleep with an empty bottle at his feet. As he approached, Charles opened his eyes only just and grunted.

“My brother.”

“You’ve been doing this a lot, from what I hear.” said Daniel, without reproach in his voice.

“Piss off.”

“I won’t.”

Charles Dills looked up at his brother with a scowl. “I’ll make you. I don’t need you here.”

“I think you’ve needed me before now, and I am sorry I came so late.”

Charles Dills grunted in anger, and stood up. But instead of going at his brother, he stalked away unsteady towards the back door of the house. Before he got there though, he staggered and fell to his knees weeping loudly. “Why Daniel!? Why must a life be so full of pain, and loss? My Maria, My God…” he trailed off and wept. Daniel moved forward, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder and kneeling with a sigh of the effort it took his aging body to move. He was suddenly moved to tears himself, remembering a moment just like this. Then it had been he that had broken down, and his brother Charles that had comforted him. That morning when the relief troops had arrived, and the siege of fort Ridgely had ended.

“Charles, come back with me tonight to the farm. Adel and Irving need you.”
They sat like that for a long while, as each wept for loss and sorrow. The emotion of the moment an overwhelming and freeing sensation at the same time.

*****

His wife shouted with joy when she saw their son Charles Henry arrive in their wagon with his wife Jessie and their two little children, Lille and John C. Rebecca scooped up Lillie and held her tight, before hugging Jessie and little baby John C. in one. It was late August, but the day was going to prove humid if the feeling in Daniel Dills joints were any real indication. He stepped out the front door and clapped the broad shoulder of his son, who smiled broadly.

“Good to see you father, is Uncle Charles here?” he asked looking around.

“He should be along soon; Adel wanted to first go by the post to see if she had any word on her exam.” Daniel answered with a smile and a chuckle. Adel had, in short, driven everyone in the family mad with her worrying and fussing while she waited to hear how she had done on her exam for the state teaching certificate. Charles Henry chuckled and they wandered over for Daniel to greet his grandchildren and daughter-in-law. He pretended to steal little 4 year old Lillie’s nose, which garnered a squeal of delight before she rushed off with grandma to see what delights awaited them for dinner. Daniel stayed with Charles Henry and helped him to unload those things they had brought to add to the repast from the wagon.

“Oh, has Jessie made her delicious--yes she has!” smiled Daniel as he peeked into a bundle and discovered his daughter-in-laws delicious apple pie.

“She made it for you, Pa.” came Charles Henry’s response.

“How was the encampment at St. Paul?” asked Daniel suddenly as they started towards the house. His son stopped dead and looked sharply at his father. The G.A.R. event had come and gone almost a month before.

“It was good--Pa, but I didn’t think you approved of such things?”

“I think your uncle Charles and I will go with you to the next one--I think it’s time.”

Charles Henry looked dumbfounded and shrugged. “Okay--I know I’d love to have you there. Lord knows a lot of the boys will be overjoyed; they ask after you both every time I have gone. But, Pa--what brought this on all of a sudden?”

Daniel smiled and shook his head. “Just the right time son; hard as it might be for your uncle and me yet. But it‘s time. Some wounds run deep; but no wound heals without tending.” Just then they heard a shout, and turned to see a jubilant crowd waving at them from a wagon heading down the road towards them. Charles was driving along at a good clip, throwing dust into the air as he went. Irving was holding on to his father but waving when he dared to let go for a moment. The most extraordinary sight though was Adel--hair flying and standing up in the back while shouting wildly--”I passed! I passed my exam!”

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Interlude at Camp Ford

“It could be worse.” said the scruffy man whose arm was bound in a dirty sling.

“How? How could it be worse?” shot back a lanky man with a large hole in the right leg of his trousers. The man in the sling started to respond but then stopped, his lips screwed up in hesitation.

“We could be in Andersonville.” posed the gruff Irishman with the sergeant stripes, “But instead, we’re at Camp Ford. It could be worse, especially if all them tales we hear is so about some of them other camps--and double so for Andersonville. We got water and the food aint too bad.” O’Malley sat back, and folded his hands in his lap. The other men in the ramshackle shelter--a “shebang” as the men called them--nodded and murmured assent. They had been imprisoned at Camp Ford for almost four months, ever since the assault on a strategic railhead had gone terribly wrong. O’Malley, along with a mixed group of men from several units had been carted across the Louisiana border some miles into Texas and interned at Camp Ford. Their new home was little more than a log palisade enclosure, set with guard towers at certain intervals along the fence. There were no structures to shelter the prisoners within, but necessity had proved the mother of invention. Scrounging from various sources, the prisoners had erected shanties for themselves. This slap-dash building meant that the camp interior was crowded and mismatched by appearance--with log huts shouldering into canvas tents, and even dug out trenches with wooden planks and canvas for roofs. Rumor had it that the camp had once been a rebel training camp before it was prison, and O’Malley felt some pity for any man who might have had to do his basic training here. Still, it wasn’t as bad as it could be, though it was crowded. Over 4000 men were now quartered in a space of about 10 acres, which had already been increased in size once due to a large influx of prisoners. So in addition to O’Malley and a handful of 5th Minnesota lads, soldiers of nearly one hundred regiments called this place home--plus an odd duck gathering of Union sailors. O’Malley smiled to himself and chuckled a little thinking of the sailors. The Navy kept to themselves, choosing to camp together in their tidy little sod and canvas hut. Keeping to oneself wasn’t really all that uncommon of course, as pretty much all the various groups by state or service did so--but none so ferociously as the New Yorkers. The “Empire Staters”, true to their Eastern “Yankee” tendencies, made their familiar bond a thing of honor amongst them and as such proved a source of aggravation for everyone else. While gambling, stealing and fighting happened amongst every group, the New Yorkers seemed to have a special gift for such activities. It was wise to give way if a group of them came ambling along, cheering their camp motto--”New York City against the world!”

Of course, the New Yorkers weren’t the only issue. There were the many officers in internment as well, which led to issues of rank and command. O’Malley scratched his head and took his time in enjoying dispatching squirming lice between his thumb and forefinger. Yes, there were a lot of officers--7 colonels; 4 majors; 48 captains; 90 lieutenants; 1 doctor (but HE was useful!) and 1 bombastic Naval captain. While honestly most of them were fine, several were downright horrid, and spent most of their time trying to devise how they might be considered as “fully in charge, and in command”. Much of the time this really didn’t matter all that much, and amounted to little more than additional brawling or factional thievery. Where it became a disaster though was when a spokesperson was required to speak to the camp commandant regarding grievances or general negotiation. It came to head at last when the New Yorkers sent their colonel to see the commandant--only to have a second colonel show from Indiana, followed by a major from Iowa and all claiming to speak for the “gathered regiments”. After that, a spokesperson was chosen for the men from amongst those officers who seemed most capable of handling the job. This of course was not the end of the issues, but at least the soldiers in general gained representation.

Their lives at Camp Ford were both dull and difficult. From time to time it would rain for days at a time, forcing them to remain within their shelters as the ground around them became soupy mud. When the rains quit, it could be become blisteringly hot and the ground would end up baked to a sandy grit which would blow about with the slightest wind. They had a makeshift hospital, but no medicine and so everyone knew that if you got seriously ill--you died. Still, the doctor and his steward T.J. Robinson did their best to relieve suffering and fight the scurvy, dysentery and diarrhea that was widespread in the camp. O’Malley flexed his left hand, trying to work the stiffness from his joints which plagued him. He had taken a bad fall in the wild moments after the confusion and terror in those last moments that they had possession of the Ward Yards; he’d healed but not fully. It could have been worse of course; he knew that certainly men he had considered friends had died or been made invalids. He wondered how Stephenson, Honan, and the Dills brothers had faired in that mess that came afterward.

“Mick”, spoke a withered looking young man from the tarp covered door way, “laundry. Come on out and boil your stuff.”

O’Malley stared at Beyer, whom the boys once called “Rooster”, and nodded. He ambled out of the hovel with the other men and began to strip his clothes. Nearby a crooked looking soddy, a big pot was boiling and naked and near naked men tossed their clothes in. An Ohio man named Miller was stirring the lot with a ragged bit of lathe board, as steam arose from a tangled mess of clothes another man was fishing out of the pot.

“Glad its laundry,” said “Rooster” at O’Malley’s elbow, “grey-backs were getting pretty bad. I wouldn’t ever thought to get lice, but this whole adventure has proven apt to expose me to many firsts.” O’Malley smiled wanly, and chuckled.

“Sometimes I have no idea what you are on about ‘Rooster’, but as to lice--well, yes it’s more than time to boil them buggers.”  No matter how they tried to keep clean, when you crowded so many men together it was inevitable that the scourge of lice and other vermin would follow. O’Malley often pondered that such was the way of the habitation of men, more so since becoming a prisoner of course since he had time to give to such things. No matter how clean they started out, put a group of men together long enough and disease and vermin would result. It begged the question then; did this prove that men--by their nature--were corruption? Michael O’Malley laughed at the absurdity of his philosophical frame of mind, and started to strip his clothes for his turn at the boiling kettle. It was hard to allow oneself deep intellectual thought when you were waiting to be deloused.

Overhead the sky was a grayish blue, reminding one of polished steel. The mood was equally heavy today, and no doubt would worsen as the morning went on. It wasn’t surprising he supposed, they were in a prison camp after all, and the battle for morale was an all consuming process. Each group within the camp had done their best to encourage high spirits, often assigning the responsibility to whoever was brave or crazy enough to take it on their shoulders. The Ohio boys had a particularly energetic pair of fellows worried with morale who seemed to know their work very well; often mustering effort equal of Titans to produce rag-tag plays and minstrel shows which worked wonders on spirits. Beyond such things, it came down to the bolstering influence of pards upon one another; and sometimes the sheer blunt effort of that imaginary force which rank has in a volunteer army. A spring breeze came up, and O’Malley shivered a little as he stood near naked and plucked a louse from the back of ‘Rooster’ who stood next to him.

“Thanks.”, said ‘Rooster’ as he rubbed his hands together trying to stay warm.

“Cheers.”, responded O’Malley as he flexed--carefully--his still somewhat painful arm.

“So, I hear that the Ohio boys are working up another show.”

O’Malley nodded. “Good, I can’t wait to see what they do this time. That fella what dressed up as Mrs. Washington in that last one they put on--what was his name?”

“Peters I think.” laughed ‘Rooster’.

“Well, we could use another show. Spirits is low, and I can’t say I don’t understand why. Finding it hard to stay sunny and charmin’ me-self these days.”

‘Rooster’ laughed and turned his head slightly. “When were you ever charming?”

“I can be charmin’”, retorted O’Malley with a frown, “when needs as be the case.”

Clothes boiled, the better part of the afternoon was spent tending to their clothes at the drying lines. Some ingenious boys from an Indiana company had worked up a long set of pits in which they kept low fire and hot coals; these assisted in drying the garments that men hung from the lines strung up over the whole affair. The only trick was making sure ones garments didn’t slip into the coals and catch fire or scorch. O’Malley was always surprised that the guards had allowed the prisoners to have so much twine for the lines they used, since it seemed someone could think to use it to climb over the palisade. Apparently they weren’t concerned--or maybe had never considered the possibility since no squawk had been heard in the construction of the drying lines. Of course, that also could be due to the rumor that went about regarding the captain of that same Indiana company which had built the drying lines to begin with.

His name was Captain Davis Lea, and the story went that in exchange for selling out his fellow prisoners by informing on plans to at escape and mayhem, he got special privileges. The Indiana boys from his company did seem to luck out when it came to work details--they almost never were assigned to them--but they didn’t really prove anything. O’Malley knew a lot of the lads from Captain Lea’s company, and they seemed decent enough. It could be that the Captain himself was the only bad apple there, since deflecting work details from his men could only mean he didn’t desire to serve them himself--after all, men and officers alike served side by side here. Reaching out, O’Malley felt his blouse hem and finding it dry retrieved it from the line. He slipped back into his clothes, feeling warmer and pleased with the delicious sensation of clean clothes.

“When I get home, and out of this whole sick-brained affair,” pronounced ‘Rooster’ with a slight skip in his step, “I am going to bathe twice daily and never wear the same clothes.”

“Then ye best be rich,” responded O’Malley as he pulled his worn cap on his head, “or you’ll never carry it off.”

The sky had cleared overhead, and as the day wore on the soldiers busied themselves as they always did--work details, repairing their ram-shackle huts and tents, gambling, singing songs, and plotting a myriad of disobedient deeds and escapes. When they returned to their hut, having collected the ration for their group from a foul mouthed and even more foul tempered butternut clad sergeant, O’Malley deposited his load and stood stretching his sore arm when he noted someone waving at him. It was sergeant Peel, an Iowan, his pale blue eyes steely as he stood across the road from their hut waiting.

“Make sure you lot divide that out honestly, I’ll be back shortly”, said O’Malley as he left his hut-mates with the rations and made his way to meet with Peel across the street. The Iowan seemed in the mood for secrecy, as he stepped around the corner as soon as O’Malley reached him thus obliging the Irishman to follow.

“Alright now Peel, what’s with all the sneaking and skulking then?” asked O’Malley when he caught up.

The Iowans expression softened for a moment, but he clearly was here on business.

“Mike, the Steward has called a meeting. Seems our worries might have been confirmed.” said Peel, tight lipped. O’Malley felt a knot form in his gut, and responded flippantly--such was his nature when faced with trouble.

“Robinson. You can call him by name Peel, it aint no kind of code or nothing’”

“Hang it all, Robinson then,” responded Peel tersely, revealing how this news had unsettled him, “be at the hospital tonight at the usual time.”

Peel turned and was gone, leaving O’Malley scratching his scruffy chin in thought. He turned what this message likely meant over in his head a few times, the reality of it becoming ever more like a stone in the pit of his stomach. He turned his thoughts to dinner, and returned to his hut where his pards awaited. For now, he would act as though nothing were awry, beyond that they were interred in a prison camp--but that was nothing new. He would have to focus his energies on what awaited him later; sneaking half way across camp after curfew without being caught to partake in a highly prohibited gathering to discuss some very disturbing news.


*****

The sky was grey-white as the moon tried its best to shine through the cotton-like clouds which thankfully blanketed the sky tonight. It was best for what O’Malley was about--making it difficult for the sentries and guards in the towers to spy him as he crept across camp from the shadow of one hut to another. Of course, the other side of that coin was that he couldn’t see where he was going terribly well. But then, that was the benefit to wandering back and forth all day with nothing better to do in a camp like this--it tended to afford one a good mental map. He felt his heart in his throat only once, when he almost walked headlong into a sentry who crossed the road in front of him with a lantern in hand. Luckily for O’Malley, the guard had the lantern up at eye level in attempt to get a better look at something off in the opposite direction of where the Irishman was pressed up against the wall of a nearby hut. Thanking every saint he could remember the name of when the sentry wandered down the lane, O’Malley hurried along and arrived at last at what passed as the hospital at Camp Ford. He gave the short knock pattern of a pass code and the door opened to him, revealing nothing as the room within was bathed in darkness. He could hear several persons breathing within, and as the door was shut and latched again behind him, someone struck a Lucifer and gave light to a very sad stump of what once was a candle. Though the wick burned, it gave very little light, though this too served their purpose well. After all, this was not exactly a sanctioned gathering.

O’Malley looked about at the familiar faces, and nodded. T. J. Robinson, the hospital steward was here; pale eyed Peel; Fitzgerald, a red headed Irishman from the New Yorkers sat picking his teeth; Smythe, an Ohioan and next to him Felman from Illinois. These men, along with O’Malley, comprised the camps answer to captivity. This was the escape committee; and though they were not elected or even largely known to the men of the camp, they took their work very seriously. Robinson had started the committee some months before, when he had looked down at the ruined bodies of two 17 year old lads returned to the hospital for burial upon being caught attempting to escape. He had said more than once, that the sight of these two young men had snapped something inside him, and made him realize that someone had to organize resistance to their captivity. O’Malley always thought it a strange facet of a man who also openly admitted to having chosen the medical corps because he knew he could never willingly take the life of another human being. Robinson kept the rolls of those interred at Ford, as well as a detailed accounting of those that died here. Perhaps all those names had worked on his sensibilities a bit as well. For now though, O’Malley set aside his thoughts and listened intently as the meeting began. Robinson smiled thinly to them all and he spoke.

“Gentlemen, I’m afraid we have a problem. It is not something we were completely unaware of, simply lacking proof. While we still do not have definitive proof of who, we now know for absolute certain of the what. Someone is giving aid to the enemy in this camp, in the form of information.”

Robinson halted a moment to let that sink in before he spoke again. “You may recall that we let slip the rumor of an escape set for last night in camp, and though our boys talked it up amongst themselves as they often do, we made sure to give only the full details of the rumor to two persons in particular. These specific persons were discussed last time, being those that we had the most speculation about regarding their behavior and scuttle-butt from the men.”

Smythe nodded and hung his head. “Lieutenant Borland and Captain Lea.”

Robinson frowned. “Yes. We know by the action that the guards took tonight that it has to be one of the two of them, though I wish I could say otherwise.” For several moments the group was quiet, the only sound the wind blowing outside over the odd assortment of huts and tents in the camp.

“So,” spoke Fitzgerald, “what’s to be done about them then?” Everyone one looked from one to another.

“We have to be very careful here,” said Felman, “there are things to be considered.”

“We shut them up”, said Peel, a flash of cold in his steel eyes.

“But which one?” said O’Malley with a shrug, “It could be either of them, or one or both? Couldn’t it?”

“Can we take a chance?” responded Peel.

“I don’t know that I am comfortable with the idea of dealing with both--what if we got the wrong man?” said Felman nervously.

“What do we mean by ‘dealing with’ anyway? What are we talking about?” said Fitzgerald.

“I think that is clear enough Fitz,” responded Peel with a coldness which made O’Malley look at the man he thought he knew.

“Even so, lets not beat about the bush, lets be plain”, interjected Smythe.

“We must consider them the enemy”, said Robinson with a grim look on his face.

“We have to silence them.” interrupted Peel.

The group was quiet again, Robinson a look of consideration on his face as he stared at Peel who sat across from him, staring back. Smythe looked nervous, and stroked the short beard on his jaw. Fitzgerald stood up and paced, watched by Felman. O’Malley sat back on his stool, cradling his stiff arm with the other and considered what was being discussed; the killing of fellow soldiers. Not that any of them (with the exception of Robinson) hadn’t already added that particular sin to their souls--or at least tried to--in the time that they had served on the battlefield. But this would be different; this would be murder. O’Malley realized that if indeed one of these two officers had been passing information to the enemy, they were the enemy, and had the blood of several soldiers caught and killed in the process of attempting escape on their hands. Did that make this thought easier?

“You all know me,” Robinson said quietly, his face obscured in the pale light of the pathetic candles flame, “I am not a man of violence. I do not turn to such things easily or without great thought. But I think we must consider what is best to do here.”

Robinson’s words hung in the shadows. No, O’Malley realized. It didn’t make this any easier.

“On the one hand,” continued Robinson, “we may be wise to let them alone and feed them false information that assists in screening real escape attempts.”

“The risk being in the guards ignoring them when too many tips prove worthless, and cultivating some other informant”, added Smythe. O’Malley had heard that the man had been an attorney before the war. He could see it in the way his mind worked sometimes.

“Exactly. If we--”, Robinson paused ever so slightly, revealing his distaste for his own words, “decide to deal with the guilty, then we serve ourselves in removing the spy as well as sending a message to others that treating with the enemy is unhealthy.”

Fitzgerald smiled and shook his head. “That’s all fine and good, but ye know that means we’d have to do it. And which one does we aim for?”  This set off a short murmur of discussion, as the reality of what they were considering began to move into the more mundane logistics and issues of narrowing their target. O’Malley noted that Peel did not join in, but had taken a place against the wall and was standing watching them with his arms crossed. As Robinson called for quiet, Peel returned to his seat. He looked to O’Malley to be a man who had come to his own decision regarding the issue, and the Irishman began to wonder what storms were raging inside the quiet Iowans thoughts.
“We haven’t much longer to meet, and with things as they are I dare not drag this out longer than any necessary. I think that we have come to the realization that this must be done, but the issue at hand is insuring we have the right man before we act.” said Robinson in that self-assured tone of his which would have seemed cocky in any other person. In Robinson, it just seemed to fit, and even Peel seemed to relax a bit as he listened to their unofficial leader. There was general murmur of assent, and several nods.

“I think we ought to elect someone to investigate further, try to decide the truth of the matter.” added Smythe as he turned to O’Malley, “I would like to nominate O’Malley.”

One moment O’Malley had been intently listening, and the next several eyes had turned to take him in--now the center of that conversation. Fitzgerald was nodding, and Felman was agreeing with the selection.

“Now wait a moment then lads,” said O’Malley standing up, “why me?”

Smythe stood and patted the agitated Irishman on the shoulder. “It’s simple Mike; you’re well known and have friends in several camps. You aren’t known to be staunchly in any one camp politically, and you have the gift for explaining anything away.”

“He’s being polite,” said Felman, “he means you can lie better than any two men here.”

O’Malley opened his mouth to defend himself, but then realized the reasoning was sound. Peel wandered over, his pale blue eyes less steely than normal. “Don’t worry Mike, I’ll help however I can.”, he said with a smile.

The next few days were the same for everyone else, but for O’Malley the normal routine seemed to take on all new meaning, and obstacles. He had to devise reasonable motivations to be near each of his subjects of interest through out the day, which was proving impossible. Captain Lea wasn’t so far from where his daily routine took him, but Lieutenant Borland was situated about as far from where O’Malley was typically found as possible. It became clear that he would simply have to focus upon one man at a time, and hope that which ever he started with either proved the traitor right off or the opposite, and thus eliminated the need to investigate further at all. For the ease of location, this meant that he would focus first upon the often gossiped name of Captain Lea; and so on a relatively bright Sunday morning after a make-shift mass O’Malley began his work. He started trying to get better acquainted with the Indiana men from Lea’s company, and though it took time he eventually made hay. It turned out that two of the fellows--Franklin and Jameson--were avid but awful hands at cards. The opportunity arose one night when it became apparent that the two men were trying to help their situation by cheating, only to be caught doing so. As the group descended into chaos of the angry cheated and the fleeing cheaters, O’Malley served as the pair’s savior by rescuing them from a very unhappy mountain of humanity dressed in the faded blues of a Union sailor. As the prison guards arrived in groups at the sight of the brawl, O’Malley led the pair into his hut with a suggestion that they lay low for a little before starting back for their own quarters.
“Thanks pard,” said Jameson with a fast smile, “without you that sea beast would have made jelly of us!”

“No doubt,” said O’Malley with a chuckle, “and ye two best be wary for a bit lest ye runs into him again before he forgets yer faces.”

“Don’t know what they were getting’ so worked up over anyway!” said Franklin as he peeked out into the street beyond the huts doorway, “we are playing for buttons, aint like it was real coin!” O’Malley shrugged, but said nothing. He went and looked out into the lane, and then turned to his guests.

“Looks safe enough now boys, but if ye take me advice ye will avoid the pasteboards for a few days.” smiled O’Malley, ushering them towards the doorway.

“We wont forget this pard,” said Jameson with that smile of his, “you ever needs anything, you come see us!”

He would. He most certainly would.

*****

It was a month before O’Malley made any progress towards his goal, and the longer it went the more anxious the Committee became. It wasn’t just that they felt the traitor should be punished, but lives were on the line. Three New Yorkers ended up lucky to be alive when they attempted to outrun the pack of hounds that the guards employed to track escapees. As it was, one would lose his right arm, thanks to the mauling he had received before the dogs had been called off. No one dared warn men off of attempts at escape, less the traitor get wind of it and the situation get worse. But a month into the assignment, O’Malley finally met Captain Lea. He had been sitting with his pards Jameson and Franklin when in walked an older man with hard eyes and a drooping mustache. He had a limp which was noticeable, but carried himself like someone who was a hard case. His two friends stood up, saluting the Captain--something O’Malley rarely saw anymore. But, slowly he climbed to his feet and followed suit.

“Who is this man?” asked the Captain with a sharp huff.

“A friend of ours Captain,” responded Jameson smartly, “sergeant O’Malley, Sir.”

“A pleasure to meet you Captain.” said O’Malley with the nod.

“What regiment?”

“5th Minnesota, Company A, Sir.”

Captain Lea brushed his mustache and looked O’Malley up and down. “Well, a sergeant ought to know to come to attention when an officer appears. I trust you will remember that in the future?”

O’Malley suddenly thought that he hoped Lea was giving aid to the enemy, because he didn’t like his manner one bit. “Yes Sir, sorry Sir.”

Captain Lea nodded and continued on his way, and O’Malley turned to Jameson with a frown. “Is he always like that?

“The Captain is alright,” responded Jameson as he settled back in place, “a little stuffy but well worth getting on his good side!”

“Hush up!” said Franklin, looking past O’Malley to Jameson.

“Oh hush yourself! Mike is a good egg, why not tell him?”

O’Malley looked from one to the other and chuckled. “Tell me what? What the hell is the two of ye talkin’ about?” Franklin stared hard at Jameson, who in turn stared him back. It was obvious that Jameson won after a moment because Franklin sighed and threw his hands up.

“Alright fine, you’re right. Tell him”, said Franklin with a shake of his head. Jameson leapt from his stool and crowded in close to O’Malley, looking all the world like a child with a wicked secret to share.

“How long has it been since you had a fine boiled beef--not the dried and desecrated type, but real fresh beef? A drink of aged, fine whiskey?” asked Jameson smacking his lips with excitement. His manner gave O’Malley a start, and he had to force himself to resist the urge to shove the man away. The thought of fresh beef, or whiskey did make his soul yearn though, and it was this feeling he let override all others. He was getting somewhere.

“Faith, I wouldn’t even know how long it’s been--ages no doubt!” O’Malley said with a glance to Franklin.

Jameson looked about and started to speak when two butternut clad sentries abruptly stepped into the hut and the one, with a scruffy beard and saggy eyes, jerked his thumb out the doorway and shouted; “Out for roll call. Come-on you lazy bastards, git!”

The three piled out, followed shortly by Captain Lea marching stiffly with the pair of guards looking more like they were under his order than the other way around.

Roll call was normally done twice per day; once in the morning and once before retreat was sounded and everyone was supposed to go to sleep. Every so often however, the powers that be would call one of these surprise counts just to keep the prisoners on their toes--and of course to try to catch out anyone not where they should be. Sometimes it was done just as a good housekeeping measure, but other times because the commander of the prison had heard that someone was thinking of an escape. O’Malley wondered which it was this time. Waving farewell to Jameson and Franklin, O’Malley made his way over to join his section, and pushed his way into the rank next to ‘Rooster’. The parade ground was dry, and men scuffed their feet in boredom--some marking out games of tic-tac-toe. Shortly, the baritone voice of the First Sergeant began to call out names of a section down the way, as others did the same for theirs. O’Malley just rocked back and forth on his heels and watched the Colonel who had command of the camp pace on the tall platform erected before the parade ground. A tall, stately man with a pronounced limp to his gait; but for all that proud and not to be underestimated.

He looked bored to the Irishman’s eyes; a man imprisoned here by his duty every much as O’Malley and his side were by theirs. Looking down at his feet, he tried to banish such thoughts from his mind. What help was it to start recognizing the humanity of his captors? What would it provide but the dawning of understanding for them, and an erosion of his hate for them? The sky above the assembled men opened into sudden sunshine, and a collective gasp of surprise issued from many parts. O’Malley looked up into the first true blue sky they had seen in several weeks, feeling his spirit lighten whilst at the same time the increased awareness that he was imprisoned. Trapped.

“Have you gone deaf?” asked ‘Rooster’ from beside him.

O’Malley snapped back from his thoughts and looked at his companion. “I’m sorry lad, what was that?”

“I said bad luck for us. You know…having the wood detail today.”

“Oh, yes,” responded O’Malley still a little absently, “still, it means we get out of the stockade for the afternoon. And depending which guards they send, we might be able to barter for some eats from the locals.”

‘Rooster’ nodded and considered that. It was a funny fact of being in custody here at Camp Ford, that depending upon what guard one found oneself with when outside on a detail, various options might be available which when a long way to improving life. Ford was only a very short distance from a small town--Salis Springs--and the land where they went to harvest wood took them very nearby there. The people of this town seemed not to be aware that the prisoners were supposed to be their enemy, either that or they simply didn’t care, for they would treat with the men in trade. What, you may ask, would a soldier imprisoned even have to trade with the locals? Crafted goods. With so much down time between details and delousing, many of the Union prisoners spent their time fashioning all manner of wooden crafts from various scraps they could lay hands to. Some men made little boxes; others improvised musical instruments or carved figures. For whatever reason, these people of Salis Springs found these items desirable; and in return often offered food stuffs and other items which would go a fair way to making life more livable to the men interred at Camp Ford. Of course, this all depended upon the guards assigned to your detail. Many of then didn’t care what you did, so long as they returned with the same number of men they left with and the quota of wood required. Others simply took a cut of whatever you traded for, in exchange for looking the other way. Of all the guards one could end up with, the last you would want was Corporal Fry, and his little gang of cronies.

Corporal Fry, a thin faced man in middle age, seemed determined to fight the war anywhere he was assigned. It was said he had been at several hot fights before getting shot through the leg and being sent home as unfit for the long marches of infantry life. Fry must have loved being in the army, because he had since taken it upon himself to punish every Union solider he came in contact with for robbing him of his chance to fight for his country. He was malicious, sadistic, and the worst possible companion for work details. So naturally, O’Malley groaned inwardly and cursed his luck when he discovered that that was exactly whom their detail had been assigned to for the afternoon. ‘Rooster’ frowned and forgot all thoughts of trying to trade the little wooden toys he had fashioned over the previous weeks.

“You just keep your mouth shut good, and stay out of his way” said O’Malley wagging his finger at ‘Rooster’.

“You know me! When did I ever go out of my way to find trouble?”

O’Malley just shook his head, and when roll had finished they made their way towards the gate. There, an impatient scowl on his face, Corporal Fry stood waiting for the men of his detail to arrive. A bad feeling crept over O’Malley then, and he hesitated a moment.

“What is it?” asked ‘Rooster’.

“I’ve got a bad feeling.”

‘Rooster’ chuckled. “What else is new?”


…..To be continued in “In the Presence of Mine Enemies”