Crossing the Deadline (11 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Sunday, September 25, 1864

At eleven a.m. the elephant rests. All sense of time stops. Soldiers hug their guns and look around. I have not been ordered to sound retreat, so this is just a break in the fighting. The rebs are giving us another chance to think about surrender. For the first time, I hear men crying without shame. Moans echo from every corner of the fort. The one nurse, lucky enough to be out of the hospital when it exploded, goes from body to body, doing what he can. Red mud clings to his boots like spurs. Soldiers stare at friends lying near the center of the fort, frozen, unwilling to venture into the open to aid comrades in their last minutes of life.

The ground's a plowed field of guts, bones, and bloody mud.

Through the cries and sobs, an unusual sound develops. Major Lilly raises his hands, signaling for silence.

Ever so faintly, we hear why the rebs have stopped firing. From the north, perhaps a mile away, we detect the muffled sounds of firing. An engagement. Cheers ring out from several men in the fort. Reinforcements from Pulaski have arrived. Major Lilly manages a slight smile.

Perhaps this means the onslaught on Sulphur Branch Trestle will end soon.

Over the next hour, the sounds of gunfire from Forrest's troops positioned to the north grow fainter and fainter until they disappear altogether.

“They're being driven back,” says Big Tennessee.

* * *

At noon, a Confederate bugle sounds cease-fire from the area of the trestle. Major Lilly goes to the north wall and looks out. A Confederate soldier, standing in the middle of the bridge, waves a white flag of truce. But Forrest isn't surrendering to us. The white flag is a sign he's giving Major Lilly the chance to end the fighting and talk things over.

Major Lilly turns back to the center of the fort and leans
against the wall. “How many . . .?” Major Lilly's voice trails off. In ten months I've never seen him like this. He seems weak, spent, unable to finish his question. He clears his throat with a deep cough and looks down at the ground. “How many dead from the Ninth Cavalry?” he shouts.

“Nineteen of our two hundred,” Sergeant Survant reports.

“One Hundred Eleventh Colored Troops?” Lilly asks.

“Over thirty-five,” someone says.

“Sir, there are over one hundred dead,” somebody calls in a somber voice.

Major Lilly slumps to the ground and buries his head in his hands.

* * *

There's an uncomfortable silence in the fort as I walk over to him. He doesn't look at me but glances back out at the white flag still fluttering at the trestle. Wrinkles carved deep into his face show the shame he's feeling. I sense what's he thinking.
How will this play out from here? Now it's a chess game with Forrest, and I have to think several moves ahead.

Everyone studies the major's face and waits for his response. We're down to the last handful of bullets. What
will more fighting accomplish? Won't we only lose more men and the battle end the same?

Major Lilly slowly raises his head. “Stephen, sound retreat.”

* * *

I look toward the dark faces scattered among the white ones—they've fought together for six hours. “Sir,” I say. “What about the Negro . . .”

“Damn it, Stephen, the order was for you to sound retreat.”

* * *

I walk over to William Peacock and place my hand out, palm up, and ask to use his bugle. There's no way I can take mine from Henry's hand and play it.

After the last note is blown, Major Lilly stands and places his hands on my shoulders. “Come with me and listen carefully. You're young, and you'll be my second pair of eyes and ears. Make a memory of all you see and hear.”

I nod.

“We need somebody from another state to go along too,” Major Lilly says.

“Big Tennessee?” I suggest.

The three of us exit the fort and walk across the trestle to the far end. An officer sitting on a horse motions for us to advance.

“I'm Major Strange,” he says as we approach. He unfolds a paper curtly and begins reading aloud. “General Forrest demands the immediate and unconditional surrender of the United States forces, with all materials and munitions of war, at Sulphur Branch Trestle. In case this demand is not instantly complied with, General Forrest cannot be held responsible for the conduct of his men.”

Major Lilly shakes his head several times. “What kind of general do you follow? One that ‘cannot be held responsible for the conduct of his men'?” he asks.

Major Strange does not answer. He folds the note, leans forward in his saddle, and hands it to a private. He, in turn, walks it over to us and, with his arm outstretched, presents the paper inches from Major Lilly's nose. The private stands for several seconds before Major Lilly waves him off with a flick of his hand, refusing to accept the offer.

“Let me say it another way. . .,” Major Lilly begins. “I'd
never surrender any fort under such unprofessional insults. If General Forrest can't
control his soldiers,
he doesn't deserve his command or your respect.” Major Lilly turns and motions for us to walk back to the fort.

A lump the size of the state of Texas rises in my throat. Is he bluffing?
We're all going to die now,
I think.

When we're halfway across the trestle, I hear footsteps approaching rapidly from behind. “Major Lilly,” a voice calls out. “General Forrest wants an interview.”

“Just as I hoped,” Major Lilly says low enough for Big Tennessee and me to hear.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Sunday, September 25, 1864, 12:38 p.m.

General Forrest is sitting outside a tent on a supply box when we approach. Elkmont, the ghost of a town we'd ridden through the day before, is visible off to the west. Forrest's face is thin—too thin, I think. A pipe protrudes from his mouth under a dense mustache. A long, wavy beard covers much of his neck. He has the darkest eyes I've ever seen. They sit deep beneath thick eyebrows. As we approach, he unfolds himself to reveal a height of well over six feet with wide-spreading shoulders. A patch of gray on each temple and a receding hairline are the only signs of aging.

“So, you have problems with my terms?” the general begins.

“I do, sir,” Major Lilly says.

“What are your worries?”

“We are still able to inflict much damage on your troops,” Major Lilly answers. “My men are willing to carry on the fight if the alternative is to surrender under the conditions you laid out.”

General Forrest laughs slightly. “Go on?”

“It is strange, General, that you say you are
unable to control your troops
. . .,” Major Lilly begins. “It's curious to me that you'd put that sort of thing in writing, where others might read it later. I, on the other hand, am confident that the soldiers under my command will follow every order given. If your troops won't follow your commands, it makes me worried about the well-being of my soldiers upon surrender.”

“How so?” Forrest asks.

“I have Negro troops,” Major Lilly says in a calm voice. “I want them treated the same as every other soldier under my command.”

“What makes you think they won't be?”

“Your demands said you ‘can't control your soldiers' if we don't surrender. So why would I think you could control them otherwise? Would a competent general question his leadership abilities?” Major Lilly asks.

“Here is what I'm prepared to offer,” General Forrest says. “Officers retain personal property, horses, and sidearms. My men will escort officers to Mississippi for an eventual exchange to take place in Memphis. Other soldiers retain any personal property, but no sidearms or horses.”

“All soldiers?” Major Lilly asks.

“Only soldiers,” General Forrest says cryptically. I know what he means by that. He doesn't see Negroes as soldiers but property, like a sack of sugar.

“General Forrest,” Major Lilly says, “every man in that fort wears the letters ‘US' on his belt buckle.”

“Only soldiers,” General Forrest repeats but slower this time.

“
Every
man in that fort has an eagle on his buttons,” Major Lilly insists, pointing toward the fort. He's near tears, but he realizes the fight's over. Now I understand he's on a mission to save every life he can, and he needs Big Tennessee and me here to witness the agreement. Major Lilly clears his throat, trying to regain composure. “I need your assurance, as a general, that you
will
control your troops and
will
give my soldiers . . .
every
soldier . . . the dignity they deserve.”

General Forrest thinks for a moment, takes the pipe from
his mouth, and pounds it upside down against a tree. After the ashes finish dropping to the ground, he nods ever so subtly in agreement.

Back in the fort, Major Lilly asks me to blow assembly. When our remaining troops have gathered, he explains the conditions of surrender. At the end of his talk, the major dismisses everybody except the 111th Colored Troops. “I promise you'll be safe,” he tells them.

“Major, how can we be sure he'll keep his word?”

“I wouldn't concede the fort until General Forrest promised me you'd be treated like every other soldier under my command.”

“But maybe that's just him talkin.'”

“I took two witnesses to hold him to his word. You have no reason to doubt his promise.”

“Sir,” an older soldier says, “most people wouldn't have done that for us.”

One after another, every Negro soldier salutes and shakes Major Lilly's hand. When he's finished, he turns to me. “Stephen, I'm sorry,” he says.

“For what?”

“I promised Governor Morton I'd keep you safe and alive.”

“And you have, sir.”

“Don't make me out to be a liar,” he says. “You're alive, but you're not safe. You've got to make it back to Indiana and your mother. That was an order Governor Morton gave personally to me.”

* * *

Ninety minutes after meeting with Forrest, the few remaining officers mount horses and ride under armed escorts west toward Memphis. The Negro soldiers are corralled on the edge of the cornfield. We're told they'll be taken to Mobile. The rest of us begin walking south to Athens to catch a train bound for a prison near Selma. Behind us, flames lap the sky, and Sulphur Branch Trestle burns to the ground.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

September 28, 1864, 9:45 a.m.

Under heavy guard, we ride the train for two days before arriving in the town of Beloit. The Alabama air is humid and filled with uncertainty. We're told we have to walk the last three hours to Cahaba, and immediately many of the men shed their shirts and toss them into the ditch.

“Your stomach's growling,” Big Tennessee says as we make our way.

“The piece of salt pork and hardtack they gave us in Athens is long gone,” I say. I turn and look back on the line of prisoners stretched behind me on the narrow road and see a cloud of dust rising into the sky.

“Don't look back, soldier,” a man shouts from the side of the road. “Keep your head and eyes forward.”

Big Tennessee's hand smacks the back of my neck. He
twists my head so I'm facing the front. Since our surrender, we don't travel by squads. We meander piecemeal, however we want, in a controlled mob. “Don't get us in any trouble before we're even in the prison,” he says with a laugh.

“We're not in enough trouble now?” I ask.

“I guess you're right about that,” he says.

The nickname Big Tennessee doesn't do him justice. Giant Tennessee is more exact. He's the tallest man I've ever seen. “How tall are you?” a man asks as we march.

“Let me just say Ole Abe himself would have to look up a tad to stare me square in the eyes,” he answers.

Big Tennessee has a barrel for a chest. His upper arms could serve as legs for most men. He puzzles me in many ways. Men cower from him and keep their distance as if he has a disease. But on the train, he shared his meager portion of rations with several of us. He speaks softly and never takes the name of the Lord in vain. He says “thank you” and “please”.

“Don't leave my side till we are at the prison, son,” Big Tennessee whispers to me as we walk. “Most townsfolk are probably not too happy to see us here.”

* * *

The people in Cahaba gawk at us from front porches and behind window curtains. A woman grabs children from her yard and hurries them inside when she sees Big Tennessee approaching. Doors slam. Shades are pulled as we pass. One lady, wearing a black armband, walks up to the row of soldiers and spits twice on prisoners walking by. Big Tennessee grabs my shoulders and pulls me to his left, out of her range.

“Big oaf,” she calls out when she sees Big Tennessee. “Not so big now, are you?” she says, pointing a thin finger toward him. She throws her head back and spits hard in his direction. Big Tennessee nods to her as if to say, “Good day, ma'am.”

Spit runs down his neck and shirtsleeve. He doesn't touch it. Several steps down the street, Big Tennessee wipes himself with his sleeve but keeps looking straight ahead as if nothing happened.

At the next corner, another lady watches us pass. She stands in silence and studies each person traveling by. She's wearing a dress of sky blue partially covered beneath an apron of white. Her head's covered with a matching bonnet trimmed in lace. My mother has one just like it. Our eyes meet as I approach. The lady stares, not at Big Tennessee but at me, and never stops looking my way until we pass.

* * *

Our lines slow near the banks of a river. The smell of muddy water and fish fills the air. Five tents are set up in a row, and one man at a time walks inside. I think of that day eight months ago in Indianapolis when I entered Camp Morton with Henry Dorman and saw a multitude of men knocking on death's door. I knew I'd be leaving the prison that same afternoon. Today, I don't know what to expect. How long will we be confined? A day? A month? A year? Will I smell the scent of death in the air like I did the day my father died and again when I spoke with the prisoners from Kentucky?

When it's my time to go into a tent, a man inside barks at me, “Everything out of your pockets and on the table.” His voice is gruff and displeasing. He has a strong chin and is clean-shaven save for a thick mustache sitting above a pair of thin lips.

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“Lieutenant Colonel Jones to you, Sunday Soldier,” he says. He's standing beside the table, a private seated to his left. A box filled with large envelopes rests on the table between the private and me. Boxes cover much of the ground inside the tent, most filled with bulging envelopes.

“This is my pocket watch and two dollars.” I lay them gently on the table.

“Name?” the private asks.

“Gaston.”

“First name?”

“Stephen.”

“‘V' or ‘P'?” The private asks without looking up.

“What?” I'm confused.

He looks up at me and taps his pencil on the desk. “How do you spell your first name?” he asks impatiently. “With a ‘V' or with a ‘P'?”

“Oh, sorry. S-T-E-P-H-E-N.”

He writes my name across the envelope with the date, October 5, 1864, under it. “Drop everything in here,” he barks.

I place the money and watch in the envelope.

“That book, too,” the colonel says, pointing to the copy of
David Copperfield
tucked under my arm.

I'm overcome with fear. Certainly they'll let me keep the book with me. It can't be used as a weapon. How will I spend time in the prison? Why do they want it?

“The book, too, Colonel?” I ask to make certain. “Can't I keep it?”

“You'll
get it back when you leave.
If
you leave,” the colonel says, and laughs.

I take one final look at the book and lay it gently on the table, sure that this is the last time I'll ever see it. I think about what the governor said to me in his living room. “Personally, bring this book back to me.” Personally.

“Anything else in your pockets?” the private asks.

“N-n-no,” I stammer. “That's everything I have. My knife was taken back near Athens.”

“Well, I can't do anything about that,” the colonel says. He's trying to rub it in a little. “Git out of here.” He points to the backside of the tent. “And welcome to Castle Morgan.”

I remember the prison camp in Indianapolis had a similar name. Is that a cruel coincidence? A bad sign? Perhaps Henry was right. Maybe we will all experience a slow death like the prisoners we saw in Indiana.

Big Tennessee's waiting outside. Together, we drift toward the prison gates. The river flows off to the left, no more than a stone's throw away. A narrow walkway, maybe ten feet off the ground, is built into the outside walls of the prison. Armed guards, spaced around the wall, pace back and forth. From their position they have a clear view of the inside and outside of the prison. The guards stare at us as we
walk beneath them on our way into Castle Morgan. One guard, chewing a plug of tobacco, spits from his perch. A long line of brown tobacco juice lands on Big Tennessee's head with a splat.

“Nice shot,” another guard calls to his friend. “If you was that good with bullets, you'd be up in 'Ginny right now.”

* * *

The call of “fresh fish” echoes through the prison as our group enters—I guess that's us. My first surprise is the sheer number of men crowded into such a tiny space. As soon as we pass through the gate, men surround us and all speak at once, each talking over the other.

“Where were you fighting, pard?”

“How's the war going, pard?”

“Any sign of it ending soon?”

“Where's General Grant?”

Pockets of men fan out, answering rapid-fire questions as best they can. Not that we have much news to give. I'm left alone. Nobody thinks someone as young as me might be in possession of any important information.

I stare in wonder at what lies before me, disturbed by the
number of men confined here. Castle Morgan's shockingly tiny and can't be as wide as the National Road passing through Centerville. It won't take a full minute to walk from one end of the prison to the other. Men are crowded in so thick, there appears to barely be enough room to stand. It must be impossible for everybody to lie down at the same time. How is this space going to handle the extra men coming from Sulphur Branch?

A bald-headed fellow approaches me. “What's your name?”

“Stephen Gaston,” I say.

“Grisby's my name,” he tells me. “I'll cut your hair for part of your rations.” He looks slightly older than me, but without hair, it's difficult to tell. His red eyebrows are stretched tall above his unblinking eyes.

“My hair's fine,” I say, turning away.

He taps me on my left shoulder. “Not for long. Come see me when you're ready. My pocketknife's sharp enough to cut your hair clean off without nicking your skin.”

“No, thanks,” I insist.

“I can't take care of all the graybacks for you,” he says. “They're everywhere. I can get them out of your hair, though, but it'll cost you some food.”

Most of the men in the prison have very short hair. It's easy to tell who just arrived and who's been here awhile by looking at heads. Most are shirtless and so deeply tanned that their skin has turned to leather with deep-set wrinkles.

“Don't worry none with Grisby,” a deep voice says from behind me.

I turn around. “Excuse me?”

“Grisby doesn't have a knife. We think he's lost his mind. He's been here too long, but he's harmless, really.”

“What are graybacks? He said they are everywhere here.”

“Well, he does have a point there,” the man says. “Graybacks are lice. We call 'em that cause we like 'em about as much as we like the gray-coated rebel guards. If you spread your shirt out on the ground, it'll nearly crawl across the prison. Graybacks will be in your hair thick as bees in a hive by morning,” he says. “Nothing you can do about it, either.”

He reaches down on his pant leg and grabs something almost too small to see.

“Can you see him?” he asks, pointing to a small speck on his palm.

I see a tiny critter crawling toward his thumb. “Yeah.”

“You probably got 'em on you already,” he says. “How old a boy are you—sixteen, maybe?”

“Fifteen, in three months.” I try to stand a little taller.

“Haven't even shaved yet, have you?” he says, and laughs.

“Don't guess that's what makes a man a man, is it?”

“Settle down. Settle down. No need to rile up and take offense.”

A loud explosion causes all the bald-headed men to sit down on the ground. They motion for the fresh fish to do the same.

“Men, if at any time you hear gunfire, like you just did,” yells a booming voice, “you are to drop immediately.” The words are coming from a man standing above the gate on the outside ledge. He's visible from the waist up. “My name is Lieutenant Colonel Jones, commander of what we affectionately call Castle Morgan.”

Some of the guards chuckle when he says “Castle Morgan.”

“Roll call is at seven thirty a.m. and five p.m. daily,” the colonel continues. He points to a line on the ground parallel to the prison wall. “That there is the deadline. Cross over the deadline and you'll be shot.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “No warning will be given. The guards shoot to kill.”

Deadline.
I had heard those words before at the prison in
Indianapolis. Colonel Jones adjusts his glasses. “This prison is nearly two hundred feet long and over on hundred feet wide.” He paces a few steps to his left and then back to the right. “Today, we brought in a lot of men from northern Alabama. It will be crowded, but we will make it work. Fall in for roll call.”

Men move with no sense of urgency into groups. Nobody tells the fresh fish where to stand, so we wait to see what part of the compound will hold us. I meander around, looking for men of the Ninth. I notice Big Tennessee standing at attention. It's hard not to see him; he's towering over everyone.

“The Ninth is near the gate,” Big Tennessee says, pointing in the direction of Colonel Jones.

I hear Sergeant Survant calling my name. “Where's Stephen Gaston?” I move toward his voice, but men are standing at every turn. I hustle around one group of people, along an open space nearby to get to my company—the only open route I see. A deafening shot rings out. Dirt springs up and pelts my face. I dive for the ground. Everyone in the prison does the same. When I open my eyes, the white line on the ground is directly beneath my face. The shot was fired toward me.

A hand grabs my trouser leg and pulls me back across the deadline. “Pay attention,” Big Tennessee whispers angrily into my ears. “Always know where you are and what is around you.”