On to Richmond (37 page)

             
The two exchanged a long look of understanding. 

             
Then Matthew continued.  “I dream about being free every day.  I hate being watched all the time.  I hate knowing my life has to be lived within these four walls.  I miss the feeling of sunshine on my face.  I miss the challenge of working.  I miss the feeling I might be making a difference with what I do.  I miss my friends,” he added softly, the pain intense on his face and in his voice.  “Every day I do what little I can to make a difference here, but the inactivity kills me.” 

             
Robert nodded understandingly.  “I dream, too.  I dream about being back on my plantation.  I dream about having nothing more to do than increase the yield of my crops.  I dream about smelling fresh earth as it is plowed for the spring crops.  I dream about sitting on my porch with a drink in my hand, looking out over the rolling hills.  I dream about Carrie being there with me.”  He knew his voice sounded hopeless when he uttered his last words. 

             
Matthew remained silent.

             
Robert looked at him.  “Carrie told you, didn’t she?”

             
“That she turned down your proposal?  Yes.  That she still loves you.  Yes, she told me that, too.”

             
Robert shook his head in frustration.  “The whole thing is so ridiculous.  We love each other.  We should be together.”  He sighed.  “Oh, I know the war would keep us apart right now anyway, but at least our hearts would be united.”

             
Matthew gazed at him for a long moment.  “The issue keeping you apart is not ridiculous.  It is an issue strong enough to rip a nation apart.  The Northern Congress is trying to edge away from it - take it out of the picture in hopes the picture will not be quite so volatile.  But in the end, it will all come down to the issue of slavery.”  Matthew hesitated as if he wasn’t sure he should say more and then kept going.  “It is slavery that is fueling the passions of the South.  It’s funny though.  The South is fighting for the belief in individual freedom.  And the right to make your own decisions.  At the same time you are taking freedom from millions of people.” 

             
He hurried on before Robert could interrupt.  “The North will have to develop the same passion.  This is going to be a long war.  In order to get men to fight a long war, they have to fight for something they can be passionate about.  Men will quickly tire of fighting to try to hold the country together.  They will begin to question why thousands of them are dying.  But if you put a human face on it - if you give men a moral principle to fight for - they will fight to the bitter end.”

             
Robert could feel the anger building in him.  Matthew’s next words caused it to die.

             
“Carrie has put a human face on the issue of slavery.  When she thinks of slavery, she sees the faces of people she loves.  She sees the faces of millions of people who have dreams like you and I do.  She has faces to build her passion around.  To her it is not ridiculous.  It is who she is.”  He paused for a moment.  “And she is not willing to sacrifice who she is - even for you.”

             
Robert stared at him for a long moment.  He knew his friend was right.  And he didn’t know what to do about it.

             
Just then the guard knocked on the door and stuck his head in.  “Your time is up, Lieutenant.  You will have to leave now.”

             
Robert nodded and stood.   Reaching across the table, he clasped Matthew’s hand and looked deeply into his eyes.  Then he turned and left the room.

F
rom across the road, Opal watched Robert leave.  Staying back in the shadows, she tightly clutched the plate of biscuits she was holding.  She almost hadn’t recognized Robert in his Confederate uniform.  Then she had remembered the handsome young man who had visited Carrie several times and had even spent Christmas at the plantation.  What was he doing there?

             
Once he was out of sight, she walked quickly to the door.  The guard was scowling when he opened the door.  Instinctively, she shrank back a little.

             
He knew what she was there for.  “Matthew Justin can’t have no more visitors today,”   he said sharply.

             
Robert must have been there to see Matthew, she realized.  Then she remembered Carrie saying they were friends.  Maybe he had just come to visit.  Surely no one could have discovered what Matthew was doing. 

             
Shyly, she held out the plate of biscuits.  “Could you please make sure he gets these?” she asked.

             
The guard scowled but reached for the plate and lifted the edge of the napkin to sniff appreciatively.  “He’ll get them,” he said shortly. 

             
“You’re welcome to one of the biscuits, too,” Opal ventured.

             
A smile lit the guard’s rough face.  “Thank you.  They smell better than anything I get around here.”

             
Opal breathed a sigh of relief and began to back away.  “I’ll be back later today for that plate.”

             
“Yeah.  It’ll be here,” the guard said and shut the door.

             
Opal was smiling as she walked away.  She had expected to see Matthew today.  It was okay, though.  As long as he got the plate.  Mrs. Hampton had finally told her what she carried out every time she went in there.  Once the men had polished off their biscuits, Matthew opened the false bottom of the warming dish and filled it with sheets of his writing.  The story of the prison - and the fate of the men trapped there - was making its way north.   Along with other coded military information. 

             
Once again Opal had done her job.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

             
As the guard escorted Matthew back into the large room crowded with his fellow prisoners, there was a pregnant silence.  As soon as the guard’s steps faded away, however, a cauldron of good-natured ribbing erupted around him.

             
“Your girl here to see you again, Matthew?”

             
“We’ve all decided to give you the most popular prisoner award, Justin!”

             
“If we’d known we were going to spend so much time in this hotel, we would have made contacts in the city, too.”

             
Matthew laughed and rubbed his stomach.  He was only thinking of one thing.  “Is breakfast about ready?” he called.  “I’m starving!”

             
“Yeah, this visiting can really build up an appetite,” another yelled, laughing. 

             
“Am I going to have to fix my own breakfast?”  Matthew yelled back.  “Who’s in charge of the mess around here this morning?”

             
Finally, Mike Blackman, a colonel from the Massachusetts regiment, stepped forward, holding a platter behind his back.  “It’s ready, Justin.  We were just waiting for you.”

             
Matthew stepped forward with a smile on his face.  Within seconds all the men in his prison company were seated at their table, waiting expectantly.  There was nothing but blank silence when Blackman proudly laid the platter on the table. 

             
Matthew was the first to speak.  “This your first time cooking, Blackman?”  He tried to keep his tone casual, but the snickers of the men around him made it hard to keep the laughter out of his voice.

             
“Well, yeah,” Blackman responded, immediately defensive.  “Something wrong with it?”

             
Matthew reached forward and picked up the limp dangling strip of pork.  “Did you like this pig so well you were afraid to cook it?” he asked with a grin.

             
“He may have liked that piece too much,” another one hooted, “but he had something against this little guy.”  He held out the charred piece of meat to make his point. 

             
Laughter rocked the room while Blackman turned red in the face.  “If you’re hungry, you’ll eat it!” he snapped. 

             
Matthew shrugged.  “I’ll have to think about that.  Do you suppose they give sick leave around this place?”

             
Blackman stared around at all of them but finally joined in their laughter.  “So, okay, I’m not much of a cook.  I’ve never cooked anything in my whole life.  Sorry, men.”

             
Matthew just laughed again.  “Well, I guess we can fill up on biscuits.”  He looked more closely at Blackman.  “We’ve got biscuits, don’t we?”

             
Blackman looked embarrassed then slowly nodded.  “If you want to call them that.  I think maybe I put too much water in with the flour,” he admitted.  He reached down beside him for the other platter. 

             
Matthew stared at the flat pancake-like objects, rapidly taking on a rock-like appearance.  Carefully, he reached forward and picked one up. 

             
“I’d watch it if I were you, Justin.  That thing looks like it could break teeth,” one of the men called out.

             
Matthew cautiously nibbled at one, then held it up, and looked at it appraisingly.  “Maybe we can mass produce these and use them in the next battle.”

             
The laughter and ribbing continued.  All the while, Matthew tried to ignore his growling stomach.  All of them had soon learned the best way to handle their imprisonment was to laugh at whatever they could.  Still, he had already taken up his belt two notches.  And he couldn’t deny he was hungry. 

             
Suddenly the door opened again.  “Matthew Justin,” the guard called out in a sharp voice.

             
“Yes, sir!”  Matthew said, quickly springing to his feet.  What was it now?  Surely he couldn’t have another visitor. 

             
“This was just delivered to you.”

             
The room was silent as Matthew walked forward to take the proffered plate and controlled the wide smile that wanted to spread across his face.  “Thank you.”

             
The men around his table started cheering when the room was empty again.  “Biscuits!  Real honest-to-God biscuits.” 

             
One man raised his hands toward the ceiling.  “I don’t know what we did to deserve getting you in our company, but I thank God,” he yelled with a grin.  “You may be what keeps us from starving around here.”

             
Matthew grinned back and set the plate of biscuits on the table.  The fresh- baked aroma delighted his complaining stomach with its promise of gratification, but it also caused waves of homesickness.  He could see his mama back in their mountain cabin, standing over the stove kneading her dough.  The tiny cabin would fill with the wonderful aroma.  Soon she would reach into the stove and pull out the soft, fluffy treats.  Biscuits dabbed with butter and laden with honey, there was not anything better in the world. 

             
Matthew shook his head and reached for a biscuit.  Thoughts like this would only make things harder.  He had to stay focused on the present. And not give up hope for the future.  Sooner or later the country would figure out what to do with prisoners of war.  Surely they would realize there was no sense in holding a civilian journalist.