CHAPTER NINE
In the morning a warm, westerly breeze was blowing across the river where it flowed past the city just to the west. Tim noticed that a railroad ran close by. As he looked to the north he noticed that it followed the river’s course. In the east the sun was rising, round and red above the Statehouse roof. The war seemed far away from this peaceful Southern city. There was a fine green park nearby, and just across the street, in the side yard of one of a row of neat clapboard houses, a line of white sheets flapped in the breeze.
Red was still asleep as Tim got up. He pulled off his boots and shook out his socks, then put his socks and boots back on again. He walked to a well near the corner of the lot. A guard standing nearby nodded to him, and Tim pumped some water and doused his head. “Is the water good for drinking?” he asked.
“I reckon so.”
Tim cupped his left hand and pumped and drank the clear, cool water. When he straightened up he saw the Confederate lieutenant walking toward him. “Good morning,” the man said. “The rations will be along shortly.”
Tim smiled. “That’s good.”
“My name is Davis,” the lieutenant said suddenly. “My home’s in Georgia. How about you?”
Tim smiled again. “Bradford,” he said. “I’m from Connecticut.”
The lieutenant raised his hand in a kind of salute and moved off, walking easily among the prisoners, talking to Dawson first and then to some of the other men.
A wagon rattled into the lot, driven by a big young Negro boy perched high on the wooden seat, smiling proudly and nodding to the Confederate lieutenant. Some of the early risers helped build a fire. They heated water for coffee, and the colored boy passed out rations to the men who were awake. The other prisoners opened their eyes, stretched and shambled over to stand in line.
Red was one of the last to stir. When he saw Tim sitting near him with a corncake in his hand he sat up straight. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked accusingly.
“There’s plenty of food, and I figured you needed your beauty sleep.”
“And so I did.”
When they had finished breakfast and settled themselves with tin cups filled with steaming bitter coffee Red leaned forward. “You and I are going to get away,” he said. “From this point forward we’ll bend ourselves to that one end.”
“This country is good,” Tim said. “I should think a man could live off the land.”
“We can’t depend on doing that. The more supplies we can take, the better off we’ll be.” Red laughed. “But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.”
“By tonight we’ll probably be in that jail,” Tim said, waving toward the gray roof that stood above the trees “We’ll have to make our break from there.”
Red looked along the tracks. “It would help if I could swim,” he said with a touch of bitterness.
“We’ll ask the guards to give you lessons in the river yonder.”
“And then in three or four months, when I’m good and ready, we can beg their leave,” Red said with a grin.
About midmorning a man, who must be Captain Senn, and a fat, dull-eyed corporal walked with Lieutenant Davis to the middle of the lot. Senn was a humorless man who wore his immaculate uniform awkwardly. He sported a blue forage cap and white gloves tucked into the crimson-edged belt that was looped around his slightly oversized blouse. He carried no pistol, but a long sword bumped against his side. His stiffness contrasted with the easy manner of Lieutenant Davis.
The lieutenant asked the Yankee officers to step forward. “This is Captain Senn,” he said, “Commandant of the Post Guard.”
Senn cleared his throat and faced the five. “You will be in my charge,” he said, looking at Dawson. “You will be imprisoned on the second floor of the jail. If you try to escape—and you don’t get shot—I’ll give you a spell of solitary confinement.” He tapped his foot, fingered the tassel that hung from the handle of his sword, and smiled frostily. “And where would you go?”
Senn nodded to the fat corporal, who had a large ring of keys dangling from his belt. “This is Corporal Addison. He will show you to your quarters.”
Addison’s heavy-lidded eyes moved dully from one Yankee face to the next. He stuck out his lower lip, motioned with his head, and shouldered his rifle. The five Yankee officers understood that they were to march at the corporal’s side.
Richland Jail in Columbia, S. C., 1863Richland Jail in Columbia, S. C., 1863Showing Jailyard and Second Floor
Richland Jail in Columbia, S. C., 1863Showing Jailyard and Second Floor
Richland Jail in Columbia, S. C., 1863Showing Jailyard and Second Floor
They crossed the street, walked through a grove of trees and approached the back of the jail. There was a stout wooden enclosure around the jailyard. Addison pounded on a solid wooden gate at the back of the yard. “Addison with prisoners,” he shouted.
After a sliding of wooden bars the gate was opened. The courtyard had an earthen floor. Close to the jail building and against the right-hand fence stood a small one-story brick building with two doorways facing the courtyard. At the near end of the small building was a rudely built woodshed, its back wall formed by the courtyard fence, its far side adjoining the small building. The other two walls were of thin, weathered planks that bulged outward near the bottom.
Besides the guard who had admitted the prisoners, there was one other man who paced off a vigil along the fence. He stared with sharp hostility as the little column passed his station. The prisoners were taken through the door at the back of the jailhouse.
Tim’s spirit was chilled as they passed along a dank corridor to the stair well at the front of the building. The door to the stairs was made of heavy wood. It had a small barred window near the top.
The corporal unclipped the key ring from his belt, and after some deliberation picked out a key. He inserted it in the lock, turned it and pulled the door open. The five prisoners waited as the corporal replaced the key ring and fumbled with his rifle, signaling them to precede him up the stairs. They waited again in the dusky hallway on the second floor as the corporal lumbered up. Tim thought how easily they could overpower this lubberly man, get his keys, and let themselves out the front door to the street, but he remembered the guard who had stood under thelamp. He gritted his teeth and clasped his hands behind his back.
Corporal Addison pushed a heavy unlocked door on the other side of the corridor. It swung open, revealing a room about ten feet by twelve, at the far end of which was a small fireplace flanked by barred windows facing north. The floor was made up of splintering planks. The room was without furniture. The corporal pointed to a small doorway in the right-hand wall. “There are two pails in there, one for water, one for waste.” He turned on his heel, stepped into the hall and slammed and locked the door.
As the sound of the corporal’s footfalls died away Dawson moved to the window and stared through the bars. For the first time Tim looked closely at the two strange officers. They appeared to be members of the derelict group who had joined them at the Charleston depot. They looked half-starved. Their tattered uniforms hung loosely on their bony frames. The shorter of the two was already settling on the floor, but the other smiled faintly. Tim held out his hand and introduced Red, Dawson and himself. Dawson turned briefly from the window and nodded.
“I’m Lieutenant Peter Mills of the Eighth Michigan,” the stranger said, looking mournfully at the little man who had stretched himself out on the floor. “I was captured more than a year ago at James Island. I’ve been in Charleston jail all year, treated as a common criminal.”
For just a moment a flame of anger lit the man’s sunken eyes. “I ran out of money long ago,” he said, “and I’ve got none from home. The rations in that jail weren’t good enough to feed a pig. The place was filled with criminals and slatternly women. I saw hundreds of them come and go. Once when I was sick they put me in a hospital justbehind the prison yard, but as soon as I was better they put me back in jail again. Now I’ve lost the will to escape and almost lost the will to live.”
The effort of speaking had exhausted the man. He sank down beside the smaller fellow, who was already lost in sleep. “This man was taken from a Charleston hospital,” Mills breathed. “He must be sick. He hasn’t said a word.”
Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out a molasses cake and the one remaining orange that had belonged to Private Greene. He handed them to Lieutenant Mills. “Thank you,” Mills said with an expression of gratitude. “Do you mind if I eat the orange later?”
“Eat it when you want,” Tim said. “I’m sorry it couldn’t be more.”
Dawson turned from the window and clasped his hands behind his back. He glanced at Red with mild hostility.
Red scratched his beard and looked at Dawson. “We’re in this together,” he said. “We have to live together in this room and make whatever plans might benefit us all.”
“I guess Bradford has told you about my fault.”
Tim spoke softly. “Forget about that.”
Dawson nodded almost gratefully. “But you can leave me out of your plans,” he said, looking down at Mills who had fallen asleep with the orange in his hand, “and these poor wretches couldn’t walk as far as the city limits.” Dawson stared out the window again. “You’d have to have wings to get away from here,” he said with a bitter laugh.
Red turned away impatiently and sat down on the floor. Tim moved to the other window, and reached through the bars and raised the creaking sash, propping it up with a stick he found on the sill.
Just across the way Tim saw a white building that seemed to be a school. It was closed now, but a scatteringof children romped in the yard. Four little girls were playing tag on a patch of grass, and two boys laughed and wrestled under a tree.
Beside the school was a one-story house, neat and clean, with a garden in front. A woman with a basket over her arm was just coming out of the house.
In the vacant lot the guards were ordering the prisoners into ranks. Tim watched as they moved along the street toward the east.
The river glistened like a sheet of polished steel in the citron light of the summer sun. Tim could see the shapes of islands where the Congaree joined the Saluda and the Broad. Columbia Canal followed the near shore of the Congaree and disappeared behind trees near the edge of town. The city was laid out in squares, their pattern broken by a handsome park just across the way.
He heard a train whistle, and an engine and a line of cars—much like the ones that had brought them to Columbia—came into view. The train was heading north. Tim watched until it disappeared among the trees at the edge of the city and the last bit of smoke blew away. As he turned from the window the whistle sounded again, this time far away.
He sat on the floor below the window, reached into the inside pocket of his blouse and pulled out his billfold and a couple of dog-eared pieces of paper. He fumbled in a pocket and brought out the stub of a pencil. The other men were all asleep. Red was slumped in a corner of the room, sleeping peacefully with a ghost of a smile across his face. Tim smoothed out a piece of paper against the surface of his billfold. Red must be dreaming of home, he thought. He sharpened his pencil against a brick, licked the point and began to write:
Richland JailColumbia, S. C.July 12, 1863Dear Mother and Father,Yesterday I was taken prisoner and today I find myself in jail. It seems I will be here for a spell.Surely through no fault of yours, I have had no word from home since May. It might be worth a try to write me at the old address at Hilton Head, hoping that when the Colonel learns our whereabouts our mail will be forwarded here. I have heard of mail being taken to prisons by way of Port Royal Ferry. The Rebels are often kind in such matters, as we have some of their boys too.My health is good and I am cheered by the presence of my friend Lieutenant Kelly. I have mentioned him in other letters. Of course I am hoping we may be exchanged, but we have no word of the chances for that.If you can send a box, I know that books will be a special want, and paper and pencils and a change of underclothes. I have some money but more would be useful, if it can be spared. I don’t know if a sutler comes to this jail, but I imagine that things can be bought somehow.I long to see your faces more than ever now. Love to the twins, and when you see Kate in church ask her to send that long-awaited photograph.Your loving son,Timothy BradfordLieut. 7th Ct.
Richland JailColumbia, S. C.July 12, 1863
Dear Mother and Father,
Yesterday I was taken prisoner and today I find myself in jail. It seems I will be here for a spell.
Surely through no fault of yours, I have had no word from home since May. It might be worth a try to write me at the old address at Hilton Head, hoping that when the Colonel learns our whereabouts our mail will be forwarded here. I have heard of mail being taken to prisons by way of Port Royal Ferry. The Rebels are often kind in such matters, as we have some of their boys too.
My health is good and I am cheered by the presence of my friend Lieutenant Kelly. I have mentioned him in other letters. Of course I am hoping we may be exchanged, but we have no word of the chances for that.
If you can send a box, I know that books will be a special want, and paper and pencils and a change of underclothes. I have some money but more would be useful, if it can be spared. I don’t know if a sutler comes to this jail, but I imagine that things can be bought somehow.
I long to see your faces more than ever now. Love to the twins, and when you see Kate in church ask her to send that long-awaited photograph.
Your loving son,Timothy BradfordLieut. 7th Ct.
He folded the letter and put it, with the billfold and remaining sheet of writing paper, back into his pocket. He measured the pencil stub between his thumb and forefinger, and shook his head. He slipped it into his pocket.
He got up from the floor and looked out the window again, this time with unseeing eyes. He turned from thewindow and paced along the wall and back again. Now that the letter was finished he was tortured by a feeling of suffocation. He wanted to send it on its way right now, or better still, deliver it himself.