Read Online Andersonville by Edward M. Erdelac - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edward M. Erdelac
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remarked.
“That it is, sir,” Barclay agreed.
“He knew what he was in for,” Big Pete said, still staring at Barclay as if goading him for a reaction, “commandin’ nigs.”
“Easy, Pete,” said a man.
“Hell with easy,” said Big Pete. “Goddamned Lincoln givin’ the darkies guns is what laid us all in this mess. Except for them, we’d of been paroled home and been back to the front by now.”
“Well, now, Pete, Jeff Davis could just as easily put an amen on the whole thing by allowin’ a fair trade, Rebs for coloreds,” Limber said.
“That ain’t no fair trade,” Pete said, waiting, wanting Barclay to say otherwise.
Instead, he said, “I seen a man down by the creek today, preachin’ in the middle of the water. Oddest man I ever seen. He didn’t have no—”
“That’s the Hatter,” Red Cap interrupted excitedly. “Praise Jesus-er!” he chuckled in an approximation of the man’s odd speech pattern. “Crazy bastard lets the grubs hatch in his beard and then eats ’em. I heard tell he got drove crazy by mercury fumes when he was a habber…a habber…”
“Haberdasher?” Charlie asked.
“How he come by that wound?” Barclay asked.
“Nobody knows,” said Limber.
“I heard he done it to himself,” Red Cap said.
“That’d take something,” Limber said.
“We are not ourselves when nature, being oppressed, commands the mind to suffer with the body,”
said Romeo.
Barclay was beginning to wonder if Romeo Larkin might not be a bit mad himself.
Charlie slapped Barclay’s knee.
“Say, Earl! Dig that pine root out and throw it on the fire,” he said, pointing to a little curl of matter protruding from the dirt near Barclay’s foot.
Barclay leaned over and tugged at the precious root with his fingers, found it wouldn’t budge, and dug in the dirt till he could get a better grip. When he wrenched the stubborn little root free, he found it more sizable than he had guessed. Something warm and wet flecked onto his hands, and when he looked down, there was an oily dark substance oozing from the hole.
He shook the root on the ground, spotting it with the stuff, and touching it with his fingers, he smelled a metallic scent. It was difficult to see the color in the firelight, but it smelled like blood.
“What’s all over it?” Charlie asked, making a face.
“I think it’s…blood,” Barclay said.
“Blood?” Limber scoffed, taking the root and holding it toward the fire. “Nah, that’s just mud. There’s a red clay deep down.”
It didn’t smell like mud or clay to Barclay, but as he was about to say so, a scrawny fellow with a too-wide grin missing a good deal of teeth hopped into the firelight on a worn pine crutch.
“What say, fellers?” he wheezed, doffing his cockeyed cap for a minute to run his sleeve across his patchy head.
The man’s appearance seemed to have a dampening effect on the whole party. They visibly hunkered as if for a siege and swapped glances with one another.
The crippled man peered at their faces and greeted them each by name until he came to Barclay and Charlie.
“Well! Here’s two new recruits. What say, boys? Where was you taken at?”
“I transferred in from Libby,” Charlie answered.
He hopped closer and extended one bony hand.
“Name’s Thompson. Folks call me Chickamauga on account of where I was took. Gen’ral Nathan Bedford Forrest hisself gimme this here game leg.”
Several of the other men rolled their eyes as Chickamauga slapped his useless leg for emphasis.
“How about you, buck?” he said, turning to Barclay and sticking out his hand. “You one of these 57th Colored boys, I guess. How’d they get you?”
Barclay shrugged and shook. The man’s palm was sweaty.
“Just fell shy of luck, I guess,” he said.
Chickamauga scratched his stubbled chin loudly.
“Aw, come on, got to be a story to it. Ever’body’s got a story. Where was you took?”
“Go on, get outta here and quit sniffin’ around,
“That it is, sir,” Barclay agreed.
“He knew what he was in for,” Big Pete said, still staring at Barclay as if goading him for a reaction, “commandin’ nigs.”
“Easy, Pete,” said a man.
“Hell with easy,” said Big Pete. “Goddamned Lincoln givin’ the darkies guns is what laid us all in this mess. Except for them, we’d of been paroled home and been back to the front by now.”
“Well, now, Pete, Jeff Davis could just as easily put an amen on the whole thing by allowin’ a fair trade, Rebs for coloreds,” Limber said.
“That ain’t no fair trade,” Pete said, waiting, wanting Barclay to say otherwise.
Instead, he said, “I seen a man down by the creek today, preachin’ in the middle of the water. Oddest man I ever seen. He didn’t have no—”
“That’s the Hatter,” Red Cap interrupted excitedly. “Praise Jesus-er!” he chuckled in an approximation of the man’s odd speech pattern. “Crazy bastard lets the grubs hatch in his beard and then eats ’em. I heard tell he got drove crazy by mercury fumes when he was a habber…a habber…”
“Haberdasher?” Charlie asked.
“How he come by that wound?” Barclay asked.
“Nobody knows,” said Limber.
“I heard he done it to himself,” Red Cap said.
“That’d take something,” Limber said.
“We are not ourselves when nature, being oppressed, commands the mind to suffer with the body,”
said Romeo.
Barclay was beginning to wonder if Romeo Larkin might not be a bit mad himself.
Charlie slapped Barclay’s knee.
“Say, Earl! Dig that pine root out and throw it on the fire,” he said, pointing to a little curl of matter protruding from the dirt near Barclay’s foot.
Barclay leaned over and tugged at the precious root with his fingers, found it wouldn’t budge, and dug in the dirt till he could get a better grip. When he wrenched the stubborn little root free, he found it more sizable than he had guessed. Something warm and wet flecked onto his hands, and when he looked down, there was an oily dark substance oozing from the hole.
He shook the root on the ground, spotting it with the stuff, and touching it with his fingers, he smelled a metallic scent. It was difficult to see the color in the firelight, but it smelled like blood.
“What’s all over it?” Charlie asked, making a face.
“I think it’s…blood,” Barclay said.
“Blood?” Limber scoffed, taking the root and holding it toward the fire. “Nah, that’s just mud. There’s a red clay deep down.”
It didn’t smell like mud or clay to Barclay, but as he was about to say so, a scrawny fellow with a too-wide grin missing a good deal of teeth hopped into the firelight on a worn pine crutch.
“What say, fellers?” he wheezed, doffing his cockeyed cap for a minute to run his sleeve across his patchy head.
The man’s appearance seemed to have a dampening effect on the whole party. They visibly hunkered as if for a siege and swapped glances with one another.
The crippled man peered at their faces and greeted them each by name until he came to Barclay and Charlie.
“Well! Here’s two new recruits. What say, boys? Where was you taken at?”
“I transferred in from Libby,” Charlie answered.
He hopped closer and extended one bony hand.
“Name’s Thompson. Folks call me Chickamauga on account of where I was took. Gen’ral Nathan Bedford Forrest hisself gimme this here game leg.”
Several of the other men rolled their eyes as Chickamauga slapped his useless leg for emphasis.
“How about you, buck?” he said, turning to Barclay and sticking out his hand. “You one of these 57th Colored boys, I guess. How’d they get you?”
Barclay shrugged and shook. The man’s palm was sweaty.
“Just fell shy of luck, I guess,” he said.
Chickamauga scratched his stubbled chin loudly.
“Aw, come on, got to be a story to it. Ever’body’s got a story. Where was you took?”
“Go on, get outta here and quit sniffin’ around,
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