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Authors: Beverly Jenkins
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Dismissed.”
The soldier saluted and left.
“Anyone else out there?” Raimond asked.
Andre nodded. “Reverend Peep.”
Peep was a representative from one of the missionary societies that had been coordinating donations from the churches up North.
“Bring him in.”
The Reverend Josiah Peep’s kind heart was as large as his massive girth. Born in Virginia to a slave-owning family, he’d turned his back on that way of life and nowdevoted himself to his church and to helping the refugees. He entered carrying a large crate on his huge shoulder. “Afternoon, Major.”
“Afternoon, Reverend. What can I do for you?”
“If you can stop these fool people from sending us worthless goods, I will put your name in my will.”
He dumped the crate to the ground. It burst open and hammers spilled out onto the floor. “They sent us these this time around, Major. Last month it was horse bridles.”
Raimond sighed tiredly. Hammers and horse bridles were certainly useful, but you couldn’t sleep under them, nor could you feed them to hungry children.
“Tell your generals we need blankets and food,” Peep demanded as he exited the office.
Raimond looked to Andre. “Anyone else?”
Andre shook his head.
“Good.”
After Andre’s departure, Raimond looked down at the hammers in the crate. He faced a dilemma shared by contraband camp commanders all over the South—too many people and not enough supplies. While some of the earlier camps established had been closed and their refugee populations moved to confiscated land, the numbers of confiscated and runaway slaves in many of the camps had climbed to critical levels. Where there had been only four hundred camped outside Washington in 1861, there were ten thousand a year later; an additional three thousand were camped across the river in Alexandria. Conditions ranged from tolerable to awful. Diseases such as diphtheria, typhoid, and measles found fertile ground among the weak and starving. Relief agencies run by both Blacks and Whites had stepped in to raise money and to distribute clothing, blankets and other goods, but there was never enough to go around. How the politicians planned to deal with the masses of former slaves when and if the war ended had not been clearly explained, but the size of the problem increaseddaily and Raimond did not believe it would simply solve itself.
He rubbed his weary eyes. He’d gotten no sleep last night, but his job didn’t care. Every day the mountain of paperwork and problems grew higher, and the lines of new contrabands lengthened. Many had been following Sherman and his men for months and would probably continue to do so until the war ended, but the numbers of new arrivals were unprecedented.
He went over to the window and looked out. Below him were refugees lined up for processing. They’d been arriving twenty-four hours a day since the fall of Atlanta. There were men, women, grandparents, and babies. There were orphans, widows, and women of questionable character. Some had been brought in by troops and gunboats; others had simply walked in. To slaves all over the South, Mr. Lincoln’s troops meant freedom, and contrary to the naysayers in the press and in Washington, Raimond knew that a majority of the freedmen were more than capable of successfully managing their own lives—if given the means and opportunity to do so.
From his own dealings here he knew that most of the contraband men were eager to work. They’d been hired by the army as teamsters, construction workers, and earth movers; some had even opted to don the Union blue and join one of the all Black regiments to help win the war. Every refugee in camp had come for freedom. Raimond shared their pride, but he was a man of action and adventure. He wasn’t looking forward to spending many more days filling out papers and negotiating the complex army bureaucracy.
Black and White soldiers were being mustered here too. Many of the freedmen were choosing to wear the
The soldier saluted and left.
“Anyone else out there?” Raimond asked.
Andre nodded. “Reverend Peep.”
Peep was a representative from one of the missionary societies that had been coordinating donations from the churches up North.
“Bring him in.”
The Reverend Josiah Peep’s kind heart was as large as his massive girth. Born in Virginia to a slave-owning family, he’d turned his back on that way of life and nowdevoted himself to his church and to helping the refugees. He entered carrying a large crate on his huge shoulder. “Afternoon, Major.”
“Afternoon, Reverend. What can I do for you?”
“If you can stop these fool people from sending us worthless goods, I will put your name in my will.”
He dumped the crate to the ground. It burst open and hammers spilled out onto the floor. “They sent us these this time around, Major. Last month it was horse bridles.”
Raimond sighed tiredly. Hammers and horse bridles were certainly useful, but you couldn’t sleep under them, nor could you feed them to hungry children.
“Tell your generals we need blankets and food,” Peep demanded as he exited the office.
Raimond looked to Andre. “Anyone else?”
Andre shook his head.
“Good.”
After Andre’s departure, Raimond looked down at the hammers in the crate. He faced a dilemma shared by contraband camp commanders all over the South—too many people and not enough supplies. While some of the earlier camps established had been closed and their refugee populations moved to confiscated land, the numbers of confiscated and runaway slaves in many of the camps had climbed to critical levels. Where there had been only four hundred camped outside Washington in 1861, there were ten thousand a year later; an additional three thousand were camped across the river in Alexandria. Conditions ranged from tolerable to awful. Diseases such as diphtheria, typhoid, and measles found fertile ground among the weak and starving. Relief agencies run by both Blacks and Whites had stepped in to raise money and to distribute clothing, blankets and other goods, but there was never enough to go around. How the politicians planned to deal with the masses of former slaves when and if the war ended had not been clearly explained, but the size of the problem increaseddaily and Raimond did not believe it would simply solve itself.
He rubbed his weary eyes. He’d gotten no sleep last night, but his job didn’t care. Every day the mountain of paperwork and problems grew higher, and the lines of new contrabands lengthened. Many had been following Sherman and his men for months and would probably continue to do so until the war ended, but the numbers of new arrivals were unprecedented.
He went over to the window and looked out. Below him were refugees lined up for processing. They’d been arriving twenty-four hours a day since the fall of Atlanta. There were men, women, grandparents, and babies. There were orphans, widows, and women of questionable character. Some had been brought in by troops and gunboats; others had simply walked in. To slaves all over the South, Mr. Lincoln’s troops meant freedom, and contrary to the naysayers in the press and in Washington, Raimond knew that a majority of the freedmen were more than capable of successfully managing their own lives—if given the means and opportunity to do so.
From his own dealings here he knew that most of the contraband men were eager to work. They’d been hired by the army as teamsters, construction workers, and earth movers; some had even opted to don the Union blue and join one of the all Black regiments to help win the war. Every refugee in camp had come for freedom. Raimond shared their pride, but he was a man of action and adventure. He wasn’t looking forward to spending many more days filling out papers and negotiating the complex army bureaucracy.
Black and White soldiers were being mustered here too. Many of the freedmen were choosing to wear the
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