part 2 chapter
28
i n the summer of 1918, i finally yielded to tish’s and ellen’s entreaties to have a device
called a telephone installed in the house. ellen had witnessed the machine’s remarkable benefits
when she had stopped into the bethel general store to buy coffee beans. mr. jones, the
proprietor, was speaking into his new telephone. people could now dial him up to inquire about
produce in stock rather than arriving to find none. they’d even been placing orders for delivery.
ellen became convinced that such an invention was essential to our well-being as elderly people.
if we had owned one when mary was fading two years earlier, we could have summoned the
doctor more quickly than my wild wagon journey through the night to fetch him and bring him
back. mary passed on from a tumor after declining for weeks while ellen and tish tenderly
wiped her brow and read from the bible. we muffled our voices and footsteps in the house so as
not to disturb our patient, but the silence only made space for our grief to grow.
this bright summer afternoon, tish and i gathered around to watch the telephone man in his
gray striped uniform give the last turn of his screwdriver to the oak box on the kitchen wall. he
inserted his finger in the hole of the black dial, spun it around once, and then held out the flower-
shaped receiver with the wire dangling. “put it to your ear and listen,” he instructed me.
amidst a snapping and crackling, i heard a faint voice. someone was saying my name from a
long distance away. “hello, hello,” i yelled into the receiver. more crackling, and then a faint
but recognizable sound came through.
“tom, is that you?” it said. for a minute, i heard mary’s voice.
“mary? mary, can that be you?” i cried incredulously, my heart racing.
tish gently placed her hand on my arm. “it’s the operator, tom. i think it’s mabel goodall
from bethel. i heard she’s working for the telephone company.”
something similar happened when phoebe returned to the house this past weekend. she has
recently been reading books that ma and ellen would have burned with the fall leaves in the
yard. they are old tooled-leather texts with titles like through the darkness and book of spirit
communication. a lopsided stack of them rests on the floor in the library, topped by a newer
volume with a paper book jacket, intuitive studies. phoebe lights a candle, reads pages from one
book, then puts it aside on the sofa while she adjusts her posture to imitate dr. liebowitz’s. her
feet are flat on the floor, her hands are on her knees, and her eyes are closed. her breathing
slows. an air of calm pervades the library. i’ve watched her do this numerous times for as long
as an hour, not moving and totally silent. but today is different.
for the first time, i hear her voice without her lips moving. it sounds far away, like the first
time i heard the operator’s voice on the telephone. her words come as though they travel across
a long wire, and they speak directly to my heart. they are faint and reedy, and sometimes drift
off and fade to nothing.
“tom?” she repeats. “tom, are you here?”
i reply, “yes, yes! i’m here!” but she asks again. “i’m here!” i yell, and her startled
expression tells me that she hears me. can this really be happening? phoebe looks as surprised
as i feel. after so many years of trying to make myself heard, first to ellen, then cora, and
finally to this couple, i can’t believe it. but there she is. she has regained her composure and
waits silently with her eyes closed, while the dog emma has stealthily climbed upon the sofa, a
spot normally forbidden to her. the dog cuts her eyes at me, sighs, and drops her head onto her
paws. soon she falls under the room’s tranquil spell and is snoring.
do i finally follow old tatternook’s advice to confess my secrets, or do i allow them to drag
me closer to the inferno? family and friends who might have judged me are long dead. and
after reading mary’s journal, i’ve learned that my family had secrets of their own. we bound
our shame tight to our chests and cloaked ourselves in lonely guilt for the rest of our lives. what
if i tell this woman everything? i no longer have anything to lose. i’ve faded to something
moldy and unrecognizable, and the tale spews upward, erupts like vomit, out of my control. let
it be.
after only two months in prison camp, bone-deep weariness and poor health marked us as old
beyond our years—skin and clothing hanging from skeletal, filthy, vermin-infested bodies—
many prisoners with angry red scars and disfigured bodies. some rarely left their berths,
preferring solitude to the company of men in the pen. when forced to go out, they sank
motionless against the walls and stared off vacantly. many hunched forward on the wooden bed
ledges, heads cradled in their hands. they seemed to have lost all interest in living. john bibb
became one of these low souls. after a few weeks of good companionship, joining in our jests,
he gradually withered into himself and never smiled.
his innocence had drawn me to him, but that’s also what made him more vulnerable to the
viciousness of our last battle and the harshness of our daily prison life. “you’re like a
hibernating bear. come on out in the yard and aggravate the guards,” i teased him one morning,
giving his arm a playful tug. he muttered something unintelligible and looked at the stained
floor.
“i mean it. you’d feel better if you’d get out in the sun and work your legs a bit,” i said.
he finally looked at me. “what’s the point of it? just to have the strength to face another
godforsaken, miserable day? perhaps we’ll be released soon, but i don’t believe it. no one has
any idea how long this hopeless war will go on. and then, what?”
“you’ll go home, that’s what. isn’t that what we all long for? sooner or later, we’ll all go
home,” i said.
“sure, i’ll go home. i’ll return to charlottesville to manage my father’s general store. every
day, i’ll look across the counter at men and women who have no idea of the hell we’ve seen.
and i’ll resent them for it. i’m not fit for any life.”
“what about margaret ellen?”
“i’d have nothing to say to her. we’d live on different planets, and it would never work out.”
he turned his head away and made no movement to follow me into the yard.
there was nothing more i could say, and his lack of interest in living concerned me deeply. i
reluctantly left him sitting on the sleeping shelf and stepped out into the bright heat of the pen.
i understood what worried bibb. all of us boys secretly feared what our return might bring.
as much as i longed for home, my protruding ribs, hollowed cheeks, and unsettled mind were so
disturbing that i wasn’t sure my family would accept what i’d become. folks would want to
hear stories of heroic deeds, not the turmoil going on inside my head. even i tried to ignore it.
on the other hand, jim blue declared that if exchanged, he would seek what was left of the 5th
virginia infantry and fight grant with all of his strength until he’d driven yankees from the
confederacy forever or died, whichever came first. i’d have expected zeke to join blue in this
sentiment, but zeke rarely joined our regular conversation now. instead, he slumped back on his
bunk, his head against the wall. he and john bibb frequently spoke quietly together.
john bibb’s days became exhausted escapes from nightmares. almost every night, he snarled
and screamed at invisible enemies, his arms thrashing violently. i’d reach across the aisle, shake
his shoulder, and call his name until he woke up and gasped a response.
he wasn’t alone in his terrors. the barrack nightly echoed the frightened shrieks of boys
soaked with sweat. the pen also had its walkers—men so anxious that peace was possible only
through constant movement. with heads lowered, they shuffled incessantly around and around
the inside perimeter of the pen. that purposeless action was preferable to idleness that
encouraged the shrieking voices in their heads.
one morning at breakfast, bibb pushed his gristly chunk of beef across the boards toward
me. “i’m done with eating this stuff. it makes me gag.”
“no question it’s awful, but you need to swallow it for strength,” i said pushing it back
toward him.
“i can’t do it. what’s the difference between this meat and dead soldiers’ bodies on the
spotsylvania battlefield? none, as i see it. from the first time i saw horses and men with their
innards spread out on the grass and the buzzards working away on it, all meat seemed the same.”
we had all witnessed too many pounds of animal and human bodies sliced, split, and blasted
into chunks of red muscle, creamy-yellow fat, shiny sinew, and marrow-spilling pearly bone—
no longer with names or recognizable features—scattered randomly across hills and fields. i too
was haunted by the dehumanizing effect of a field after combat. but i wasn’t going to give up
eating the measly bits of meat in the prison; i’d starve if i did.
“don’t dwell on it, john. it does you no good,” i gently said. but he looked away and ignored
my words. he continued to wonder aloud if we are no different from the animals we tear with
our teeth. i wished he would stop.
jim blue tried to counter. “the bible says man’s meant to eat animals. don’t you remember
all those fatted calves and sacrificed goats? men have souls; animals don’t.”
bibb glared at him. “so where is this purported human soul? i saw a lot of men utter their last
breaths, but nary a one had anything like a soul fluttering from his breast.” there was no point in
arguing with him.
meals were twice a day—breakfast and dinner—and sorry excuses for meals they were.
when john bibb stopped eating meat, he limited himself at breakfast to a one by three-inch
piece of dry yellow cornbread, while the rest of us also ate the small chunk of greasy beef or
bacon accompanying it. dinner was not any better at sticking to the ribs—cornbread again,
served with a meager chunk of rancid, flyspecked beef and a half a cup of “soup”—something
so mean i could barely swallow it. the cooks claimed it was rice soup, but it was a thin,
flavorless liquid containing hair, grit, a few rice hulls, an occasional piece of rice or corn, and
dozens of half-inch rice worms. i could swear there were nail clippings in there too. perhaps the
worms were the source of john bibb’s protein.
zeke cracked a joke about those worms. “boys, don’t worry about the squiggles swimming
around in your gut,” he said. a huge grin spread across his face. “they won’t last for long.”
“what the devil are you talking about, zeke?” beards asked.
“if there’s too little liquid in your stomach to drown ’em, they’ll still die.”
beards played along, “why’s that?”
“from starvation.” we laughed doubly hard to hear zeke quip again. it was so rare that his
spirits were high.
more and more bibb resembled the emaciated prisoners who had been confined to the island
longest. i worried he might just fade away. but i also had noticed that some prisoners had more
flesh than we did. sergeant sorrell and his mates were in this group. they would surround
weakened fellows as they walked from the dining hall and threaten to beat them if they didn’t
hand over their rations. the guards looked the other way and then disciplined those who
complained. sorrell’s fellows were the sort who plundered the bodies of their own fallen
comrades for any coin or jewelry. but many of the healthier looking boys weren’t of this
immoral nature. so, how did they get by? if i found out, perhaps i might find something bibb
would eat. i asked frank.
“it all depends on whether you’re lucky enough to have a relative or friend in the north. if
you do, mail is allowed from them, even mail with money. and money will get you bread,
citrus, and even paper, pens, and pots and pans from the sutler’s stall. that’s why some boys are
healthier than others,” he said. “i wish i knew someone up north.” he scuffed the dirt with his
foot.
“ah, that explains it. the guards took every single cent i had. this sutler business seems
uncharacteristically generous of them.”
“it’s only because they take a cut of the sales,” he said.
this suddenly gave me an idea. i remembered that in the summer of ’61, pa had expected a
visit from his uncle grier ralston from norristown, pennsylvania. the uncle had planned to
hunt for indian artifacts, his hobby, but then the war intervened. i’d never met him, but there
was nothing to be lost in letting him know where i was. i begged a scrap of paper from another
boy, who had already found success with a northern friend. if grier ralston responded, i’d then
ask for money in the next letter. every morning i waited fruitlessly at mail call. finally, after
two weeks, a letter from norristown arrived. hands trembling, i ripped open the envelope.
my great uncle addressed me as “dear enemy.” he said he was disappointed that any of his
kin had taken up arms against the government, and he assumed that my service in the rebel
army wasn’t voluntary. but then he offered to help in any way the prison would allow. he said
he prayed for the time when he could sign the letter “your friend.” i could hardly believe my
eyes. a rush of warmth toward this stranger filled my chest. this was far more than i had hoped
for. did the offer of help include sending a little money to buy food? he had not only answered
my letter, but behind the talk of enemies, he acknowledged me as a family member by saying he
trusted ma and pa were well. that afternoon i begged another scrap of paper, this time
promising to pay the boy back, and wrote to ask if uncle grier would send coins to buy food.
he sent five dollars in gold pieces. able to purchase a tin drinking cup, fresh bread, and
lemons, i squeezed the fruit into a tart juice potion i shared with john bibb, along with slices of
the bread. perhaps i could keep scurvy away from both of us, and the sour taste was sharp
enough to disguise the rankness of the water. with each sip and bite, i sent a silent thanks
floating toward grier ralston in norristown.
another chance to avert starvation came unexpectedly from beards, who hadn’t lost his camp
habit of roaming from group to group picking up news. “you boys better come see this. come
quick. you won’t regret it.” he ran ahead, as he guided jim blue and me toward a gathering of
his new friends. they milled about a steaming kettle balanced on burning scraps of wood
salvaged from a discarded packing box. a few others crowded over to the side above a hole in
the ground, long scraps of wood readied in their hands. a scrawny fellow with a rag around his
head said, “alright, amos, wait until i give the signal. then dump your boiling water in this
hole over here.” blue rolled his eyes at me. we had no idea what they were doing. the fellow
said, “not too fast, now. don’t get ahead of yourself. wait for my go-ahead.” he spoke urgently
to a man with a metal bucket positioned a few yards away at a second hole. “now get in position
and be ready.” he shifted the stick from his left to right hand. “now go!” he raised the stick
over his head and waited.
the fellow called amos sloshed the container of scalding water into the farthest hole. two
sleek water rats exploded out of the one near us, and the club swept down for a kill. the rats
were about the size of a grown rabbit. one of the fellows scrambled to grab up the furry bodies
and passed them to a man with a penknife. before you could blink, they were beheaded,
skinned, and tossed into the kettle. jim blue and i were disgusted, but amos smacked his lips
and said, “you boys just wait until you taste these rascals. a little spice from the sutler’s and a
good boiling—they’re as fine as any chicken or squirrel at home.” he rubbed his hands together.
“i don’t know about eating rat,” jim blue said. “i haven’t fallen to such a low place that
you’d catch me eating one of those nasty critters.”
but amos chided him, “you eat plenty of hog at home, and a water rat sure’s cleaner than a
hog. give it a try.” it was white meat, and it didn’t have an offensive gamey odor. i gave in and
tasted the “fresh rat soup.” he was right. it was fresher and tenderer meat than we were served
in the dining hall, but i couldn’t eat it unless we hadn’t seen beef for a week, which happened
more and more frequently as the fall turned to winter.
