CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Moving South
A Yankee soldier walks up and down the rows of hospital bunks jabbing the Confederates lying on the beds with the end of his musket. “Git outta them sacks, you Rebs are gittin’ moved!”
Sergeant Scarburg and Private Dunway need further encouragement - they are still lying on their bunks. They have been in the Army long enough to know the old soldier’s refrain, ‘always wait until the last minute before doing anything.’ A daily routine of the army is a constant hurry up and wait endeavor. They do not think this move order is to be any different. Robert’s stab wound is healing nicely, but any quick exertion causes him excruciating pain, so he has to move slowly. His memory has not returned completely, but he can remember most facts.
“Robert, whar do you thank they is gonna send us?”
“ I don’t know Ben, but ever since we arrived I’ve been giving it some thought, and I remember a few things. I reckon we will go to Elmira, New York or maybe to the Old Capitol Prison in Washington. Both of them are pretty close.”
Ben starts to reply, but soldiers begin pushing the rebel prisoners out of their tent into dozens and dozens of Union wagons. Every wagon covered with a white canvas, with the big, black, letters U.S. painted on the side.
Ben stays close to Robert as they crawl into the wagon. They sit on the floor; no sideboard seats are in these transports. The roads they travel have not improved since Robert last rode in one on his way to the hospital; in fact, he believes they have gotten worse. The men in the wagons are being bounced from side to side. Those with partially healed wounds begin to ooze blood, and it begins trickling out of their bandages collecting on the floor, or dripping through the planking to the road below. Cries of pain and anguish go unanswered. The drivers will not acknowledge their passenger’s plight.
All day they travel toward an unknown destination. At one point, Sergeant Scarburg looks out the rear of the wagon.
“Ben we are going south, we must be bound for Old Capitol Prison. If we don’t get there soon, I believe I am going to bleed to death.”
Over the loud sound of the wagon wheels sloshing through the mud, and the shouts of the driver’s barking orders to the mules, Robert and Ben talk about the prison to which they seem to be bound. Robert explains the prison near Washington isn’t going to be too bad. He has heard all the prisoners live in buildings. The food is adequate, and the inmates are supplied with decent clothing and are allowed to send and receive mail regularly. All in all, Sergeant Scarburg thinks Ben and he at last is about to receive a little bit of good luck. He tells Ben they can sit the War out there in relative comfort. If luck smiles on them, it is possible they can, possibly, get exchanged for Yankee prisoners. Robert continues to explain how one rebel private is, usually, exchanged for one Yankee, and a rebel sergeant is worth two Yankee prisoners.
“So you and me are worth three Yankee prisoners. Is that right Robert?”
“Yes it is Ben.”
“Then them Yankee blue-bellies has got it ‘bout right!” Ben said smiling.
Robert thinks their odds are pretty good they will get exchanged. Not much, during the past few weeks, has offered them much hope, but now their spirits are being raised, if only he could remember his family.
Robert estimates it is about a three-day trip to the nearest town, Frederick, Maryland, he is right. Around midnight of day three, the train of wagons rolls into the outskirts of this small Maryland burg. The prisoners are allowed to get out of the wagons and get a bowl of hot potato skin soup from a Union mess tent. In the meantime, the drivers replace the mules with a fresh team.
Once the new teams of mules are hitched, the drivers yell, “Load up!” and the men swallow their soup and scamper to get back into the wagons. Those that are slow receive the business end of the bullwhip used on the mule teams. These slow movers quickly decide to speed up their movement. Robert has hoped their stop in Frederick would allow him to see a doctor and get his wounds dressed. Not only did he not receive any medical attention to his chest and scalp wounds now he has a couple of bleeding stripes across his back and shoulders from the Yankee bullwhip..
Returning to the wagons, they begin to move southeast toward Washington, D.C. Robert is depressed and in pain. ‘Why,’ he thought, ‘can’t I remember everything? Luke and Matthew, I know they are someone important to me, but who exactly are they?’
He guesses their destination is about fifty miles away, but in these slow mule pulled wagons, the prison, and a doctor is still eight to ten days down the road.
Had Robert only realized, his spirits would have been lifted tremendously if he had known at the back of the wagon train almost at the end rides his son Luke. Injured but alive; however, Luke is but a name, unassociated with anything in his memory. Nevertheless, Robert and Luke seem to be heading to the same destination.
Five days later the wagon train pulls into a large tent city just a couple of blocks from the White House. This city of tents has twelve rows of ten tents each. The large tents hold twelve men; approximately twelve hundred to fifteen hundred prisoners can be accommodated at this one encampment. The men are taken from the wagons and assigned a tent. Ben and Robert are once again bunkmates. They are assigned the first tent in row two. At last, a couple of medical attendants are sent by the Yanks to clean and dress the wounds of the Rebels. Fortunately Robert’s, despite the harrowing wagon trip, wounds have not become infected and are beginning to heal, somewhat.
“How long yer figure, Robert, ‘till them Yanks move us to our final home place?”
“I don’t know Ben,” Robert responds sitting down on the bunk, “but from the looks of this set-up I’m reasoning this may be our home for awhile.”
Before Ben can respond they hear a loud commotion occurring outside their tent. The orderlies and Union soldiers all seem to be hurrying toward the excitement.
Robert motions to the man lying in the bunk next to him “Hey what’s all the fuss next door?”
One of the men standing at the tent flap answers instead, “Seems like someone important is visitin’ that thar tent,” he says pointing at one of the tents. “Whos you reckon they went to see?”
Turning his back to the man talking Robert grunts and replies,
“Huh! Don’t know, and don’t care!”
“It’s the President; it’s President Lincoln. He’s come to visit us,” the fellow at the flap hollers.
As Robert begins to respond the soldier snapped to ramrod straight attention and yells in a loud voice for all to hear, “A-TEN-SHUN!” Robert and Ben both turn and look at the entrance flap of their tent. There in the opening stands a tall, slender man, dressed in all black. The stovepipe hat he is removing catches their eye, the soldier is right - it is the President of the United States, Abraham Lincoln.
Although Ben and Robert are technically at war with this man, he after all was the President. Old loyalties are hard to die; both men stand and click their heels together, as the Union soldiers, ramrod straight at attention also.
President Lincoln enters the tent; speaks a word or two to the Confederate prisoners as he makes his way down the aisle toward Ben and Robert. A Federal colonel leads the Presidential party right up to Robert and stops. The colonel looks directly at Robert and asks, “Are you Sergeant Robert Scarburg?”
“Uh, uh, yes Sir.”
The colonel speaks as he steps aside allowing the President to advance, “The President of the United States Abraham Lincoln wishes to have a word with you Sergeant.”
President Lincoln extends his hand to Sergeant Scarburg. Robert is shocked. Rubbing his hand on his britches in an attempt to clean it, he shakes the President’s hand. “Sergeant I understand your family has a long history of military service. Proud, brave service to our United States. Your forefather fought in the Revolutionary War and the British gave another one of your ancestors a necktie party for his loyalty; your father fought in the War of 1812, and you bravely served in the Gre
at Seminole Indian War, receiving a commendation for bravery. The Congress of the United States granted you public land as a token of America’s appreciation to you as an American veteran for your service to your country, is this correct?”
Robert can hardly speak; he can hardly remember the people of whom the President speaks, he only mutters, “Yes Sir.”
“They told me up yonder at that White House there was a prisoner down here that was a Son of the South and a hero, and so was his family. I told them I must come meet this feller for myself.”
“Thank you, Mr. President, but I’m no hero of −,”
“Tell me Sergeant,” said the President cutting him off. “How many slaves do you own?” This statement struck a nerve. He, for some reason, remembers he has no slaves.
“None Mr. President. I do not believe a man has the right to own another person.”
“And yet, Sir, you fight for the right of slave owners to continue this dreadful institution of slavery!”
“No, Mr. President it is the South for whom I fight. I fight for my home state of Alabama. If it were in my power, I would free all the slaves today. I would issue an emancipation order proclaiming to all slave owners that on a particular date to be appointed their slaves would be then and forever free; however, I think the owners should be paid a fair price for what is now legally their property.”
“I see... you would free all the slaves? Hmmm...,” the President scratches his beard as though thinking. “And they tell me, Sergeant Scarburg, you were wounded at Gettysburg, how you getting along? How’s the treatment from our fellows?” Without waiting for an answer, “Speaking of Gettysburg, I am being prompted to go to Gettysburg and dedicate their military cemetery there when it’s ready. You were there, albeit,” rubbing the whiskers on his chin, “fighting against us,” said the President as he smiles and turns his head to his entourage. Addressing Robert, “You have any thoughts on what I should say in my dedication speech?”
“Well...well,” Robert’s brain is moving at breakneck speed. He knows he must say something intelligently to the President of the United States. “Well, Sir,” he began, “I saw a lot of good, brave men, many from your side and a lot more from ours, die at Gettysburg. I think if I were you I would say, as President you understand, ‘I’m not able to dedicate this cemetery; I’m not even able to consecrate this hallowed ground’. I’d probably say, ‘the brave men, those living and those dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above my power to add or detract.’ Then, I guess, I would say something about, ‘the world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.’ I know, for a fact Mr. President I will never forget. Well, I suppose that’s about all I would say Sir.”
The President did not speak – one could have heard a pin drop. He stood in stunned silence. After a moment, the President looks at Robert, “Well said Sir, well said,” with a chuckle he continues, “I may need for you to go in my stead, Sergeant,” the President says as he begins turning to leave. Looking back at Robert, “and may I add Sir, when this War is over, and it will end someday, how about you pickin’ some occupation besides politicking. I don’t believe I could beat you from the podium or on the field of battle. Do you wrestle?” Robert knew Old Abe had been a wrestling champ in his youth.
“No Sir, Mr. Lincoln, I believe you would win that one.”
His entourage breathes a sigh and breaks into laughter. “Sergeant, you are an interesting fellow,” again he scratches his whiskers and with a faraway look continues, “Yes, very interesting...uh, good luck to you. I must say it has been a real pleasure meeting you. A real pleasure.” With these final words, the President and the group following him turn and as swiftly as they arrived they hastily leave.
The last man had barely gotten outside when Ben says to Robert, “What wuz that all about. I ain’t never...I ain’t never...the President of these United States wuz here, wuz right here next to me, talking to you...the President of the United States...I ain’t never...”