18p - Christmas 1864

Chapter 18: Christmas 1864

Fort Delaware, Pennsylvania, Sunday, December 25, 1864 From my diary

Another cold, miserable, forgettable night. Captain Dowd has not mastered the art of spooning. Understandable. He is the new man. Took the place of Captain Grisham who died mid-month. Grisham could turn and roll with the group, but it is something you do without thinking. At first, the rolling of the men on each side wakes you, interrupts your sleep and, after you doze off, it starts again when they roll the other way. That is Dowd and, to make it worse, his body odor is particularly bad and he snores. He will lose weight eating prison slop, snore less, and start smelling like the rest of us. Then someone else will die and we will start over with a new man. Christmas celebrates the birth of the Christ child and the promise of salvation from a wicked and despoiled earth. A time of hope and joy in prospect of better times to come. Not this Christmas, only misery to come. Even dodging Yankee bullets is better than eating their putrid food, drinking the foul water, and waiting for a disease that makes you vomit your guts out as you die. It is terrible

when your best hope is defeat, surrender, and leaving Fort Delaware alive. A woman would be nice, not that I know for sure. But sleeping with a soft, clean, perfumed woman has to be better than spooning with dirty, smelly men. But, it is that or freezing to death. We don’t have near enough blankets to keep us warm. Come spring, we can get back to the rickety, bug ridden bunk beds. Little to distinguish today from any other day since we came here. We wanted to swap gifts, but hard to swap when no one has anything. I would gladly give away some of the Yankee dollars I took riding with Mosby, but the cretin guards took everything. If I ever see any of the sons of bitches after the war, I will shoot them on sight. Not a worthy thought for Christmas day. Today is cold and wet, but I will take off my shoes and wade around in the yard until my feet freeze. At least outside I can see the sky and life outside prison. It is a world I hope someday to rejoin. I try not to think about women, but it is impossible. At the most improbable times, thoughts of Sissy or Carolyn Jamison or Karen Young pop into mind. I should have better control of my emotions, but I don’t. Sissy is gone and I

can see now that she and I do not belong together, never did. I pity the man she marries and finds he married her mother. Still her kiss when I went off to war lingers. A reminder that emotion rules reason. Never was any romance with Carolyn Jamison or Karen Young except in my fantasy, but still nice to think of them. ### I put on my boots to go out on the yard hoping, maybe, the ground was firm enough they wouldn’t stick in the ooze. Too cold to stay out without covering my feet. Had to do something to ease the funk of Christmas in Fort Delaware. I needed conversation and looked around for someone to talk to, someone who might brighten my spirit, and saw Sid Ross standing off by himself. Talking with Sid brought back memories of his sister and that would be pleasant. I approached and greeted him. “Merry Christmas, Sid. Mind if I join you?” Sid looked up and smiled. “Hi, Jim. Glad you came along. I’m standing here feeling sorry for myself.” I rubbed my hands together and stamped my feet to warm myself. “Easy to do. I’ve been here three months and am sick of it. You’ve been here since Gettysburg. It has to be worse for you.”

“Yeah, but what can I do?

Self-pity doesn’t help

much.” I heard what Sid said, but sensed he had something more on his mind. “Afraid I’m not much help either, but sometimes sharing misery lightens the load.” Sid nodded. “Anything in particular troubling you?” I asked. Sid bit his lip and answered, “Hard not to think about home.” “From what I saw and heard, you have a wonderful home and family. Does thinking about not being there make you particularly sad?” Sid lowered his eyes and muttered, “There’s more to it than that.” Not wanting to intrude, I looked off to the farmhouses beyond the barricade and saw what I thought might be merrymaking. Farm families coming together to celebrate Christmas like Mother, Oliver, and the Negroes were doing at the Cobb Farm. After a few minutes, I became uncomfortable, but sensed Sid wanted to say more and had difficulty doing it.

Finally he said, “Jim, I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone” and in a half-whisper, “I’m a bastard. It’s my family and then it’s not. I feel empty when I think of them.” Startled, I told Sid, “This is crazy. I talked with your father and sister. Neither described you as anything but son and brother. You are a Ross and those good people are your family.” Sid shook his head. “No, the Major’s not my father and Carolyn’s my half-sister.” It occurred to me that Sid was very young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, maybe conceived while Major Ross was with the army in Mexico. I had not thought about it before, but he favored Carolyn much more than the Major. Sid was thin bordering on frail and pale. I remembered Albert Ross as short, stout, and swarthy. Nevertheless, I asked, “Why do you think you’re a bastard?” “When I was ten years old, I got into a fight with my older brother and he blurted it out. My mother died when I was an infant so I went crying to my father. He was furious when I told him what Todd said. He calmed down and told the whole story in terms a ten year old could understand. He pulled me over to him, put his arms around me, and said,

‘Forget what you heard today. You are my son and that will not change.’ But, I never forgot what Todd said and that I’m a bastard.” I started thinking and acting like an older brother and not a senior officer. “You talk as if you’re ashamed. You did not pick your parents. You had no responsibility for your birth.” Sid shuffled his feet. Maybe it was the cold, but more likely nervousness. “I know, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m a bastard.” I pointed out, “It’s Christmas, the day we celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, son of God, savior of the world. Did you ever stop to think about the details of His birth?” “What do you mean?” Sid asked. Recalling what I learned in Sunday School I replied, “Jesus was born to a woman who conceived him before she married. He, too, was a bastard in the same sense you say you are. But, like you, he had a mother who loved him and a father who treated him as a son. From all we read they were a strong, loving family and baby Jesus went on to do great and wondrous things to the glory of God.” “So, being a bastard makes me like Jesus?”

“No, but it sure doesn’t stop you from being his follower. We both know bastards in the figurative sense who’ll have difficulty explaining themselves to Jesus. But, not my friend, Sid Ross.” I doubted my words helped much, but hoped they would. Sid was a fine young man deserving a good future without carrying a burden that was not his. Sid said, “Still, don’t repeat what I told you.” “Your secret’s safe, but hold your head up. Once we get out of here, you’ve got a good life waiting.” “Let’s hope we walk out.” In the background, we heard a surprising and pleasant sound – Christmas carols played by a band the Commandant brought in to impress visiting dignitaries. It had a startling effect on the prisoners standing in the yard. First silence, then several began to openly cry, no doubt thinking back to happier times. Sid’s expression changed probably more from the music than my attempt to bolster his spirits. My thoughts went across to the soldier’s prison. Andy and the soldiers of the 78th North Carolina Regiment heard the same beautiful music. It was a link by which I mentally reached out to each of them with a “Merry Christmas” for

their well being. And then I heard singing, the soldiers sang the melodies of the music the band played. Then the officers on the yard joined in so that the whole of Fort Delaware became alive with Christmas carols. The singing was off key and delayed, but nevertheless unified all the prisoners in songs of hope and praise. ### My spirits rose with feelings of goodwill, extending even to the pompous Hungarian who provided the band. As I became caught up in the singing and spiritual fellowship, I heard a familiar voice call from behind me, “Mistuh, Jim. It’s me, Scipio. I’s got a message fo’ you suh.” I spun around and, sure enough, it was the Morgan family footman standing behind me, with a wide grin on his face. I grabbed Scipio’s hand with both of mine and shook it. “What in the world are you doing here?” “I’s tendin’ Mistuh Petah. The Yankees dun caught him and sent him heah. He’s still bad hurt and needs me.” “Scipio, you’re a free man in Pennsylvania. You don’t have to be here.” “I knows, but he needs me and dere’s uttah officahs needs tendin’.”

“You mean you followed Pete into this hellhole to look after him?” “Yassuh.” “Could you take me to him?” “Yassuh, but ‘fo we go, I’s got a lettah fo’ you from Miss Missy. She learnt you’se heah an askt me to bring her lettah wid me.” Scipio reached into his shirt and pulled out a crumpled enveloped letter. Probably hid it in his shoe to get it past the guards. I smiled, took the envelope, and opened it. It read Dearest Jim, I know my first prayer is answered in your reading this. You are alive. You talked about dying when we were together last and your safety has been on my mind since. I met an officer from the Light Division who told me what happened to you and your regiment at Petersburg. He was badly wounded and home probably for the remainder of the war. He spoke highly of you and the courage of your regiment in holding off the Union Army as the Brigade pulled back. I know it is terrible for you in prison and, as I am sure Scipio told you, Pete has come to join you and the others at Fort Delaware. I pray for all of you. Please, Jim, when you are released, come see me before you go home. There are things I must tell you. Until then, please keep the promise you made when we last talked. Stay alive. Your loving friend, Missy I put down the letter and noticed Scipio watching me.

“Very nice of Missy to think of me and write this letter. She was always a good friend.” “Pahdon, Mistuh Jim”, Scipio said, “she mo’ n dat. She loves you and needs you wid her.” I was puzzled. “I could always talk with Missy and enjoyed being with her, but she’s just a girl, Pete’s kid sister.” “No, suh. She’s a grow’d woman and fine lady. She needs you.” “Needs me?

Missy’s a pretty and smart girl. She’ll

have her pick of the young men left after the war.” “Yassuh, but she gotta leave home. She needs you.” “Scipio, there’s something you’re not telling me. What is it?” “Yassuh.”

Scipio looked down and shuffled his feet.

“Miss Missy wuz tack’t by Yankee bummers. Mos’ shameful ting de Yankees dun in de wah. Cap’n caught ‘em and hung ‘em. But dere’s no goin’ back on whas dun. Miss Missy tole Sara you de only man she knows who’d look past what happen and take her away sose de talk won’ hurt her.” I was stunned. The thought of Missy raped sickened me. Bad enough our men fought and died in miserable conditions,

but thinking of our women violated tore my insides. Especially, raping my sweet, innocent, intelligent little sister. I was pleased Captain Morgan tracked down the bummers so Pete and I would not have to do it after the war. I promised, “Thank you, Scipio. If I do nothing else, I will see Missy after we get out of here.” Sid Ross heard everything. I turned to him and said, “Sometimes I wonder why we went to war. Remember how we treated Yankee civilians at Gettysburg?

And they think

nothing of sending out filthy, stinking bummers to pillage us. Missy, your sister, my mother, no woman in the South is safe from them.” It was Sid’s turn to console me. “Sorry about your friend, Jim. But, it’s a reminder no matter how bad we have it, there are others that have it worse. The best revenge we can take after the war is to live well and that’s what I wish for you.” “And you too, Sid. Merry Christmas.” I turned back to Scipio and said, “At a time when I felt forgotten and isolated, my Christmas gift came with you. I don’t wish Fort Delaware on anyone, but having you and Pete to talk with will make prison easier. If you would, take me to him.”

### The sight of Pete on a filthy cot saddened me. Nearly unrecognizable under a scraggly beard and in a badly soiled and crumpled uniform, Pete got up when he saw me. He had a noticeable limp as he staggered toward me. His eyes misted as he worked to hold back his tears. “Near miracle finding you and Scipio on Christmas Day.” I said. “I’m sorry for everyone here except the bastard guards. I wish you weren’t here, but, God, it’s good to see you.” Pete hugged me. “I’m sure Scipio told you, I’m not here by choice. Seeing your friendly face is the best thing that’s happened to me since I went down at Opequon Creek. Sit down. Let’s talk. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” Pete ignored Scipio, but I motioned for him join us. Scipio pulled up a cracker box and sat to the side. I told Pete, “I was shocked when I saw Scipio. Then he explained he was looking after you. He brought me a letter from Missy. We both owe him a lot.” Pete waved a hand in Scipio’s direction and said, “When we got here, the Yankee guard said he did not care if the little nigger wanted to throw away his life”. Pete

laughed. I felt embarrassed for Scipio who sat nearby and smiled as Pete talked about him as if he weren’t there. To change the subject, I asked, “What happened at Opequon Creek?” “General Early did all anyone could do to hold the Shenandoah, but the Yankees had us outnumbered two or three to one. They got pretty good using what we taught them early in the war. Sound familiar? Sheridan pushed us back toward Martinsburg. We fought a big battle there. I went down when we fought their cavalry at Opequon Creek. My company hid in the woods until the Yankees crossed and then we hit them on the other side. I remember leading the charge and then waking up in a Yankee field hospital.” Pete grimaced as he said, “Grapeshot caught my leg and took down my horse. I must’ve hit my head on the ground. The surgeon was ready to cut the leg off. Would’ve done it except Scipio pleaded with him. I think he’s one of those New England Abolitionist nigger lovers. I asked him not to cut it off and he ignored me. Scipio asked and he backs off. Shows you what the Yankees think of us. Sometimes I wish he had cut it off. Been nothing but trouble. Can you imagine me riding around the plantation with a wood leg?”

“I can imagine worse” I told him, and I could. “I left a Yankee hospital with a handsome young man who had half his face shot off at Sharpsburg. It’s like my friend Sid Ross just said, ‘anytime you think you have it bad, there’s always someone that had it worse’. Right now, I’m counting my blessings. You should too. You’re blessed Scipio stuck with you.” Pete laughed. “Damn, you never change. Still the Reverend Cobb.” Pete smiled so I took a mock punch at him as we had done as cadets. Pete turned serious for a moment and told me, “I think the only reason the surgeon did not amputate my leg was Scipio promised to attend me. The orderlies showed him how to change dressings and apply the powder. Somehow, I’ve survived with my leg and I’m thankful. Scipio also tended Yankees and some Confederates which helped keep him around to tend me. When I was well enough to leave, they sent me here.” I gave Pete a short account of Peebles Farm and my journey north. Pete wanted more details and I picked up the story from when we last saw each other at Gettysburg. “In thinking back, I’ve been blessed too. I’d be pushing up flowers in The Wilderness if my friend and First Sergeant,

Andy Blaylock, had not looked out for me. We’ve got to survive to repay our guardian angels.” I asked, “Did Scipio tell you what happened to Missy?” Pete nodded. “I nearly went crazy when I heard about it. If Father hadn’t caught those sons of bitches and hung them, I’d be out tracking down and shooting bummers. Ruined my little sister for life.” I shook my head. “She’s not ruined. Missy was a victim. She has nothing to be shamed of. She’s still the pretty, smart girl we know.” “No. She’s changed. She’s a woman now. Hard to think of her that way, but she is. Scipio tells me she’s worked hard to keep the plantation going. We were all kids before the war. I can’t blame you for going after Sissy, but if you’re inclined to marry my sister, make it Missy.” I thought briefly on what Pete said. Hard to tell when he was serious and when he wasn’t. Maybe he felt responsible for Missy, something he did not do before the war. “In her letter, she asked me to visit after the war. God willing I survive this place, I’ll come by before I go home. I have a hard time thinking of her as a woman. In my mind, she’s still the smart girl who thought like an adult. She’s a sweet, sensible girl, but Scipio tells me she wants

to leave the plantation, leave the area. Maybe I can help her get a new start. We’ll talk about it when I get there.” Pete looked at me earnestly and said, “Jim, just keep an open mind. Tell her what you told me about her rape. You know I’m not the brightest penny in the drawer, but I know you two belong together. You think alike. Talking with you is like talking to her.” After the initial excitement in seeing me, Pete began to fade. I put my hand on his shoulder and bid him farewell, “I’ll be by to see you as often as I can. Come see me when you can.” Pete smiled and closed his eyes. I motioned Scipio to follow me. When we were outside, I took Scipio to my division and introduced him to the other officers. They, too, were surprised to find a newly freed slave in Fort Delaware. ### He remained weak from his wound, but Pete gradually gained strength. With Scipio’s and my help, he was able to take increasingly longer visits to the yard, where I introduced him to Sydney Ross and others I knew. Pete had writing paper, pen, and ink and bribed one of the guards to post letters without going to the censor where most letters were

simply thrown away. Through Pete and Scipio, I finally sent a letter to Mother with the welcome news her son was in Yankee prison and alive. I sent another letter to Missy, thanked her for her letter, and told her I would come by the Morgan Plantation on my way home after the war. From Scipio, I learned Margaret Morgan asked some of her Union guests to intervene on behalf of her son which explained how Scipio had accompanied Pete to prison and the writing materials, much appreciated favors. She worked hard to get Pete a parole but futilely. General Grant denied all paroles and prisoner exchanges since taking command of the Union Army.