Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [111]
The first thing I noticed was the smell. I had thought the hospital odorous, but Libby Prison’s hot, stifling air reeked—worse than any charnel house—of filth and death and human waste. I had to pull out my handkerchief and hold it over my nose and mouth to keep from gagging.
Major Turner scrambled to his feet when we entered his office. “Miss, you have obviously come to the wrong place. Let me escort you—”
“No, thank you, sir,” I said firmly. “I have come to Libby Prison to see one of your inmates.”
“Out of the question.”
I felt an immediate dislike for Major Turner. He hadn’t even taken the time to consider my request. Not much taller than me, Turner had a boyish face and a permanent frown—adopted, I guessed, to make himself appear more manly. My first impression was that he was a bully, and I determined to stand up to him— backed by Eli, of course, who towered over the man.
“My name is Caroline Fletcher,” I said. “My father is George Fletcher, owner of several warehouses in this district and recently commissioned by President Davis as a Captain in the Confederate Navy. My fiancé is Charles St. John, serving with the First Virginia Infantry. Surely you’ve heard of the St. John family, Major Turner? Proprietors of the city’s largest flour mill and one of Richmond’s most prominent families?”
“What is your business here, Miss Fletcher?” His voice was high-pitched, boyish.
“I’ve learned that a relative of mine is imprisoned here. I’ve come to see him on a mission of charity.”
“Leave your package. I’ll see that he gets it.”
“I don’t intend to leave until I’ve spoken with him, sir.”
Turner’s frown deepened. “This prison is not a suitable venue for social calls. We do not have the proper facilities for visitors to—”
“Then I’ll wait until a suitable room is prepared,” I said, seating myself on the chair in front of Major Turner’s desk. “I would hate to bother President Davis at such a busy time as this, just for a request to meet with my cousin. But I will do it, sir, if you force me to.” I saw Turner’s resolve weakening and added, “My cousin’s name is Lieutenant Robert Hoffman. I believe you’ll find him in the east building.”
The guards readied a small storeroom on the ground floor and escorted Robert inside. The windowless room quickly filled with his stench. I would have run forward to embrace him but he held out both hands, stopping me with a cry of horror.
“No, Caroline! No! I’m crawling with vermin!”
The skin on his hands and neck was scaly and raw from ringworm and scabbed insect bites. As I stepped closer I could see lice moving through his black hair. Robert was pale and thin; dark circles rimmed his mournful eyes. His infested hair was long and matted and dirty, his face unshaved. But he smiled and briefly gripped my fingers in a quick, reassuring squeeze.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. But heaven knows how I would defile you if we embraced.”
“Robert . . . I . . . I don’t know what to say. . . .” I could barely speak, barely see him through my tears. He was so horribly changed, a figure from a nightmare. Yet his voice, his sweet nature, were the same.
“You don’t need to say a word, Caroline. Just your beautiful presence . . . the fact that you came . . . they will sustain me for a year.”
The major had provided us with two wooden benches. Robert and I sat down, and I gave him the basket of food I had brought. It was meager fare by pre-war standards—a square of Esther’s corn bread, some cold boiled potatoes, a piece of leftover fish, a slice from one of Aunt Anne’s hams that we had been stingily doling out—but the sight of it, the aroma of it, caused Robert to break down and weep.
“I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry,” he