Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [113]
“For entertainment, we sometimes capture lice off our heads and hold races with them. The winner gets the lump of salt pork in the soup if there happens to be one. This place is filthy beyond imagining. The Negroes sweep the floor and slosh water across it twice a week, but that’s all the cleaning that’s done. We have water but no soap. At night, I sleep jammed into a room with one hundred other men, back to back on the bare floor, like herring in a box. Our daily rations are corncob bread and bean soup flavored with rancid salt pork and garnished with white worms. On special occasions we get tough, boiled beef. At first we all pooled our money and bribed the guards into buying us extra rations, but our money has finally run out. We were hoping for a prisoner exchange, but with the fighting so close by, there’s not much hope of an exchange now. In fact . . . there’s not much hope at all in this godforsaken place. That’s why I wrote to you. I’m sorry . . . but it was either that . . . or go mad.”
Robert’s eyes met mine and I saw his utter despair. I remembered how eager he’d been to study at West Point, how he’d longed to distinguish himself in battle, and I could well imagine the staggering cost to his pride to have the woman he’d once loved see him in such a state. I tried to spare him the remnants of his dignity by not allowing my pity to show.
“I’m glad you wrote,” I told him. “It’s good to see you again.”
“I gave the guard my pocket watch to deliver the note to you. It was the only thing of value I had left. I was afraid you might have fled to safety when the war started, and I hoped for your sake that you had. I’m glad for my sake that you didn’t.”
“Richmond is my home. I couldn’t leave here.”
“Julia wrote and told me you were engaged.” The pain I saw in Robert’s eyes was so intense I could barely keep from looking away.
“Yes. Have . . . um . . . have you met anyone, Robert?”
He didn’t seem to hear my question. “Is your fiancé fighting for the Rebels?”
“Yes. . . . yes, he is. Charles believes that he is fighting for the South’s freedom.”
“Are you a Rebel, too?”
“No. I . . . I’m not for either side.”
One of the guards suddenly pounded on the door, startling me. “Your time’s up, Miss Fletcher.” I rose to my feet as the key rattled in the lock and the door swung open.
“I’ll be back in a few days, Robert. I promise. I’ll bring you another parcel.”
He didn’t stand, as if hoping to stretch out our visit for as long as he possibly could. His eyes hadn’t left mine. “Your fiancé and the others are deceiving themselves, you know. The Rebels aren’t fighting for freedom, they’re fighting for the right to keep slaves.”
“Let’s go,” the guard shouted. “On your feet.”
At last Robert slowly stood. He handed me the empty basket. “I know that you believe slavery is wrong, Caroline. But maybe what you don’t realize is that if the South wins . . . if your fiancé wins . . . then slavery wins, too.”
I returned to Libby Prison to visit Robert a few days later, bringing him some newspapers and a few books to read—Les Misérables by Victor Hugo and my collection of works by Sir Walter Scott. I also brought him my father’s chessboard, a bar of soap, and Mother’s fine-toothed ivory comb to help get the nits out of his hair. Major Turner gave up trying to dissuade me after my third or fourth visit and routinely sent for Robert, locking us in the storeroom for our allotted half-hour. Within a few weeks, Robert looked stronger, saner, and a good deal cleaner than he had on our first visit.
One day he set the food aside instead of eating it right away and leaned forward to grasp my hands. “We need to talk, Caroline. I have a favor to ask of you.” He kept his voice low, as if not wanting the guard to overhear him. “Some of my fellow inmates are newly imprisoned, captured after the latest fighting at Seven Pines. They’ve told me what’s going on out there—and now I’m going to tell you. General McClellan thinks he’s facing vast numbers of Confederate troops. He’s moving too cautiously, waiting