The Black Train Part 12

The news spreads like a virus. Whistles, hoots, and shouts of celebration rock the air.

When the sergeant returns with a watering detail, the major's brow rises. "Sergeant, what is goin' on here?" and he points to the wagons and the naked crowd being filed into the barn.

The sergeant pauses. "Prisoner processin', sir."

The major removes his hat and brushes his hair back. "But I thought we was sendin' all Yankee prisoners to that new place just south'a here, Andersonville."

"These here are civilian prisoners, sir."

"But...I don't see no prison here, Sergeant. Just that big barn." The major starts to walk toward the barn. "I'd like to know what's goin' on here-"

"I-I beg your indulgence, sir," the sergeant interrupts and offers another roll of paper. "But here are my orders for you to examine. See, sir, this area is a restricted perimeter by order of the provisional deputy of engineering operations, a Mr. Harwood Gast."

"Who? A civilian issuin' military orders? I don't recognize civilian decrees-"

"Oh, no, sir, it's a military order, which is countersigned by General Caudill."

"Hmm..." The major reads the order, perplexed. "I see..."

"But thank you for the glorious news about General Bragg, sir! Lincoln'll surely sign an armistice now, won't he?"

The major seems distracted, looking quizzically at the barn. "Oh, yeah, Sergeant, he likely will, now that he knows he can't get his hands on the Tennessee railheads. Once Europe hears of this great victory, they will surely recognize the C.S.A. They'll threaten to stop trade with the North if they don't call a truce and recognize us as an independent nation now..." But he shakes his head, at the barn. "You may carry on, Sergeant."

"Yes, sir!" and the sergeant runs back to the sentry post.

Now the major is looking- At you.

He walks up and you snap to attention. You do not salute because you are under arms.

"Good afternoon, sir!"

"At ease, Private." Behind him, the major's men are watering the horses. "Can you tell me what the h.e.l.l's goin' on in that barn?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know."

"Strangest thing..." The major squints up. The prisoners previously filed into the barn are now coming out at the farther entrance, and getting back in the wagon. The wagon departs up a hill.

"And who is this man Harwood Gast? I ain't never heard of him."

"He's a civilian appointee, I believe, sir," you say but have no idea where that information came from. "A private financier I've heard him called. He built the alternate railroad that comes here from eastern Tennessee."

"Oh, yeah, the one out'a that junction in Branch Landing, right?"

"I believe so, sir. What I heard is he paid for it with his own money, laid five hundred miles'a track, sir."

"Hmm, yeah, okay. Just another rich guy in cahoots with the new government. Probably tryin' to buy his way onto President Davis's cabinet or somethin'."

"Yes, sir, I guess that's the case."

The major seems aggravated, fists on hips as he continues to stare at the barn, where the next wagonload of naked civilians is being off-loaded.

"Oh, well, orders are orders. Carry on, Private."

"Yes, sir!" you snap.

The major gets back on his horse. One of his men points behind him, to the field...

"Now what the h.e.l.l is goin' on there I wonder?" the major mumbles.

"Looks like they're sun-dryin' peat," the other rider says.

"They use peat to make coal easier to light," says the third rider, "and the barrel works is just up the way."

"Yeah, peat," the major concludes, though without much conviction. "I guess that's what it is...Come on, men, let's get out'a here..."

They ride off.

You resume your post around the barn. Yes, the wagon is heading up a hill, and behind the hill you see smoke. You look back out to the field and notice slaves raking up some of the dark stuff off the ground and putting it in more wagons...

On your rounds you overhear other soldiers talking...

"Seems a waste'a time to me...And where do they go after this?"

"Other side of the hill it looks like."

"The old rifle works?"

"Ain't old no more. Been completely rebuilt by that Gast fella. You seen him. I heard it's now the hottest blast furnace in the country. He was around a lot last month when they was finis.h.i.+n' the train depot down yonder."

"Oh, the guy with muttonchops..."

"Yeah, and the white horse."

"And there must be a big stockade somewhere beyond the works. As for what we're doin' here-shee-it, armies been doin' that for a thousand years. The spoils'a war is what it's called. Usin' the enemy's resources 'cos they sure as h.e.l.l'd do the same to us. s.h.i.+t, now that Lincoln won't exchange prisoners no more, what else can we do? I been hearin' some unG.o.dly stories 'bout that Yankee prison in Annapolis. Starvin' our men, beatin' 'em."

"G.o.dd.a.m.n Union can go to h.e.l.l, and we'll send 'em there. A'course what we're doin' here is all right. You heard that, Major. We just kicked the Yankees out of Tennessee. General Lee's army'll surely be capturin' Was.h.i.+ngton by December."

"Yeah, and they got cold winters up there. Our boys need good sleepin' bags..."

You still don't understand yet you march your post via some order beyond your consciousness. They're drying something in that field, you realize. And it's NOT peat. It's something coming from the barn...

Your perimeter march takes you around the other side. No doorways on this wall but there is a half door, with the top half open.

Go look inside...

As you approach, a stench rises. It's an appalling smell and also an incomprehensible one. These civilian prisoners probably hadn't washed in months but only part of the stench was body odor. Their clothes had all been stripped, obviously, to reuse the fabric for the war effort, but now that you thought of it, why go to all this trouble to confine and feed women, children, and old men? They were of no military value...

Then you look into the barn- Large wood fires burn in each corner, and over each fire sits a kettle six feet wide. The kettles are boiling, gus.h.i.+ng the foul-smelling steam, and each is being stirred by a male slave with a long wooden paddle.

"Boil it good, boys," a pistol-bearing officer barks.

But what are they boiling in the kettles?

"Gotta kill all that dirty Yankee lice 'fore it's fit for our men..."

You still don't understand...until you look to the center of the barn where there is an incessant snick-snick-snick sound...

The mostly nude prisoners are standing in a silent line. They're all very skinny, ribs showing, knees k.n.o.bby. Some of the women show signs of pregnancy; in fact, so do some of the female children just entering p.u.b.erty.

"Next ten! Come on, hurry it up!"

Ten at a time the prisoners are called to the center of the barn where ten grim-faced Negro women wait, each holding a pair of shears.

Their duty now is clear. They quickly clip all of the hair off the prisoners' heads.

"Arms up!"

Next, tufts of underarm hair are shorn off to fall to the ground.

"Feet apart! Hurry!"

Now each Negro kneels, shears poised. All pubic hair is similarly snipped off. Children too young to have any are merely shorn of their head hair and sent to the second door where they reboard the wagon...

They're boiling hair, you realize, wide-eyed. Then it's dried in the sun and used to stuff mattresses and sleeping bags...

After several cycles the hair sits in veritable piles. The cutters take a few minutes to scoop up the hair and drop it in the kettles after the previous batch is skimmed out and dropped steaming into a waiting wheelbarrow.

Hence, the process.

A farm for human mattress filling.

On several occasions, you see soldiers throw some women into the kettles, who are left to churn for a minute and are then pulled out. The soldiers stand round guffawing as they watch these unfortunates shriek and shudder, red-skinned, on the floor, their eyes boiled and their faces steaming. You have the distinct impression that the soldiers are doing this simply for amus.e.m.e.nt.

You step back gagging, a monstrous taste in your mouth. You stagger backward to see out of the corner of your eye the wagon heading up the hill, only now the forlorn captives are all bald.

The wave of nausea threatens to keel you over, and from a distance you hear some shouting.

"Get her!"

You look out but only see through a s.h.i.+fting vertigo of sickness...

"Private! Shoot that escaping prisoner right now!"

You're still staggering. When your vision clears, you see a bald and very naked little girl running away from the barn.

"SHOULDER YOUR WEAPON AND FIRE!" a red-faced lieutenant is screaming as he approaches. You raise your weapon and sight the target in the V-notch. Your finger touches the trigger...

"What are you waitin' for!"

"But-but, sir," you stammer, "it's just a-a little girl..."

A pistol barrel touches your temple. "Private, if you do not shoot that escaping prisoner, I will kill you right now and put your hair in with the next batch!"

I'm not going to do it, you think but nevertheless you take a breath, let half of it out, and squeeze the trigger. The hammer snaps, striking the bra.s.s primer cap, and after a split-second delay, the musket tries to leap out of your hand. Black powder blows the .69-caliber smoothbore minie ball out of the muzzle with a deafening boom and a belch of smoke.

Your eyes were closed when you squeezed the trigger but you hear a faint thwack! and a child's shriek.

The lieutenant is fanning gun smoke with his hat. "Fine shot, Private! You hit that kid right in the back even as she was turnin'!"

Your eyes sting like fire. You see the small nude body quivering in the gra.s.s. For a few seconds she hacks out some sobs-"Mommy! Daddy!"-then: Silence.

"What's your name, Private?"

The answer grinds out, "Collier, Justin. Third Corp, sir."

Did the lieutenant's eyes seem tinged yellow? "Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"

Your throat is nearly squeezed shut, and in the back of your head a voice whispers, You killed a child, you killed a child...and the words come out of your mouth with no awareness, "Fredericksburg and both Bull Runs, sir." But you only wish you could reload and kill yourself right there.

"d.a.m.n fine shooting, Private." A slap on the back. "Now get some nigrahs to recover the body and resume your post."

You stare into the field and drone, "Yes..."

II.

"...sir..."

Collier lay atop the sheets in a trembling rigor, eyes peeled in dread. A cold sweat thick as honey seemed to sheen him. Confusion came first; then his stomach tightened when images from the dream illuminated in his head. Holy s.h.i.+T, that was the most disgusting nightmare of my life...

He tried to swallow but couldn't; then he found he couldn't move, either, the dream having crushed him like a collapsed ceiling. The image snapped brighter in his brain: a gut-sucked nude woman with parchment white flesh shuddering and in tears as a pair of iron shears identical to those he'd seen in the display intricately snip-snip-snipped off all of her hair. Like the n.a.z.is, he thought.

Did the Confederates really do such things? Had he read that somewhere?

Or had his mind generated the entire atrocity?

I must really be f.u.c.ked up to have a dream like that...

Indeed.

He still couldn't move; he felt half suffocated. His chest rose and fell as he heaved in air- Holy s.h.i.+t!

-and immediately noticed a figure standing next to the bed.

Collier's heart quaked. His brain told him to roll off the bed and turn on the lamp but- The dream paralysis only hardened around him.

Who are you! he tried to shout but his throat was just as paralyzed. Grainy darkness filled the room like smoke. The figure's head seemed bowed. It seemed to stand there looking down at him for full minutes, and then suddenly its pose snapped. The figure's head was leaning toward his face.

Collier's body clenched when a mouth locked to his and a fervent, hot tongue began to churn over his lips. His own lips parted against his will, to allow his tongue to be sucked. The action was fastidious, almost machinelike, and then pet.i.te yet insistent fingers toggled his nipples. The forced kiss sent wet smacking sounds about the dim room.