The Southwestner
by Gene P. Long

The scent of the meat cooking on the small open fire drifted on cold winter night air. The thought of eating a rodent would have turned my stomach at one time, but now I really didn't care. For the first time in more than two weeks I was going to have something solid in my stomach. Eating the rat was nothing compared with the depths we had sunk to just trying to survive.

Guards would throw chunks of rancid meat into buckets of human shit. Starving men would reach into the buckets and pull out the meat, clean it the best they could and cook it or they just ate it raw.

The complete lack of fresh vegetables took a heavier toll on a person than the lack of meat. What little vegetables we got were crops left over from the local farmers fields. During the winter months even these came in very sparingly.

Guards had brought in several long hog troughs that they poured a mixture of half cooked chicken, pork and beef entrails that was watered down with a few rotten potatoes and grass. The guards seem to take great joy in the knowledge that we were forced to survive on their garbage. They would force us back while the slop was dumped into the troughs. The stronger and faster prisoners would then grab the better pieces of meat for themselves while keeping the rest of us away. By the time that the weakest made it to the meal, there was nothing left but a few scraps and a little flavored water. God forgive me, I too forced my way to the front of the group.

There were dead and dying men scattered all over the camp. Any decent human would have brought it to the attention of the guards, but now we kept our mouths shut. The meager rations that we got would have been cut even more. A dead man did not eat, but the rest of us had a chance, just a chance at a little more. Then there was the weather, extreme cold and heat that showed no mercy to the weak or strong.

The bitter cold wind flowing across the Chesapeake would suck the life right out of you. During the hot humid summers we would lay in what little shade that comes from the sides of the tents.

Men would seek out any hint of a breeze while stripped to the waist, only to be eaten alive by the blood=sucking insects that hovered around the camp like a black cloud of death. Stripping the dead for a heavier coat or a pair of boots, or God forgive us, lying next to the dead just to get that last ounce of warmth from their bodies.

You were outraged and disgusted at first, then the basic instinct for survival set in and before too long you became dehumanized to the point that you would turn in a member of your family for a piece of dried bread, or even reach into the bucket for your next meal.

My opportunity for escape came when a group of new prisoners stormed one of the Negro guards right after he had shot and killed a member of their regiment. All of the guards but one on the north side of the camp left their post to lend assistance to the others. During this short time of chaos among both the guards and the prisoners I was able to slip my way under the garrison walls, roll down the embankment and into the freezing waters of the Potomac River. The blackness of both the sky and the water was broken by the long fingers of light that flowed from the lanterns hanging along the sides of the chicken wire that surrounded the tents.

The lord was with me at that moment, for I was able to reach the trailing end of a large tree branch as it was passing me by. Ducking under the branch to the far side I used the smaller limbs of the branch as cover. The river current was forcing me deeper into the bay than I wanted to go, but the incoming tide was stronger and it was pushing me back toward the shore.

I must have been seen by other prisoners when I slipped under the wall; several others were making a break for it. One or two had gone under the wall when they were seen by the one guard that had not left his post.

All hell broke loose then; prisoners were trying to get out wherever they could. The escapees must have not seen me go into the river; instead of taking to the water they headed along the outside of the fence back in the direction of the main road.

Several guards opened fire on the escaping prisoners, killing four or five men with the first volley. NCO's were barking out orders trying to get a handle on the situation, "Don't wound the bastard's, shoot to kill."

The screaming and shouting going on within the encampment helped block out any noise that I may have made splashing.

I had only been in the water for two or three minutes, but already what little strength I had left in my body was being sucked out by the freezing water. While still keeping the branch between me and the distant lights, I let the currents push me a little further down the shoreline.

My whole body ached from the extreme cold of the water; I could feel myself slipping into unconsciousness. Reaching out and grabbing handfuls of cordgrass I was able to pull myself out of the water and unto the mud and scum that covered the shoreline for miles. By sure will I rose up to my hands and knees.

With what little strength I had left, I was able to drag myself up a slight inclined deeper and into heaver brush. There I was somewhat hidden from view. Taking a risk that I wouldn't be seen, I stood up and made a short run into a group of pine trees just this side of a low lying hill. Throbbing pain in my feet begin as I started to run, brought on by the blood beginning to flow back. At first it felt like a thousand needles were being shoved in the bottoms of my feet. I was shivering so hard it was a wonder that I didn't shake the teeth right out of my head. I knew that I needed to get out of these wet clothes and into something dry, but right then I had to keep moving. If I stopped I would freeze to death in a short while or worse than that, lose one or both of my feet. The thought of losing my feet to a surgeon's knife and saw was a notion that I just did not want to think about. Getting caught meant that I would most likely be shot, if I was lucky. Going through life without my feet was something far worse than death itself.

I had seen the way the army surgeons dealt with gangrene brought on by frostbite in the past, or any other major wound to one of your limbs. They would cut it off and toss it out like so much garbage. After removing the soaked boots I began to rub my feet with bits of material taken from the bottom of my shirt. Starting out slowly I began to feel blood once again flowing back into them. I then wrapped my feet with strips ripped off the bottom of the wool rag that served as a shirt and coat before slipping my feet back into the boots. Although it provided little relief from the cold it was better than nothing at this point.

The sound of an approaching wagon took my mind off of my feet at that moment. By rising up a little I could see that I was on the downward side of a slope that led to the road. Sliding down into the high grass I waited for the wagon to pass, but it began slowing down "Lord, I pray that I have not been seen," I silently said to myself. The sound of a brake being applied was the loudest sound I had ever heard. I was so scared, not of being killed, but of going back into that hell. It took all of my will power to lay there and not leap to my feet and make a run for it. I could hear someone standing and then . . . there was the sound of peeing. At that moment I didn't care if someone pissed on me. Finishing up, he sat back down and once again the wagon continued its journey.

I plan on traveling all night in order to place some distance between me and the camp. That same moonless night that helped me escape now hindered my path though the thick undergrowth of the forest. More than once I barked my shins on a fallen log to the point I thought it better if I found a hole to crawl into for the rest of the night before I broke a leg. I stumbled on a dead fall that had fallen closed to a sandy embankment.

I was able to shimmy up between the bank and the tree, thus giving me both a shelter from the wind and a means of getting some warmth by covering myself with the dried leaves.

It was the lonely sound of a baying mule that woke me just before daylight the next morning. Now sound can carry a long way in these mountains, from the sound he could not be more than a half mile or so away. Using the sound as a guide it leads me to an old cabin located off the beaten path. The place looked deserted but that mule had me worried. There wasn't any sign of smoke coming out of the chimney even at this time of the morning there should have been something.

The cabin did not have any glass windows, what it had was openings that were covered from the inside with boards. The mule had settled down some once he spotted me. The poor thing was starving; the split rails of the fence were almost chewed through in several areas. A sluice box had been built downhill from a stream through one corner of the pen. I reached out for his halter at the same time I slid a rail out of the post. He jerked his head away and before I could reach it he had knocked me backwards and bolted from the pen. He stopped just this side of the stream where the grass was growing. His tail was a swishing back in forth and I do swear that old mule had a big grin on his face. I do believe that if there is a place called mule heaven, right at that moment he had found it.

I kept to the side as I eased the door open. Yo, anybody home, I called into the room. I waited a minute and then call once more. When there was no response I stepped into the cabin. The light from the open door did not quite reach the far side of the room. The window openings were held closed by a heavy board some eighteen inches long and three inches thick. Slipping the board out of its cradle I swung the window open allowing more light into the room. The room was about twelve or so feet long and around ten feet wide. The dirt floor was partially covered by a bear skin. A table was located in the middle of the room.

Right next to it was an overturned chair with a body lying between it and the fireplace. From the looks of the body he had been dead for two or three weeks. Cold weather had prevented the body from decaying very much. Moving the table I wrapped the body in the bear skin and dragged it outside. Next to a stack of cut fire wood I found a pickax and a shovel. The ground was frozen for the first ten or so inches but after that it went fairly quickly

Now you may ask why I took the time to bury a man that I did not know especially when they could be right on my heels it just seemed like the right thing to do.

I tied two sticks together making a rough cross and placed it at the grave. I had not idea if he had any kin or such but they way I saw it if he did they might like to know what happened to him.

Back inside I debated whether or not to start a fire. By using the dry wood and keeping the fire small I figured that the fire would not be putting out much smoke and I dearly needed to dry some of but not all of the moisture in my boots. If I dried them out to fast they would shrink, start to crack. Taking two of the logs and standing them on end I was able to slip the boots over then giving them a better chance to dry.

While they were drying I looked around for food. Built on one side of the firebox was a shelf that held a few canned goods. Using a hatchet I broke open one of the cans and found peaches. Now I am here to tell you them were the best damn peaches I ever had. Hanging from a wooden peg was a heavy coat along with an old beaver pelt hat. Both had seen better days, but I damn sure was not going to complain. Using a toad sack I was able to carry the last two cans of peaches.

I then took a blanket off the bed, tied it onto the sack grabbed the hatchet then closed the door so as to keep any critters out and left. Outside I made one more attempt to catch the mule, but he didn't want anything to do with me. He just might wind up as panther food, but at least he will not starve till then.

For the next several days I mostly traveled the backwoods keeping off well traveled roads and trails, for the most part, sticking to old deer trails. Once in awhile I could hear dogs barking off in the distance. Knowing that dogs meant people I was able to skirt around these for the most part. I did manage to procure a pair of britches hanging on a clothes line. I felt bad about taking a man's pants, but there were two more pairs a hanging there, and I took the most worn out pair of the three. I was only able to travel five to eight miles a day but as my strength began to build up I was able to make close to twenty on some days. More and more folks were out and about with spring breaking, taking a chance I ventured out of the higher hills, keeping off of the main roads I was able to make better time. People that I by chance came upon passed me by with a nod of their heads, that's if they acknowledged me at all.

I began to get more confident as the days went by and no one challenged me. In fact I hadn't seen a signed of any military movement on either side for several days now.

Here and here you could see signs of a battle taking place, burnt farm buildings and crops, broken fences, trees that had been split from the impact of artillery fire that thrive on the flesh on all that stood in its path including the children who never had a chance of growing up or having young'ns of their own. No matter what the reason for the war one thing was very apparent. The battlefields will be soaking in the blood of all American's both Union and Rebel, black or white for a very long time.

I figured that I must be somewhere around the Virginia Tennessee border when the sound of distant church bells, gunfire and people screaming and yelling brought me back to reality. At first I thought that a battle was taking place then I realized that there was no cannon fire. I ventured out of the wooded area that I had been traversing and out into more open terrain.

There I found a well-traveled road that headed in the general direction of the distant noise. I had not been on the road for more than a few minutes when a freight wagon swung into view around a bend not more than a quarter mile from where I was walking. Trying to hide at this point was useless; it was best if I acted like I belonged here and was out on a nice Sunday stroll. I started whistling an old church hymn.

At first it was almost impossible with my mouth dry like it was, but after getting some moisture flowing I was able to keep up a pretty lively retention of When the roll is called up yonder. There were four people in the wagon; an elderly man and woman perched up on the front seat. Sitting between them was a young girl of around ten or so along with a man about my age sitting on the back of the wagon with his legs hanging down.

"Y'all hear the news" the fellow in the back yelled out.

"What news?"

"Lee surrendered! It just came across the wire. The war is over; it's been over for a month or so. The wire has been down for the most part going on year or so. Every time they get it spliced, someone would go up and cut it in a dozen spots."

A thousand emotions ran through me at that moment. At first I wanted to scream out at the total injustice of the whole thing. How many men, women and children had been killed, for what? For a cause that no one, except maybe the sons of bitches who felt that they were better than anyone else, believed in. And what about me, yes what about me? Here I was broke, stranded in the middle of . . .  "Say, can you tell me where we are right now"

"You're in Tennessee, Flanderville is about 2 miles if you stick to the road, but you being on foot you might want to cut across this here hill and shave off a mile."

"You happen to know if anyone is doing any hiring around here."

The elderly gentleman driving the wagon spoke up "You know anything about freight?"

"No sir, but I know what hard work is."

"You know anything about horses?"

"Sir, I worked on a spread that had over a thousand animals before the war broke out. There I green broke and finish broke the younger stock, lent a hand at doctoring when a mare was in breech."

He sat there for a while just looking down at me. I must have made quite an impression with him. My hair and beard had not been cut or trimmed in over a year. At six foot two inches and weighting in at best hundred and forty somewhat pounds I must have looked like a run away from an institution.

"Jump in the back with Luke."

For the next six months I worked fourteen to eighteen hours a day six days a week. On Sundays I was expected to mend, repair and clean the tack.

During the week I mucked out stalls, repaired fences, helped the blacksmith, drove wagon now and then and whatever chores they saw fit to give me. For this I was paid twenty-two dollars a month plus room and board. The work was long and hard at times, but after my time at Point Lookout, this was a cake walk.

I started putting weight back on so that by the end of the summer I weigh in at hundred and seventy-three pounds. I was always stronger than most men; the hard work just boned me up even more. There was nothing that I really needed so for the most part I just salted my pay away. Oh, I did buy some hand me downs from a widow lady over in Hawkins County who lost her man at Shiloh. She made the statement one day that I could have the clothes and a whole lot more just for the asking. With four towheaded kids running around and me just getting back on my feet I knew that it was time for me to skedaddle. The next day I turned in my time and told them that I would be leaving at the end of the month.

I rode out on a buckskin mare that I bought for five dollars. The old man I bought him from said she was around twenty but he wasn't sure about it. For eight dollars more he threw in some tack and an old grimsley saddle. I spend the better part of a day kneading some life back into that old tack. As for the saddle, it was better than nothing, I think.

I was born on the 18th of September in the year of 1841 in a two story stone house located in Madison County, New York. My father worked as a stone mason helping to construct several of the bridge work now seen over several water ways. He learned his trade from his father who had learned it from his father. My grandfather and his son's constructed the home from stones cut from the side of a mountain. I had or should I say have two brothers one was seven years older and the other was ten. In the spring of 1850 my father like a lot of other men decided to travel to the gold fields of California where you could pick up big chunks of gold. He sold the land that his father had handed down to him along with the log home where he, my brothers and I were born in. We joined up with several other gold seekers and homesteaders just outside of Joplin and headed off to the land of milk and honey. A family of five showed the first symptoms of something terrible that first week out. By the fourth week over half of the group was so sick that most of them couldn't keep anything down and were as weak as new born babies. The infected were placed in four wagons that had been stripped of everything but bedding.

My father came down with influenza the third week out which he picked up by being near someone who was infected. Both my pa and ma died within one week of each. My brothers didn't want the responsibility of taking care of a nine year old so they sent me to Arkansas to live with ma's older brother.

Uncle Lester and aunt Lilly lived on a forty acre farm with two boys of their own. Henry was seven years older, while Adam was a little over three years older. Adam treated me like a younger brother. He showed me how to snare rabbits, what mushrooms I could safely eat and which ones would kill me. He taught me how to start a fire using sticks and dry pine needles. Henry on the other hand was just plain ass mean; he took great pleasure in tormenting the hell out of both of us. He was the pride and joy of Uncle Lester and he never could see though the lies and deceit of his fair-haired boy until it was too late.

Uncle Lester did his best trying to eke out a living by growing tobacco that he sold to a tobacco broker in Fort Smith. Most years we barely got by, he used to joke that the only crops that would grow on this land were rocks. Aunt Lilly took in washing and mending for the well to do folks over in Clark County. Uncle Lester hired us boys out first Henry then me and Adam to chop and pick cotton right alongside the darkies in the fields.

Henry felt that the work was beneath him and he got himself an overseer job. He got to ride around on a horse and act like a big shot. At fifteen he took up with a bunch of white trash over in Hickery. It was there that he got his first handgun, an 1851 navy colt. He stuck it down in the rim of his britches and walked around like he was big stuff. Uncle Lester told him that it was not a toy and not to be pointing at anything unless you were ready to shoot, but whenever he was not around, he would take it out and point it at Adam and me. He thought it was funny to dry click the gun just to see us jump. He was told not to take it into church, to either leave it in the wagon or at home. One Sunday he was pointing it down the pew in the direction of us when it went off. The bullet struck Adam in the belly, came out his back and lodged it's self in the old log wall behind us. The shock look on Henrys face soon turned to terror and he bolted out the door. The parson had a sleeping room attached to the back of the church where they tried to comfort Adam. After that nothing was the same. We hear tell where Henry killed a man over in Missouri over the ownership of a horse. Uncle Lester took up drinking and kept a drunken fog around him for the most part. Aunt Lilly spent her last years taking care of him and finding comfort in the pages of the good book. In the fall of 1857 he was killed falling off a horse and breaking his neck. Aunt Lilly died that same winter from pneumonia. So at the age of twelve I was an orphan once more.

The seed mill was the first to file a claim against the land and property for back payment. I was told that a sixteen year old, wet behind the ears, boy could not work a farm alone. The constable made arrangements for me to live on one of the larger plantations for food and lodging. I might have been white in skin color, but to the people running that operation I was nothing but white trash. One day they sent me into town to pick up some seed potatoes. I loaded the fifty pound sacks in the back of the wagon and headed out of town. The next day they found the horses eating grass alongside the road. The wagon with the seeds was there. What was not there was me. They never came after me; I guess that they figured that being white they could not sell me and that I would be nothing but a pain in the ass.