Albany, forty miles from Andersonville and far larger than the one at Americus, were said to be taxed by the huge stores assembled there.
— Americus through the Years: The Story of a Georgia Town and Its People, 1832–1975 BY WILLIAM BAILEY WILLIFORD
6
W HEN THE BULLET took Lew at Gettysburg, he didn’t know where he was hit, or, for a time, that he was hit. It spun him around and he fell, not of his own free will. He was aware that something bad had happened, but for a moment, didn’t know what. And that is how he felt when the gate closed behind him at Andersonville.
For a few moments the incoming men hesitated at joining the prison population. They were not assigned barracks. They were supposed to stick to their detachment of ninety, and what that meant, no one was sure; the Federal sergeants assigned to the detachments seemed as unsure of immediate direction as their charges. It was strange to be cut loose after days or weeks of Rebs telling them where to go and what to do. The men at the front of the incoming group began to spread out, and Lew went forward with the rest for his first size-up of the prison and its captives.
Lew tried to get some bearings, but bearings wouldn’t be had. A massive congregation of faces stared back as if he were a preacher on a pulpit and had come with something to say, faces and faces in myriadshades of dust and gray and grime and sunburn, most of those faces blank with mild interest, a few with smiles of welcome and bitterly wry commiseration.
He didn’t know where to go, but he wanted out of this pulpit. He thought he heard his name and turned around to see, but sun and sound and faces confused him; so he squared himself and stepped into the crowd, doing his best to keep to its edge.
“What news, boys? Sherman taken Atlanta, yet?”
“Any o’ you with the 19th Michigan Infantry? How’d old Thomas do on Hood? Lick him at Peachtree?”
“You boys step on over —you ain’t gonna find a better place to trade than at Fetchner’s stand. Right this way.”
“Anyone with the 19th Michigan?”
“Fair trades, and double return on greenbacks. Right this way.”
“Don’t listen to him, boys, you steer clear of Fetchner’s —bunch of sharpers and swindlers!”
“Pay no attention to that man!”
“19th Michigan?”
“That is a fine way to treat a 12th Pennsylvanian.”
Lew stopped, but he didn’t seem to know the fellow who stood grinning at him. When he did, it was past time to cover for his shock. “Well, you are not Harris Gill.”
“It is he. Reduced.”
Had he served with this man for three years to barely know him now?
Had he come to such a state in only a month?
“Thought I was rid of you, boy-o,” Harris said, coming forward with his hand out. Lew took it, and Harris gripped tight. “Been lookin’ for you every day, hopin’ I’d never see you.”
“You been here since Kennesaw?”
“Aye. Where you been?”
“Sick.” He looked down at the bullet flap, a relief from Harris’s distressing appearance. “Took a bullet and took some infection, but she’s pretty well cleared up.”
“That’s good. You don’t want to come in here with any weakness. It’ll attack there first.”
“What will?”
“Andersonville.”
Harris Gill was Irish. He came as a boy with his family to America on the heels of the potato famine. He worked with his brothers at an ironmongery in Pittsburgh. His last name was McGillicuddy, but in a farsighted move he had mustered in as Gill to make roll call easier, as most of the men calling roll tended to chew names whole.
He made corporal soon after mustering in with Lew and the rest, but he soon owed the regiment fund seventeen dollars for cussing, one dollar per word. As privates were not fined, he committed an infraction to send him back to ranks (a cordial invitation to a major to kiss his backside), thus saving his paycheck in another farsighted move.
Harris Gill once saved the unit’s colors, and
— Americus through the Years: The Story of a Georgia Town and Its People, 1832–1975 BY WILLIAM BAILEY WILLIFORD
6
W HEN THE BULLET took Lew at Gettysburg, he didn’t know where he was hit, or, for a time, that he was hit. It spun him around and he fell, not of his own free will. He was aware that something bad had happened, but for a moment, didn’t know what. And that is how he felt when the gate closed behind him at Andersonville.
For a few moments the incoming men hesitated at joining the prison population. They were not assigned barracks. They were supposed to stick to their detachment of ninety, and what that meant, no one was sure; the Federal sergeants assigned to the detachments seemed as unsure of immediate direction as their charges. It was strange to be cut loose after days or weeks of Rebs telling them where to go and what to do. The men at the front of the incoming group began to spread out, and Lew went forward with the rest for his first size-up of the prison and its captives.
Lew tried to get some bearings, but bearings wouldn’t be had. A massive congregation of faces stared back as if he were a preacher on a pulpit and had come with something to say, faces and faces in myriadshades of dust and gray and grime and sunburn, most of those faces blank with mild interest, a few with smiles of welcome and bitterly wry commiseration.
He didn’t know where to go, but he wanted out of this pulpit. He thought he heard his name and turned around to see, but sun and sound and faces confused him; so he squared himself and stepped into the crowd, doing his best to keep to its edge.
“What news, boys? Sherman taken Atlanta, yet?”
“Any o’ you with the 19th Michigan Infantry? How’d old Thomas do on Hood? Lick him at Peachtree?”
“You boys step on over —you ain’t gonna find a better place to trade than at Fetchner’s stand. Right this way.”
“Anyone with the 19th Michigan?”
“Fair trades, and double return on greenbacks. Right this way.”
“Don’t listen to him, boys, you steer clear of Fetchner’s —bunch of sharpers and swindlers!”
“Pay no attention to that man!”
“19th Michigan?”
“That is a fine way to treat a 12th Pennsylvanian.”
Lew stopped, but he didn’t seem to know the fellow who stood grinning at him. When he did, it was past time to cover for his shock. “Well, you are not Harris Gill.”
“It is he. Reduced.”
Had he served with this man for three years to barely know him now?
Had he come to such a state in only a month?
“Thought I was rid of you, boy-o,” Harris said, coming forward with his hand out. Lew took it, and Harris gripped tight. “Been lookin’ for you every day, hopin’ I’d never see you.”
“You been here since Kennesaw?”
“Aye. Where you been?”
“Sick.” He looked down at the bullet flap, a relief from Harris’s distressing appearance. “Took a bullet and took some infection, but she’s pretty well cleared up.”
“That’s good. You don’t want to come in here with any weakness. It’ll attack there first.”
“What will?”
“Andersonville.”
Harris Gill was Irish. He came as a boy with his family to America on the heels of the potato famine. He worked with his brothers at an ironmongery in Pittsburgh. His last name was McGillicuddy, but in a farsighted move he had mustered in as Gill to make roll call easier, as most of the men calling roll tended to chew names whole.
He made corporal soon after mustering in with Lew and the rest, but he soon owed the regiment fund seventeen dollars for cussing, one dollar per word. As privates were not fined, he committed an infraction to send him back to ranks (a cordial invitation to a major to kiss his backside), thus saving his paycheck in another farsighted move.
Harris Gill once saved the unit’s colors, and
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