I have not forgotten my series on family history and Andersonville. I'm just putting my thoughts together slowly, as time and inspiration permit. I do have more posts in the pipeline, but for them to make sense, it's necessary for me to share with you a passage that appears early in Kantor's novel.

It's the very end of February, 1864. The scene is the camp itself, just a day or two after it has officially opened. Prisoners have been pouring into Andersonville--then still known by its official name, Camp Sumter--by the hundreds, shipped there in boxcars from the overcrowded and disease-ridden Belle Isle, only to find, at the other end, a virtually empty enclosure of bare, muddy ground: no housing, no kitchen, no privies, no shade, no fuel, not even a real water supply, as the brook that was supposed to run through the camp had been trampled into swampy sludge by the workers who had prepared the site. Still, Andersonville looks pretty good by comparison.

One prisoner, Edward Blamey, a corporal from the First Rhode Island Cavalry, goes exploring on his first morning in the camp. He gets beaten up by a thug named Willie Collins after he strays onto his personal territory. On his way back to his shebang (the word prisoners used to describe the makeshift tents they made from old coats and blankets slung over low poles), searching for a cudgel with which to defend himself against future attacks, he makes a discovery:

During his search he had chanced upon a lone blue figure curled in a hollow and partly sheltered by roots. The first time he passed he did not bother to make further examination; that looked like a good place to sleep, and Edward Blamey supposed that the man was sleeping there--it was out of the wind. But as he circled the hole on his homeward trip he heard a wail and a chattering. The figure moved, and there was the sound of weak retching. Edward paused and looked down. He could see foam on the man's mouth. Hi there, he said, out of some sense of Christian duty. He remembered his father reading about the Levite who passed by on the other side. The man did not move.

Hi, mister.

The curled-up man opened his eyes, they were glass, they saw nothing, the eyes fell shut again.

Want something?

A weak voice said, Catherine.

What say?

The fellow wore a short cavalry jacket very like Edward's own, but newer and cleaner; he could not have been long imprisoned, but was about the be Exchanged. That was what they'd called it on the Island--and probably in every other prison camp, North or South. When someone died the others were apt to term him as Exchanged. When someone was shot by a guard they called him Paroled.

Hi, mister. What's your name?

The eyes failed to open, but the fellow shook quickly in spasm, and more fluid issued from his mouth. Swarner, he said.

What did you say? Warner?

Swarner. J--H--Swarner.

Where from?

Second New York Ccccavalry. He managed to stutter the last word loose, but it was an almighty effort for him to do it.

You sick?

No.

Yes, you be. It was contrary to Edward's habit, but again he considered his father's favorite Chapter about the Good Samaritan (the moral of the text was cited often but practiced seldom by Mr. Blamey). Also his encounter with Willie Collins stirred Edward into a recognition of Virtue as opposed to Wickedness. He supposed that he must be virtuous in the sight of God, if it would cost him nothing. He got down into the hole and bent over the huddled Swarner. Want some water, mister? I could fetch some.

No.

I hain't got any rations. You want rations?

No. Ccccatherine.

His attempted ministering thus unsuccessful, Edward climbed back out of the depression and walked to his shebang. Found a sick feller up yonder, he said casually to the others, but they gave little attention. They had seen many sick, many dying, many dead. In the middle of the afternoon, they drew rations, and the food seemed munificent: nearly a quart of uncooked cornmeal, half a pound of beef, and a spoonful of salt per man. Mess Two still had five sweet potatoes left as well, and under the leadership of the New Hampshire sargeant--a mason by trade--a furnace of mud and sticks had been constructed. Ed Blamey and his family fed well, and they babbled about the improvement over conditions in Belle Isle. However, Ed still imagined that New York cavalryman bent like an abandoned cruller in his hole. Before dusk he turned his steps in that direction again, drawn as much by curiosity as by saintly intent. He came back from the east faster than he went.

Fellers, that man's dead as mackerel.

What man? Man you saw?

Said his name was Swarner.

Well, what do we do about it? Ain't he got no friends?

There don't seem to be nobody about.

The New Hampshireman whose name was Colony went back with Ed Blamey; so did the brothers Wingate, when they heard that the dead man was from York State. They were from Troy. The four men stood around and looked at the curved stiffening morsel in the fairly new and fairly clean jacket.

Got a good coat on him, said the youngest Wingate. I could use a coat like that.

Take it, said Colony. He'll never need it more.

Si Wingate slid down into the hole and, with some struggling, removed the jacket from the corpse. He climbed out, shook the garment violently, and turned out each pocket in turn. There was nothing in any of them except a half-gnawed turnip and, in the breast pocket, a letter worn to dirty tissue, a letter without an envelope. It was written in pencil and the penciling was blurred from much handling. Tup Wingate held the paper up to the fading light and spelled out a few words.

Seems to be from his sister, for she calls him Beloved Brother. Her name is Catherine. Hain't no address that I can see.

Take care with that coat, said Sargeant Colony darkly. Maybe he's dead of a plague.

No, looky there. He ain't broke out in any way.

He's too nigh to us for comfort, and if we leave him laying here he'll stink. Get a hold on him and we'll fetch him over to that nearest gate.

They went, carrying Swarner gingerly by his cold hands and rag-wrapped feet. As they approached the gate the adjacent guards called down a question from their sentry shacks.

He ain't from our mess. Don't know where he's from. We just come acrost him in a hole.

Well, Yank, put him next the gate. Somebody'll tote him out, the next time the gate's open.

They did as instructed and turned away through windy gloom. Then Edward Blamey owned an idea. He had a pencil in his pocket. Give me that there letter of his, Wingate, and the York State man handed it over. Blamey held the letter spread against a flat chip, and across the fading text he printed in big black capitals: J. H. Swarner, 2 N Y Calvary. He returned to the gate and stuffed the paper beneath the ragged trouser-band of the corpse where someone would be apt to see it. It was odd, but again it seemed that he could hear that weak stutter of, Ccccatherine.

The others were waiting silently, and they all walked back to their new shebang together. Scratches and cuts on Blamey's face were stiff and puffing; his entire face felt as if it were on fire. He wished that he were older and hairier, he wished that he had more beard than this dirty mouse-colored down which he still wore at nineteen. A beard would have protected his skin somewhat when Collins kicked him to the ground.

I wonder if he's the first to die in here? said Tup Wingate.

Colony said, Won't be the last, I'll warrant you that.

Next fellow dies, I trust he has some socks, said Si Wingate. I got great need of socks. This here jacket is a good fit.

Colony spoke again lugubriously. Won't be the last.

Oh, come now, Sarge. We victualed well today. This puts Belle Isle in the shade.

Ed Blamey walked in silence, feeling the hurt of his torn face, but feeling also immeasurably noble as compared to an ogre like Willie Collins. Once back in Rhode Island he would be bound to tell his father that he had assumed the role of Good Samaritan, or at least had tried to.

Won't be the last, repeated that dreary clipped voice.

I actually picked up a copy of this book around the second time you mentioned it (used, amazon.com) and am happily plowing through it. I'm past the buggy whip of justice and expect to be done sometime before the end of the holiday weekend. It's been depressing as hell, but a well-executed depressing, so I'm having as good of a time as anyone can reasonably expect to have in Andersonville.