Besides the guard who had admitted the prisoners, there was one other man who paced off a vigil along the fence. He stared with sharp hostility as the little column passed his station. The prisoners were taken through the door at the back of the jailhouse.
Tim’s spirit was chilled as they passed along a dank corridor to the stair well at the front of the building. The door to the stairs was made of heavy wood. It had a small barred window near the top.
The corporal unclipped the key ring from his belt, and after some deliberation picked out a key. He inserted it in the lock, turned it and pulled the door open. The five prisoners waited as the corporal replaced the key ring and fumbled with his rifle, signaling them to precede him up the stairs. They waited again in the dusky hallway on the second floor as the corporal lumbered up. Tim thought how easily they could overpower this lubberly man, get his keys, and let themselves out the front door to the street, but he remembered the guard who had stood under the lamp. He gritted his teeth and clasped his hands behind his back.
Corporal Addison pushed a heavy unlocked door on the other side of the corridor. It swung open, revealing a room about ten feet by twelve, at the far end of which was a small fireplace flanked by barred windows facing north. The floor was made up of splintering planks. The room was without furniture. The corporal pointed to a small doorway in the right-hand wall. “There are two pails in there, one for water, one for waste.” He turned on his heel, stepped into the hall and slammed and locked the door.
As the sound of the corporal’s footfalls died away Dawson moved to the window and stared through the bars. For the first time Tim looked closely at the two strange officers. They appeared to be members of the derelict group who had joined them at the Charleston depot. They looked half-starved. Their tattered uniforms hung loosely on their bony frames. The shorter of the two was already settling on the floor, but the other smiled faintly. Tim held out his hand and introduced Red, Dawson and himself. Dawson turned briefly from the window and nodded.
“I’m Lieutenant Peter Mills of the Eighth Michigan,” the stranger said, looking mournfully at the little man who had stretched himself out on the floor. “I was captured more than a year ago at James Island. I’ve been in Charleston jail all year, treated as a common criminal.”
For just a moment a flame of anger lit the man’s sunken eyes. “I ran out of money long ago,” he said, “and I’ve got none from home. The rations in that jail weren’t good enough to feed a pig. The place was filled with criminals and slatternly women. I saw hundreds of them come and go. Once when I was sick they put me in a hospital just behind the prison yard, but as soon as I was better they put me back in jail again. Now I’ve lost the will to escape and almost lost the will to live.”
The effort of speaking had exhausted the man. He sank down beside the smaller fellow, who was already lost in sleep. “This man was taken from a Charleston hospital,” Mills breathed. “He must be sick. He hasn’t said a word.”
Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out a molasses cake and the one remaining orange that had belonged to Private Greene. He handed them to Lieutenant Mills. “Thank you,” Mills said with an expression of gratitude. “Do you mind if I eat the orange later?”
“Eat it when you want,” Tim said. “I’m sorry it couldn’t be more.”