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  Praise for Tracy Groot

  “Groot has done good historical homework. She has also created memorable characters both major and minor. . . . The pacing is page-turning.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, starred review

  “A beautifully written retelling of an age-old story. . . . Tracy Groot is a first-rate storyteller.”

  ROBERT HICKS, New York Times bestselling author of The Widow of the South

  “Groot . . . does good historical work with details and subtle psychological work with her characters. . . . WWII–era novels are popular; this is a superior, page-turning entry in that niche.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY on Flame of Resistance

  “This well-researched novel is filled with intrigue and captivating characters that should please fans of World War II fiction.”

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  “Scrupulously researched and lovingly written, Flame of Resistance plunges the reader into an exhilarating story of courage, grace, and one endearing woman’s leap of faith.”

  THE BANNER

  “Groot ensnares readers with accurate historical detail and gripping prose. With complex characters, authentically reflecting good and evil . . . , [Flame of Resistance] overflows with intrigue, passion, sacrifice, and humanity.”

  RELZ REVIEWZ

  “Tracy Groot adds fine research on [D-Day] and [the] World War II environment, both of which make Flame of Resistance a powerful saga that . . . retells the story of Rahab.”

  MIDWEST BOOK REVIEW

  “The suspense is great, the characters excellent, the romance held in check, and the spiritual elements are extremely encouraging. For those who enjoy historical fiction, but don’t care for a strong romantic storyline, Flame of Resistance is an excellent choice.”

  THE CHRISTIAN MANIFESTO

  “Gritty and moving, Flame of Resistance . . . raises challenging questions about redemption, perceptions, and the cost of doing the right thing in an evil world. I highly recommend it.”

  SARAH SUNDIN, author of On Distant Shores

  “[A] well-paced, beautifully written historical novel. . . . Entertaining and compelling.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, starred review of Madman

  “Groot cleverly combines historical research, Scripture, and thrilling imagination to create an ingenious story built around the Gerasene demoniac. It’s one of the best fictional adaptations of a biblical event I’ve had the pleasure to read.”

  ASPIRING RETAIL magazine on Madman

  “Groot’s well-drawn characters . . . embody mercy in this subtle tale that cleverly avoids retelling New Testament stories, instead forming a sort of commentary by telling parallel stories.”

  BOOKLIST, starred review of Stones of My Accusers

  “[The Brother’s Keeper is a] lyrical and affecting first novel.”

  BOOKLIST, starred review

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  The Sentinels of Andersonville

  Copyright © 2014 by Tracy Groot. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of Confederate tunic copyright © photoworks1/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

  Map of Andersonville Prison based on a rendition of a map courtesy of the Andersonville National Historic Site.

  Illustration of map copyright © gio_banfi/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

  Photograph of stockade copyright © seldomsee iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Ron Kaufmann

  Edited by Kathryn S. Olson

  Published in association with Creative Trust Literary Group, 5141 Virginia Way, Suite 320, Brentwood, Tennessee 37027. www.creativetrust.com.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  The Sentinels of Andersonville is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Groot, Tracy, date.

  The sentinels of Andersonville / Tracy Groot.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-4143-5948-9 (hc)

  1. United States—History—Civil War, 1861-1865—Prisoners and prisons—Fiction. 2. Andersonville Prison—Fiction. 3. Prisoners of war—Georgia—Fiction. 4. Prisoner-of-war escapes—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3557.R5655S48 2014

  813'.54—dc23 2013031516

  ISBN 978-1-4143-8899-1 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8430-6 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4143-8900-4 (Apple)

  Build: 2014-01-09 13:11:01

  For Jack

  “Business!” cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. “Mankind was my business. . . .”

  CHARLES DICKENS, A Christmas Carol

  Contents

  Note to the Reader

  Prologue

  Part One Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part Two Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part Three Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part Four Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Part Five Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Afterword

  Preview of Flame of Resistance by Tracy Groot

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discussion Questions

  Note to the Reader

  DURING THE LAST FOURTEEN MONTHS of the Civil War, Andersonville Prison in Sumter County, Georgia, was a place of unimaginable suffering. In fourteen months, 45,000 men passed through the gates. Of those, 13,000 died, primarily from starvation and exposure.

  Portions of this book contain disturbing descriptions of prison life and conditions. In the matter of historicity, novelists often wrestle with the question of how much to put in, how much to leave out—too little detail risks giving an incomplete picture; too much risks becoming gratuitous. Since detail is necessary to tell the truth of Andersonville Prison, I chose to err on the side of truth; and even so, a few facts refused to flow from my pen.

  All descriptions are taken from source materials including diaries, memoirs, letters, and archival documents such as the transcript of the trial of Henry Wirz, courtesy of the Library of Congress. The descriptions came from those who lived it.

  —T. G.

  Prologue

  JUNE 1864

  KENNESAW MOUNTAIN, GEORGIA

  “Ya killed yet, blue belly?”

  He woke to the taste of gunpowder on his lips.

  Lew was holding his last shot. The other hand was full of rifle. He’d fallen asleep in the middle of loading, and some paper from a cartridge was stuck to his lip. He spit it away.

  “Why don’t you come and see?” he hollered back. Didn’t come out as a holler. Came out as a dry croak.

  “Got water for ya.”

  “Don’t need it. I’m drinkin’ the blood of my comrades.”

  “Well, ain’t you a regular Davy Crockett.”

  The voice came from the woods at the perimeter of the battlefield—if you could call it a
field. A clearing, more like, not bigger than Carrie’s kitchen garden. Only Carrie’s garden had vegetables in it, not piles of dead men.

  “You have brought up an interesting point on our collective history,” Lew said. He waited for spit to speak again, and realized things were quiet. “Where’s the rest of your boys?”

  No answer.

  Lew grinned. “Why, you are all alone, Johnny Reb. They moved on and charged you with the task to collect me. You know I’m a good aim.”

  “Haven’t seen better,” the Reb called generously.

  “How many did I get, last go-around?”

  “Two.”

  “You sore about that?”

  Silence, and Lew’s grin eased. “Hope I didn’t tag a friend.”

  Finally, “Aw. Not takin’ it personal. Woulda done the same in your spot.”

  “Let’s discuss prisoner exchange: I’ll catch up with my boys, you catch up with yours, and we’ll call it even. Tell ’em you waited me out, and I died of my wound.”

  “What wound?”

  A year ago at Gettysburg, Lew had taken a ball in the shoulder and figured that would put paid on all future ills. But early this morning, after a hot and heavy skirmish and orders to move out, he got up to follow Robert, and to his surprise, his leg did not comply.

  When Lew didn’t answer, the Reb said, “What’s the interesting point on our collective history?”

  “It’s this: Which side can claim Crockett for his own?”

  “Why, the South, of course. He was a Tennessee man.”

  “Oh, you’re missin’ the point entire.” Lew grasped his last shot, and let his hand fall. “I’m tired of this, Johnny. You clear out. Clear out!”

  “You’re gettin’ irritable.”

  Lew and this unseen Reb had exchanged jeers until conversation became amiable. He’d heard other Johnnies yell at this Reb to end it, something easily done with an organized assault. Lew was in the middle of a clearing on a bluff, dug in behind the piled-up bodies of his men. A sheer drop behind left only a two-thirds radius for which to be vigilant, but the fellow must have been of some minor rank, or maybe the boys respected him, because no assault had come.

  Lew waited for spit. “I aim to catch up with my regiment. I recommend you get yourself scarce before I come out, for I am determined.”

  He let his head fall back on Robert. He closed his eyes and was just about seeing Carrie again. Robert had died hours earlier. He came back when Lew didn’t follow, and got it in the neck.

  “Where ya wounded, blue belly? Sure isn’t your mouth.”

  “My name is Lew.” He just wanted to sleep and could do it right against a dead man. He was fearsome tired, due in some measure to his wound.

  “I know it. Gill told me. Didn’t think it was polite to use ’til you gave it.”

  Lew’s eyes came open. “Harris Gill? Is he all right?”

  “He’s walkin’. Got a message for you. Said, ‘Tell Lew to drop his gun and come along.’ Said if he’s gotta wait the war out, he wants to wait it out with you.”

  “Not likely. He said, ‘I hope Lew guts ya head to toe,’ and probably added some impolite observations about your parentage.”

  A pause. Then, “That’s about right. Cussin’est man I ever met. Ever’ time you laid in a good shot, he rang out a vile sort of hallelujah. But back to your ‘point entire’ which you said I am missin’. What point entire?”

  The voice was closer. It was the closest anyone from the perimeter had dared to come yet. Lew couldn’t see him. The stand of woods was thick and dim and Rebs always took good cover.

  “Why, the sadness of it all, Johnny. What would our foredaddies say about this fighting? Don’t you feel a bit queer over the fact that George Washington is my foredaddy as well as yours? This is not a normal war, for we are kin. If my grandkids carried on this way, it’d break my heart.”

  “I have thought on it. Weren’t we hellfire and brimstone for a fight, couple years back? Wish the politicians’ve had it like we have.”

  “Stick ’em out here, the war would be done in a day.”

  “That’s our thinkin’, too. Listen: You lay down that rifle and come along. Your men wish for you to accompany them to their temporary accommodations, courtesy of Jefferson Davis.”

  “I must respectfully decline your hospitable offer.” He waited for spit again. He hadn’t had any water since early morning. It was heading past thirst into torment. “A man isn’t made for confinement. I’d rather buy my passage on a battlefield than be bored to death in a stockade any day.”

  “I reckon your Carrie would see it different.”

  “Oh . . . doggone it.” Lew felt the fight go right out of him.

  What was boredom compared to seeing her face just one more time? One more time, God willing, and he’d die a man redeemed.

  A twig snapped on his right. He groaned. “Don’t make me shoot you.”

  “No terms except an unconditional and immediate surrender can be accepted,” came the cheerful reply.

  Lew grinned, and it rolled into a laugh. Ulysses S. Grant’s very words to Fort Donelson, apparently famous enough to make the rounds in Rebel lines. Grant’s victory at Fort Donelson had been a disaster for the South. It opened up Tennessee for a Northern advance. Lew tossed the last shot aside. He couldn’t shoot him now. He couldn’t shoot him a long time ago.

  By now Lew knew the fellow came from Alabama, had a twist of tobacco if Lew had coffee, couldn’t pick between Rosaline and Irene, and was currently reading number 5 or 6 of Nicholas Nickleby—his reading had improved considerable since being in the Confederate army, and he felt his station in life would certainly improve. Might even get himself a job at the new telegraph office in Huntsville. In turn, the Reb had learned that Lew and Carrie had a small fruit farm in Ezra, north and west of Gettysburg, where he grew apples, cherries, peaches, walnuts, and blueberries. He had four children, and didn’t know the name of the last. And at thirty-two, he was the oldest private in his regiment. Some called him Pap.

  Another rustle. Lew sighed. “I am not gonna shoot you and you know it. Just get on, and we’ll—”

  “Why, das right nice o’ you, Yank.”

  Lew looked left, and there on a rock stood a big greasy man with a tobacco-stained beard and a mossy green leer.

  He was not at all what Lew expected. One look told what sort of man this was—a forager, a bummer, a skulker, and the worst sort. It wasn’t the stuffed haversacks slung over his shoulders. It wasn’t the knapsack stenciled with the 12th Pennsylvania. It wasn’t the Union pistols in his hands, and it wasn’t the filthy blouse stretched tight over a gut that had no cause to bulge if he lived the hard life of a decent soldier. It was Colonel Ford’s brass-buttoned coat. It had a new hole ripped into the side, jagged, darkened, wet.

  The man looked down at the coat. “He wudden even daid yet. Look at dem buttons. Two rows!” He cackled. “Cain’t believe my luck.”

  Colonel Ford had once halted an entire column to gaze on a quiet meadow carpeted in wildflowers. Let it stouten your hearts, boys, he’d hollered with joy. There is beauty yet in this world.

  “Had to keel ’nuther Yank runt half-daid hisself, cuz he wudden gone lemme git ’im. Lil squawkin’ pisspot. I made him squawk . . .”

  Charley Reed, the regiment’s drummer boy. Colonel Ford’s honorary aide. He was thirteen.

  “I didn’t take you for a baby killer, you bottom-feeding carp.”

  The skulker stilled. Then the pistols came up, but before he got off a shot, an explosion, and the man fell. He tried to get up—another shot, and he lay still.

  A man came moving smooth out of the thicket, crouched, rifle leveled.

  This Reb was younger, cleaner, leaner, with long yellow hair flowing out from his brown slouch hat. He wore red-and-white-checked homespun, tucked into brown trousers. He lowered his rifle when he saw the other was dead.

  Lew croaked, “Now you resemble your voice. How come you killed one of your ow
n?”

  “He had bad grammar. We don’t put up with that down here.” He picked his way over bodies to Lew’s corpse-built breastworks. He propped his rifle against the stack of dead men, unslung his canteen, and tossed it to Lew. Then he settled at once to a long, considering look at Lew, as if recalling their entire faceless conversation and fastening every word to this particular corporeal being.

  Lew in turn did a study of his own, and the blond man ten years younger soon became the one who spoke of Rosaline and Irene, and reading considerable better.

  But the Reb took longer to scout out the terrain of Lewis Gann. He had an earnest face with interested blue eyes that would be done when they were done, and not a trace of self-consciousness attended his inspection. In fact it was such a thorough winnowing that Lew couldn’t help smiling, and he did so simply because he liked the man.

  A smile soon answered, and the perusal was done. “Hello, blue belly. I am Emery Jones, and you are shot up some.”

  “Yep.”

  “Reckon you can move?”

  “With help.”

  “Let’s get on, then, to your temporary accommodations.”

  “Where we headed?”

  “Place called Andersonville, and I am your escort. It is a spell from Kennesaw, but once there you get to wait out the war. I just about envy you.”

  “We’ve heard of Andersonville. I’m not sure I envy me.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear. I heard you Yanks were fearsome ignorant, but early on in our conversation you used the word perpetuity.”

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  “‘I will sit here and shoot you in perpetuity.’ Boy, you’ve got some Grant in you. I knew then I had to save your life.”

  “I could’ve taken that bad grammar man,” Lew said indignantly.

  Emery shook his head. “Saved it ’fore then.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, I would tell you, but you look as though . . .”

  And he was off and dreaming of Carrie again.