Corporal Mae Stoker is no stranger to misery or surviving harsh conditions, especially after enlisting in the Union Army at the height of the American Civil War to avoid living with her aunt and uncle. But when she's wounded during the Battle of Lov...
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May 26, 1865
Chattanooga, Tennessee
Wolstan Mitchell stopped in a patch of tall grass alongside the road to catch his breath. Raising a hand, he shielded his eyes from the blinding afternoon sun.
Its heat beat down on his shaved head with prickling discomfort. But a sunburned scalp was a small price to pay when he enjoyed the warmth seeping into bones that had been cold for far too long.
His home stood a quarter mile away, looking almost as good as he remembered. Several months ago, he had feared he'd never see it again, but that all changed after he'd gotten transferred by rail car along with six hundred other prisoners to Camp Lawton in Millen, Georgia, at the beginning of February.
It was still a prison, but it had been a paradise compared to Andersonville. They were able to scrub themselves clean with sand and water, were fed unspoiled food twice daily, the drinking water was pure and plenty, and there was shelter from the elements.
Wolstan had wept the first night at Camp Lawton while laying in his bunk because he was fed, clean, decently clothed in garments free of lice, and warm.
He'd forgotten how good it all felt. And within a month of the transfer and getting regular meals, his appetite had returned with a ravenous vengeance.
Another feeling he'd forgotten as a result of his stay at Andersonville. Although he still had a long way to go to regain the weight and health he'd lost.
His shrunken muscles were slowly bulking up again, and his strength had been sufficient for him to spend the past two weeks slowly walking home. So, he wouldn't complain, even if he did look more like a haggard scarecrow who'd wandered from its field at present with how his clothes hung from his tall, lanky frame.
Wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, Wolstan sighed and hitched his trousers. Then he continued walking, trying to ignore the flutter of butterflies in his stomach and his racing heart that accelerated with every step.
There was nothing to be nervous about, he silently reminded himself. He took a deep breath and filled his nostrils with the smell of freshly tilled soil, drinking in the sights and sounds of men and women working in the fields, mending fences, and whitewashing the veranda. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed it all until now.
Upon drawing closer to the main house, the workers in the field straightened and watched him approach. Their expressions slowly changed from suspicious to bewildered recognition.
A teenage boy, who Wolstan belatedly remembered was named Thomas, clutched his hat to his head as he raced from the field to the house, hollering, "MIZ EMMALINE, MISTER DECLAN... HE AIN'T DEAD; he ain't dead."
Wolstan's brow puckered in a frown, and his footsteps faltered.
He was about to ask Anson—a freeman who'd worked in the fields and as a blacksmith at their farm for as long as Wolstan could remember—what Thomas was talking about when the front door burst open.
