The Edge of Hell by Keogh S.K

Author:Keogh, S.K. [Keogh, S.K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Leighlin House Publishing
Published: 2020-08-03T22:00:00+00:00

When the forest at last fell away to either side, they came within full view of the prison. A huge pen, a parallelogram made of squared, vertical pine logs set on end, reaching fifteen feet high, the palisades stretching north and south maybe ninety-five rods on ground that sloped down in the middle. Along the top of the stockade walls, sentries manned small platforms at intervals of perhaps ninety feet, awnings protecting them from the relentless Georgia sun. Surrounding the prison, a wilderness of forest.

Cold fear tightened Nate’s throat. A wild urge to flee gripped him, but to where could he run?

When they halted near a massive gate on the northwest side, the undulation of the ground allowed Nate to see across the top of the stockade to the southern slope of the interior. Although he stared intently, he failed to comprehend what he saw beneath the pall of smoke from small fires.

“This ain’t right,” one of the prisoners protested to no one in particular. “Those look like niggers in there. We’re white soldiers, by God. What’s the idea—?”

Nate did not hear the reply of the nearest guard. He studied the moving herd of humans, untold thousands, beyond the wooden wall, crowded there amidst a trashy collection of tents and other meager shelters.

As their names were taken, he paid little attention. Someone poked him, said something about a detachment number, a squad, a mess. He did not bother to ask the man to repeat the information, too mesmerized and terrified by what lay beyond the stockade wall.

Suddenly a gray horse passed in front of Nate, the leg of the rider jarring him back toward the other prisoners.

“Sergeant! Get dis brizner into line,” the rider barked in a heavy German accent. “Vat is de matter vit’ you? You must vatch dem all de time!”

Nate gawked upward at the captain. The man’s small form reminded him of a rodent. One glance from his sharp, blue-gray eyes made Nate shrink away, back to the others without the guard’s prompting. A dark, wiry beard covered most of the officer’s face, mouth small and cruel. His right arm hung in a sling, the other held the mare’s reins. A formidable, ugly pistol hugged his hip. Something foreboding and unrelenting permeated the foul air. The foreigner gave them all a quick glare, then rode southward.

“Who the hell was that?” someone asked.

A guard grinned. “Captain Henry Wirz. Commandant of this here prison. And a right friendly fellow he is.” The man laughed.

The heavy wooden doors yawned before them, and the guards prodded them inside, then closed the doors. Now they were in a small enclosure with another gate facing them, its wicket closed. The prisoners looked at each other in bewilderment as the guards stepped forward to the interior gate. When these doors opened, an overpowering stench slammed into Nate—stale, furnace-like air, and burning pine. The guards’ bayonets poked them forward into the stockade, then the Southerners left, the doors closed and barred.

An incorporeal voice announced, “Fresh

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