Smyth alias Smith

By Bob MacDonald

The year is 1865 and Sergeant Tom Smyth of the 10th Louisiana Infantry has just been discharged from Camp Rathburn in Illinois, a holding centre for Confederate prisoners of war. His internment had been brought about by being captured during the United States Civil War between the Northern and Southern States.

Smith refused to sign the Oath of Allegiance, as demanded by his northern captors, resulting in him being unceremoniously bundled out through the prison gates, possessing and wearing nothing but the rag-tag remnants of a once-proud uniform.

Intending to head due west to the rich goldfields of California, he tramped on foot through a hostile countryside troubled by army deserters, outlaws and bands of Native Americans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob MacDonald
• Release date: May 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393569640

Bob MacDonald

Bob MacDonald is a retired West Australian Police officer of thirty years experience. Bob's last day at school was his 14th birthday - commencing work, the very next day, in a timber mill in his home town of Pemberton, West Australia.He later self-educated and enlisted in the West Australian police force, retiring as a superintendent in the Internal Investigations Branch of the Professional Standards portfolio.Since retirement Bob has been working at remote aboriginal communities in Central Australia, Papua New Guinea and the Solomon Islands. He also did a tour of duty on the island nation of Cyprus with the United Nations Blue Beret Peacekeepers.Bob, a keen sportsman continues with various sporting activities; which also includes fishing and camping trips. Writing articles for various magazines and now venturing into anecdotal short story compilations and fictional manuscripts ensures Bob leads a busy life.

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Camp Rathburn - P.O.W. Detention Centre

On the 9th of April 1865, in the Appomattox Court House, Virginia, Confederate General Robert E. Lee surrendered his 28,000 troops to Union General Ulysses S. Grant, effectively ending the American Civil War.

That surrender brought about the closure of the many Union and Confederate prisons, which held a great number of prisoners of war. One such detention centre at that time, Camp Rathbun had been a key muster and training point for the Union Army, up until mid-1864. But during that year, to cater for the multitude of Confederate detainees, it became a prisoner of war camp.

At the time of the war’s completion, the camp had only been used as a prison for approximately twelve months but, during that period, nearly 3,000 prisoners, of a capacity of 12,000 had died from various causes. Unhygienic conditions, the winter cold, malnutrition and lack of adequate medical facilities all took their toll.

In the days following Lee’s surrender, the camp was abuzz with rumours of the pending release and repatriation of the captives. The centre’s commander announced that most able-bodied detainees were welcome to join the Union Army for service at outlying areas involving the control of rebellious Indian tribes.

All prison inmates received pressure to take an oath swearing their fidelity to the Union. The oath, known by the names of the Oath of Allegiance, the Loyalty Oath or the Ironclad Oath, needed to be sworn by those selected to enlist in the Union Army. Those who did not wish to join the army of their recent enemy still were required to swear the oath if they wished assistance in returning to their home state.

On swearing the oath, prisoners were either shipped home by train or to their new posting in the Union Army. Others who refused the pledge and there came to be many were simply shown the open gates of the encampment and sent on their way without any food or means to support themselves. And in spite, those in refusing the oath ended up being the last to be discharged from confinement. The prison guards, having had their sadistic streaks honed by several months of practice, savoured the opportunity to inflict further misery on those who declined to submit to the vow swearing rituals.

Sergeant Tom Symth of the 10th Louisiana Infantry fell into the category of those to spurn the invitation to join the Union Army or take the oath. He suffered, in silence, the brutal bullying of the guards for several weeks before he was discharged from confinement, possessing nothing but what he wore.

There was no way he would trade his Confederate grey uniform, no matter how tattered, for a Union blue outfit. No, he did not want to be known as a Galvanised Yankee.

Chapter 2 - Heading West

It was about mid-day when Smyth and about 100 other non-conformists were given their marching orders by the prison authorities. To be found wandering the streets while wearing Confederate -grey uniforms did not auger well for the wearer when encountering supporters of the victorious Union forces.

Many of those released at the same time as he formed groups and figured safety in numbers appeared the best way to travel. Not Smyth though; he broke off from the group and headed due west. Unlike most of the other liberated prisoners of war, he harboured no desire to return south to his native Louisiana, with its myriad of swamps and low wetlands,

His elder and only sibling had been killed during the first months of the hostilities while fighting for the Confederate Army. His mother had taken the death very hard and just wasted away until she too joined her favourite son in passing. His father resorted to heavy drinking, which resulted in the loss of the family’s small corn farm holding. Smyth knew not what had become of his old man, and he cared not.

Never having experienced anything besides farming and soldiering, he envisaged no future in returning to Louisiana merely for the sake of going back to his home state. Louisiana had no hold on him anymore and he failed to see any advantage in retracing his steps to an uncertain fate.

During his time in detention at Camp Rathbun Smyth had listened to the many stories being told of the recent gold rush to California. Two to three hundred thousand prospectors had rushed to the goldfields in the years leading up to the outbreak of war. The tales of riches gained by some of the miners whetted his appetite to try his luck with the precious yellow metal.

Though he knew most of the stories would have received their fair share of embellishment at each telling, he nonetheless prepared himself to give it a fling. What did he have to lose, he asked himself? Nothing ..... nothing at all; except maybe his life! And after the horrors war, he was quite ready to put his soul on the line.

*

Born Thomas Jefferson Smyth at Dry Creek, Louisiana on the 25th December 1840 Tom Smyth stood six feet four inches. Lean of body and long in the legs, he came across as being one of the slow-moving types. Those who fell for that deception and made to take advantage of him mostly regretted their presumptions.

He did not know whether he was named after the prolific slave-owner and past president, Thomas Jefferson, but while in Union captivity, he soon learnt it was in his best interest to cast aside the ‘Jefferson’ when supplying his personal details. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.

‘Tom Smith? Tom Smith; and born on Christmas Day! For Christ’s sake, don’t treat us as slow learners, boy. That’s the worst alias I’ve heard for many a day.’

The bellowing of the overweight prison guard sergeant, followed by round-arm clouts across the ears convinced him to amend his particulars to, ‘Thomas Smyth, spelt S-m-y-t-h born Louisiana 1840, date not known.’

Apart from his height, no other features of Smyth stood out above the norm. He had brown hair, common with the majority of Caucasian males at the time. His eyes, being hazel, also fell into that category; however, during his limited contact with the opposite sex, his rugged good looks had caught the eye of more than one admiring young lady.

A musket ball to his thigh nearly twelve months previously still caused him some trouble. ‘That was the only way those Yankee bastards could take me,’ he fumed while rubbing his upper right leg. He’d been taken from the battlefield as a captive and treated for his wound.

As to his recovery from his injuries, he could thank the Union doctors and medical staff for their excellent care tendered to him in a field hospital. But that all changed when he was deemed fit enough to travel and transferred to Camp Rathbun as an enemy prisoner of war. Meditative facilities at that centre were sadly lacking, and it was only due to his high level of physical fitness which saw him pull through.

*

Never being one to carry much weight on his thin frame, twelve months of prison life and a poor diet had reduced him to near emaciation. His grey uniform tunic, bearing sergeant’s chevrons, hung on him as it would a scarecrow out in the fields. His trousers sagged around his waist, brought on by his belt being tightened several notches.

Smyth smiled cynically as realized he must have looked a sight; dressed like a derelict vagrant and displaying unkempt hair and a scraggly beard. He’d lost track of how long ago he’d enjoyed the feeling of a clean-shaven face. He made a promise to himself that he would indulge in the luxury of a hot bath, a haircut and a shave at the first opportunity.

Another aspect of importance involved getting rid of his Confederate-grey uniform. He realised, that, to walk around in Union of the United States territory while clad in such rigout was inviting trouble. When taken captive he’d been wearing a southern forage cap, but that had fallen by the wayside when he was transferred to the prison camp.

He’d scored a good wide-brimmed officers hat when a fellow detainee, holding the rank of major, died at the prisoner of war centre. In the same manner, he came away with a fine pair of high boots when a cavalry officer succumbed to a bout of sickness. So, summing up his situation, he acknowledged that he could retain the footwear, his threadbare shirt and his heavy leather belt. All else would need replacing to shed his visual connections with the Confederate States. He would begrudge losing the hat, but as it was of southern-grey colour, it would necessitate being given the flick, as well.

*

While walking along a dusty back road Smyth watched the setting sun slowly disappearing behind a backdrop of tall pine trees. Where would he camp for the night, he wondered? He’d spent the past twelve months sleeping in hellish and unhygienic conditions. So, not getting his hands on a comfy feather mattress, at this time, would not overly infringe his wellbeing to any great extent.

While looking towards the setting sun, (if his home-based basic schooling involving geography was correct) then that was the westerly direction. Another detainee at the prison camp, a school teacher, tried explaining the layout of the country and its states. He remembered, from those talks, that Iowa abutted onto Illinois and lay due west. With a nod of the head in confirmation he, while heading in the direction of the slowly disappearing solar sphere, called out, Iowa, here I come!

Chapter 3 - Living off the Land

Smyth estimated he still had about one hour of sunlight left when he came across a small farming property. While making sure to keep behind a low hedgerow, he cautiously approached an outhouse of the farm. The building, made of rough-hewn timber, with a shingle roof, lay some 200 yards from the farmhouse.

Several hogs could be seen rooting about in a cramped holding pen adjacent to the shelter. He remained under cover long enough to be satisfied that no-one was about to cause him grief. On entering the ramshackle structure, he searched about for anything that he may find handy to assist him in his travels.

He spotted a large tub of corn cobs in a corner of the enclosure. They appeared to be of second-grade and considered only fit for feeding to the pigs, but to Smyth, they looked like a gift from heaven. He’d earlier observed a crop growing in a field near the farmhouse but would not risk being sprung by venturing out into the open.

Darkness was close approaching so he scurried about inside the shed to suss out what he may take with him. A stack of hessian bags caught his eye and finding a length of thin rope he fashioned a yannigan bag to carry away some of the corn cobs. For whatever reason and he did not care which, two grey thick blankets hung from a roof beam.

Perhaps the bedcovers were left in the shed when the building was used as makeshift accommodation for casual farm workers. Smyth quickly snavelled the covers and fashioned them into a bedroll. He’d spent a couple of years tramping about the countryside lugging a similar type ‘bedding roll’ and ‘rubber blanket’ while a member of the 10th Louisiana Infantry, so would find no hardship in packing the swag and backpack.

After loading as many ears of corn as he could carry into the sack, he searched about for anything else of value. No, nothing. Though not to complain, he’d fared far better than he may well ever have wished for in scoring a bite to eat and something for the night-time comfort. While pondering on his next move, his nerves were tested to their limit by the sound of a door crashing open behind him.

Twirling about in alarm, he looked back to where one of the hogs had entered a partitioned off section of the shed, through a low swinging gate. Smyth then could see the animals enjoyed movement between the shelter and the holding pen, and they utilized that facility at will.

With a shake of the head in self-admonishment, he moved to the front of the building and checked the farmhouse. Darkness had set in, and a dull light glowed from one of the windows. No other sign of life was evident. It appeared no farm dogs existed, or if they did, they enjoyed the luxury of frequenting the homestead; and not the outhouse as most other working hounds found themselves.

*

His poor physical condition due to the lack of suitable nourishment over the past year, coupled with having trudged for several hours, had rendered Smyth near to collapsing from exhaustion. Though tempted, he decided not to spend the night in the farm shed. He feared he would lapse into a deep sleep and therefore open to being discovered by the resident sodbuster.

On making his way back out onto the road, he stumbled along in the darkness for an hour or so before coming across a spot of which he deemed suitable to set up camp. The location so chosen, a wooden bridge spanning a small river, would provide him with cover should he sleep past the morn’s rising of the sun.

While thanking his lucky stars for providing him with the two blankets, he settled down amongst a thick bed of weeds growing beneath the overpass. To lessen the chances of discovery, he selected a spot under the bridge decking and adjacent to its abutment pylons.

Once comfortable, he opened his carry-bag and examined the cache of corn cobs he’d purloined from the farm shed. As he’d already noted, the cobs were of reject grade and only considered suitable for pig food. No matter to Smyth because of the cobs now in his possession exceeded, in quantity and quality, of which had been dished up to him while in captivity. The watery-gruel dished up by his Union captors and referred to as ‘skilly’ by the prisoners contained barely enough nutrients to keep a person alive. On examination, he found a number of the ears turned out to be hard and dry, but again he did not care, as he chewed into them with relish.

While eating, he recalled many heated debates he and some other inmates became involved in while penned up in Camp Rathbun. Because corn featured as the major industrial crop for Illinois at that time, it formed the principal part of their diet.

One day, a young private, while chewing on a stale cob, referred to it as being a fruit. Someone, overhearing the remark, corrected him and told all and sundry that, no, it wasn’t a fruit but a vegetable. That wasn’t good enough for a crusty old sergeant who berated the pair and announced corn was a grain.

The debate caught Smyth’s interest and tried to settle his curiosity by asking others within the compound for clarification. But fruit, vegetable or grain; each received their share of answers of confirmation. One day, he promised himself, he would find the answer to that conundrum.

Chapter - 4 Union Army Deserters

Over the next week or so Smyth trudged the back roads and tracks, always going to pains to make himself scarce whenever the chance arose where he may encounter other travellers. On several occasions, he’d chanced on fellow foot-sloggers on the move but had dodged making contact with them. All those sighted had been wandering in numbers of two, three, four or five. Never did he sight another unaccompanied wayfarer.

While continuing to head due west, he passed through farming areas, which provided him with the means to restock his food supply. Most farms in the area appeared to rely on corn crops and pig breeding. As was the case all over the country, free-soiler farmers ran pigs as a backup line as any excess or reject crop was utilized to feed the animals.

By being able to access fresh cobs from the endless fields of ripe crops, Smyth’s health and fitness steadily improved. He’d even needed to let out his belt a single notch. When called for to replenish his food supply, he would lay in concealment beside a selected field and check out the lie of the land. When satisfied that no hay-shakers, fieldworkers or road travellers graced the area, he would venture forth and pick the ears straight from the plants.

He, in the past, would never have dreamed he’d glean such pleasure in eating a simple ear of sweet corn. Now, merely to peel back the sheath of the silken wrapped cob to reveal the dull, creamy kernels caused his mouth to salivate in expectation. His diet, restricted to just the corn, actually provided more sustenance than the sloppy skilly dished out at the prison camp. And as every day passed, Smyth could feel himself growing stronger.

As the days slipped behind him, Smyth didn’t know whether he was still in Iowa or had progressed into the next westward state, Nebraska. He had not spoken to a single person since leaving Camp Rathburn. Nor had he ventured into any of the small towns or settlements he had encountered; instead he gave such places a wide berth.

*

One mid-afternoon, after an unusual day of negotiating hilly and difficult countryside, he took off his bedroll and backpack and rested beneath a shady cottonwood tree. His tiredness dulled his normal high level of vigilance, and the first he became aware he had visitors was when he heard a voice addressing him.

Hey boy, what yo’ be doin’ here, man?

Startled, Smyth looked up to