MYSTERY: "Death At Andersonville"

Andersonville Military Prison, deep in the heart of Dixieland Georgia, was the most dreaded of Confederate prisoner-of-war camps. It was such a grim place that the rebel soldiers guarding it were fed and clothed little better than their 33,000 Yankee prisoners. From its inception in February 1864, until the Civil War’s end 14 months later, 13,000 prisoners would die; an astonishing 29% mortality rate. Many of the Union soldiers succumbed to starvation and exposure to the elements, but some were also murdered, as was the case with Private Glendenning Bryan.

Sgt. Crosby, Sgt. Thornton, Pvt. Whisenant and Cpl. Horner shared a tent with Pvt. Bryan – if you could call a few small tree limbs that served as poles, plus a few tattered blankets and threadbare shirts, shelter at all. Because the tent was so small, privacy was virtually non-existent, and this only added to the shock and dismay when the friendly Bryan, a young 19-year-old from Boston, was found dead with a knife wound in his stomach when the sun came up early one steamy Monday morning in August 1864.

Crosby, the 38-year-old no-nonsense senior non-commissioned officer and Chicago, Illinois, policeman, took charge. Speaking within the confines of the small tent, he said, “He’s murdered, murdered right here. I don’t know why, he would’ve been dead in a few days anyway.” Bryan had been in Andersonville the longest and was the most malnourished and sickest of the five.

However, they soon discovered why Bryan had been killed. He had been hoarding food in his clothing, planning to eat it when he felt better. Inside his trousers they found a crudely sewn, hidden pocket that contained breadcrumbs and a few tiny pieces of salt pork. The likable Bryan had been killed for food.

“Well, it wasn’t me that did it,” said the short-tempered Horner, another native of Massachusetts, as he viewed his friend who lay dead just inches from his bare feet."My hands are useless with arthritis and I can’t hardly hold a knife.” Horner was 40-years-old and had spent too many years shoeing horses in the cold weather of his home in Worcester.

“It couldn’t have been me,’ chimed in Thornton. “I was outside walking most of the night.”

“Most of the night is not all of the night,” Crosby pointedly replied. Thornton, a 26-year-old librarian from Philadelphia and quietest of the residents of the tent, winced at this suggestion.

“Did anyone see you?” asked Crosby.

Thornton looked at each man in turn before answering, “Nobody saw me, but I was out walking last night. I was.”

 “I was sick, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, so I was down by the sinks all night,” offered Whisenant, the normally amiable 30-year-old New York school teacher. “I got back here just a few minutes ago.”

Crosby hadn’t slept in the tent the previous night, either, and told them so. “I was at the other end of the camp, trying to get what fresh night air was available.” That was an ironic statement, as it was known that the stench from Andersonville was so severe it was noticed in the city of Americus, several miles away.

“I didn’t notice any of you fellers last night. Just me and Bryan,” said Horner, thinking out loud. Slowly, he asked, “Who owns the knife?”

“Answer that and we have our killer,” Thornton added, dryly.

For a few minutes they all sat in silence. Finally, Crosby said, “I got back here first. I found Horner asleep and Bryan dead.”

Horner shot Crosby a mean look, pointed a gnarled finger at him and said, “I told you I didn’t kill him!” He winced in pain as he did so.

“Easy, corporal, easy, I’m just thinking.”

“Well, for whatever it’s worth to you, I didn’t sleep well,” Horner said. “Who does in this place? I was asleep for only an hour or two and did not see or hear anything, except the usual camp noises.”

“OK, let’s continue,” said Crosby.“I was on the other side of the camp with various friends; not with any one person the entire night, but I was never alone.”

Turning to Thornton, he asked, “What about you? Horner didn’t sleep well, says he didn’t see you.”

“He probably didn’t. I only came back to the tent a couple of times. When I heard him snoring, I did not go in. I didn’t want to bother him. The last time was about an hour ago. It was too dark to notice anything unusual about Bryan.”

Crosby digested this for a moment and then asked Whisenant, “You were sick last night?”

“Right,” he replied. The sight and shock of the dead Bryan did nothing to quiet his queasiness, although he was a butcher by trade in his hometown of Zeeland, Michigan. With great effort, he managed to control a wave of nausea. He needed to go outside and Crosby excused him.

Whisenant returned a few minutes later, weak but feeling better. He dreaded resuming the conversation, but he re-seated himself in the cramped tent and looked at Crosby.

Finally, Crosby stated bluntly, “I know who killed Bryan.”

.................................................................................................................. SOLUTION: “It wasn’t me,” he said. “I told you I was on the other side of the camp all night. I was not with any one person the entire night, but what I didn’t say is that I was always with someone. Never was I by myself and there are those over there who will verify this.” Pausing for a moment, he continued, “Horton was in the tent all night. He was awake for much of the time, but slept off and on for short intervals. I believe him because I know he wasn’t the killer. He could not so much as point his finger at me without wincing in pain. It is highly improbable that a man with severe arthritis would be able to handle a knife and commit a violent act.” Once more, Crosby paused before continuing. His friends were weak and in emotional shock but he wanted to be certain that everyone understood what he was saying. Looking at Whisenant, Crosby said, “You aren’t the killer, either. It’s also highly improbable you would have the strength or inclination to kill for food on a night when you were so physically ill.” He added, dryly, “especially with the aroma around here.” Crosby paused once more before addressing Thornton. “It had to be you. Not only are the rest of us eliminated, but you told a lie. It is not possible to wander around camp all night without being seen by someone. There are over 30,000 men here.” “I didn’t mean that literally.” “I believe you did. You had to hide outside the tent and watch for a time that Horner was asleep.” Thornton replied, so quietly they could barely hear, “I knew he had food, knew he wouldn’t need it much longer.” The four soldiers, bonded by the brutal experience of Andersonville, said nothing to the rebel guards. Thornton had already given the Confederate ally his share of the food, so his silence was assured. The body was handed over for burial in the mass grave just outside the prison grounds. No questions were asked, no explanations offered. Thornton survived Andersonville but was never charged with murder. That does not mean he wasn’t convicted, however, for he was found guilty by the harshest court of all: his own conscience. ..................................................................................................................

Posted in: Mysteries