By the next day, men in blue uniforms surround the island. There is nowhere to go. Thomas lays down his rifle and raises his hands. A soldier prods him toward a group of prisoners. No one speaks; each man is lost in his own thoughts.
The days that follow blur together. Thomas and the others are loaded onto Union vessels and carried north, confined to cramped holds where they can scarcely move. The stench of waste and vomit is nearly unbearable.
One night, he wakes to violent rocking. The ship pitches in a storm, and men clutch whatever they can to keep from being thrown. Some, too weak to resist, are tossed helplessly from side to side as the storm rages for hours. Thomas grips the nearest beam, thinking only of Mary and his children, wondering if he will ever see them again. Eventually, exhaustion overtakes him. He dreams of North Carolina—the farm, Mary, the children in the distance. He calls out, but the sound of gunfire jolts him awake.
The ship has docked. A soldier shouts for the men to stand and form a line. As Thomas rises, he notices those still lying on the floor—dead or too weak to move. Nausea surges, and he gags. Still, he steels himself. If not for his own sake, then for Mary’s, he must endure. He must live to return home.
Outside, the cold hits him with a force he has never known in North Carolina. Snow swirls in the air and gathers at his feet. He falls into line. No one speaks or resists; the will to rebel has drained away, leaving only exhaustion and despair.
Step by step, the men are marched to a bridge leading to an island. Ahead, a star-shaped fort looms. A sign above the entrance reads Fort Columbus. Union soldiers stand everywhere, their blue uniforms neat, their rifles ready.
Once inside, the heavy doors close behind them. A deep sense of helplessness settles over Thomas. Even the hardest years on the farm—drought, failing crops—never felt like this.
Snow blows sideways as the men stand outside, waiting to be counted. At last, numb in hands and feet, Thomas is led inside to the cells where he will spend most of his days.
Weeks pass in a dull, relentless rhythm. Before dawn, a bell rings. The men are marched into the courtyard for roll call, given breakfast, then returned to their cells.
Tension grows. Fights break out more often. Some men are shot; others are harshly punished. Thomas keeps to himself, avoiding trouble. He notices names being called, men taken away, not returning. Over time, a fragile hope takes root—perhaps his name will be called too.
One day, it is.
A soldier escorts him to an office where an officer sits behind a desk, not looking up. “You will be released,” the man says, “on the condition that you sign this paper stating you will not fight again.”
Relief floods Thomas. “Yes, sir.”
He signs. Moments later, he is led outside into the open air. At the entrance, he is handed a train ticket south. Crossing the bridge, he does not look back. He cannot.
At the station, he boards a crowded train car already filled with former Confederate prisoners. There is no room to sit, so he leans against the wall as the train lurches forward, carrying him toward home.
Hours pass before he slides down to the floor. Men curse as they try to move past, but he stays where he is. When the train finally pulls into Washington, D.C., several passengers disembark, and Thomas manages to claim a seat.
Hunger gnaws at him. He thinks of a home-cooked meal, of Mary’s cooking, of the life waiting for him. It feels close—closer than it has in a long time.
But he is wrong.