The cigar given to Sergeant Burns had an unintended effect over the next month. The Sergeant spent more time with Robert and appeared to be searching the Confederate troops for an appropriate aide for the Major. Many of the southern soldiers now joked about their new Irish recruit, treating Burns with camaraderie even if the Sergeant was not friendly. It seemed Burns actively disliked everyone except the three senior officers on the island.

It was not the same for Lieutenant Pace. The passing days seemed to draw poison from the man, as if his increasing venom was infecting the entire island. More Union soldiers joined Pace’s cause every day, defining their hatred of the southern soldiers as the blame for the war. He was expanding his area of control with each new soldier, now commanding the pier, parade ground, and a portion of the field. Robert rued the General’s playful whistling of Dixie as the source of Pace’s growing hatred. No man appreciated appearing the fool.

Yet Pace was not simply changing with anger. He was doing strange things. The day after ordering mining from the west wall, Pace began examining the wall in earnest. He crawled along the top of the wall, examining every inch in minute detail, becoming the butt of jokes. A week of this behavior quieted even the loudest critics. To the men, it seemed obvious the young officer was obsessed with the welfare of the men despite his growing hatred of the Confederates. When Pace reported to his senior officers, he revealed a fault in the stone unnoticed by all, resulting in a shift away from the north corner of the wall.

While this contradiction between Pace’s actions and concerns was odd, the Lieutenant’s nightly prowling of the quarry had no explanation. Pace seemed to appear out of the shadows, never commenting, just watching for a few seconds, then returning to the night. This behavior quickly expanded in passing nights until Pace could appear anywhere during the night, suggesting the territory he prowled grew to cover most of the island where prisoners worked. Robert received several complaints about the behavior but saw no effect in the Lieutenant’s daytime work and no reason to confront Pace, which would raise more tension. It was a delicate balance Robert sought; a balance he knew would eventually fail, as the late-night prowling did nothing to slow Pace’s plotting.

The Lieutenant pushed his opinion at every opportunity. His suggestion of a central storage point had failed as well, the use of the cave for all stores during the winter months based on convenience of access. Robert felt placing all their eggs in one basket to be a bad idea, the and general agreeing to the logic. All the soldiers who had survived a campaign had endured short rations and supply loss, making the men hesitant to risk any supplies. With this; in mind, a rapid expansion of the storehouse was required, the work completed within a week. The storehouse finished so quickly that the work crew had time to build more huts. Several Union and Confederate non-commissioned officers moved from the cave and into huts.

Yet the clutter in the quarry was troublesome. Enormous stacks of lumber turned the quarry floor into a maze of the cribbing needed for bracing the cave roof and walls as deep hued red granite left the ground. The cave was turning into a forest as the expansion worked its way into the main cavern.

They built a wooden wall with a huge swing door at the cave entrance. The rock floor was now flat, polished by the drag crew from the parade ground, resulting in a wide corridor that worked deep into the island’s stone with a slight dogleg before opening up the main cavern. The fresh cut pine of the entryway, the main ventilation source, gave a pleasant scent that cleaned the typical odors of the mass of men.

The cavern itself was still a jumble of roughly constructed levels and bunks. Piles of wood dominated the main floor, used to burn when the weather turned cold. They also used wood for cooking, which was now done on the main floor, the new arrangement allowing easier access of the storerooms by the cook’s assistants.

There was a sense of imminent battle with winter never far from everyone’s mind. The mornings were getting cooler and some entire days were chilly. Many men who had passed seasons this far north told the new arrivals they had not seen the weather at its worse. This part of the world seemed to work on a different rule than only one hundred miles south; within the space of an hour, the lake could change from calm to an angry tempest of white water driven by heavy winds and threatening clouds.

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It was a day that felt like it should be cold, Robert resisting the temptation to rub warmth into his arms while his men sweated and strained to pull a few more yards of granite from the west wall. The clipping of metal on stone accompanied gray water with short spiking waves.

Robert and a dozen sergeants and corporals stood atop the west wall, watching as wedges were driven into rock, splitting enormous slabs from the face to fall to the quarry floor. Men clung to the rock face as the tons of stone shook the west wall.

It was a nerve-wracking business. Robert was restless, pacing the west wall from end to end, unable to relax. Corporal Anders, tasked with coordinating the rock face miners, followed Robert, expecting new orders. Try as they might, Robert and Anders found no new cracks, but the sense of danger did not falter.

The sky was clear and deep blue, the air sharp with no wind. The sunlight glared into the quarry, the men and wood casting heavy shadows. Musicians sat near the cave entrance, entertaining their fellow prisoners with guitars and fiddlers. The jaunty marching music echoing in the quarry with soldiers whistling as they worked.

Robert watched the progress of the work. So many men working in concert, bringing stone from the quarry, bringing lumber to the quarry, cooks preparing food, men trimming granite mined from the wall and the cave. There had to be over two thousand men in and around the quarry.

“Major,” Corporal Anders claimed Robert’s attention, “what is this?” Anders was holding a round object roughly half an inch round in the palm of his hand. Reaching out, Robert took the object from Anders’ hand and studied it intently. The smell was familiar, fertilizer, but the color was almost white. “Is there more?” A commotion from the far side of the quarry overshadowed his reply.

It was Lieutenant Pace with the familiar platoon of troops pushing their way through the work crews, rifles held high with bayonets glinting.

Oblivious to the growing drama, the band continued to play. Robert finally noticing the song was Dixie, many of the men singing to the tune. Placing the object in his pocket, Robert then crossed his arms. “Where did you find it?”

“Over there, Sir.” Anders pointed to the north end of the wall.

Lieutenant Pace arrived, his presence drawing anger from prisoners in the quarry. The Union guards were far more aggressive than Robert had seen since arriving on the island. They pushed prisoners to the side with their rifles, many rebels falling to the ground.

It felt wrong, as if the blue sky had turned iron gray and the world had tilted slightly on its axis. Men were going to die.

“Corporal Anders,” Robert stayed calm despite his growing sense of urgency. He could almost imagine the Union men firing on the Confederate soldiers, “get our men off this wall.”

The Corporal hurried to his task, shouting to nearby men, and waving them back.

Robert worked his way north on the wall, telling men to leave while searching for something to support the knot of fear in his stomach.

Robert had surmised Pace’s aim correctly. The Union officer led his men past the quarry ramp and made a direct march on the northern end of the west wall.

Was it coincidence that Pace had been prowling the wall at night and studied it intently during the day?

Loud and angry voices came from the southern end of the wall; hundreds of prisoners were rushing onto the wall. Robert caught a fleeting glimpse of Corporal Anders attempting to stop the charge, then he was gone, hidden by men moving past the single hindrance.

Hundreds of voices were quickly turning into thousands of unintelligible shouts, drowning out Robert’s calls to abandon the wall. His desperation grew as Robert grabbed man after man and pushed them south.

“Dear God,” Robert paused. Looking down. He saw so many angry men shaking their fists at the Union men now forcing their way onto the wall. The hatred that had simmered for more than a month was bursting forth. Using both arms, he waved at men to get out of the quarry, men focusing on Robert in puzzlement.

The two rivers of men met atop the west wall and came to a halt just as men fleeing the quarry jammed onto the ramp, teaming with workers. Men who trusted Robert’s urgent gestures looked back to the Major for help as others looked on in confusion. Hundreds of men he recognized, men of the Third Mississippi, were in the quarry trapped by the small ramp and steep walls.

Every instinct Robert possessed told him the men were going to die.

Turning, Robert stumbled against a prisoner, then pushed south on the wall past men crowded tight against the troops. If he could get to the top of the quarry ramp, Robert reasoned, he might reverse the workers and clear the quarry.

The explosion stopped all hope.