Each morning at the parade ground, the general would walk the rows of granite awaiting the Tulip and reject any block not up to his standards of quality and beauty. Rejected stone they used in many of the island’s projects. The parade ground had grown considerably using this method of procurement. The road from the quarry to the parade ground, then to the dock, was now complete, and an inventive corporal from Virginia had devised a stone drag that was used to polish the set stones flat. Each day, several dozen men dragged the polisher back and forth in an endless repetition.

They were the metronome of the island, many of the men determining the time of the day by the progress of the polishers.

At the harbor, the depth of the water on both sides of the Peninsula forced crews to build keeping walls. Men dove into the cold water to guide stone, lowered twenty to thirty feet down. Each man could only dive into the water twice a day, then spend his remaining time huddled near a fire until he was no longer tinged blue.

While the quay wall rose from the depths, the lighthouse grew at the end of the peninsula. They trimmed the natural stone of the peninsula until courses of stone could form the lighthouse foundation. The granite used was from the rejected stone generated by General Cornell, but the lighthouse also used the only concrete on Coal Island as a cap over the foundation to resist wave action.

Wooden derricks constructed by carpenters crowded the construction area and operated during the daylight hours by teams of men. The crude erections covered by bark as if the forest that covered the island had sprouted legs and now walked the shore. The scent of pine resin, hot wood, and smoke permeated the air. Industry claimed Coal Island and the end of toil seem nowhere in sight.

There was always more wood needed for the winter fires. Woodsman shifted from area to area, expanding the usable zone of the prison with deliberate thought. Most of their activity centered on a field in a shallow bowl nestled in a fork of the ridgeline. They expanded the field while other prisoners grew crops. Slowly, the forest was being pushed back until what was once a field of five acres was now a quarter of a mile long and one hundred yards wide.

Minor forays into the northern woods suggested there was enough timber on the island to last for decades. In this way, lumber became a problem of storage rather than need.

Most of the union men followed Colonel Beltran’s order to support and cooperate in mutual survival and helped produce winter supplies. It was obvious many were not happy working side-by-side with the rebels, but the common heritage of war softened most anger. It was easier to blame life’s problems on officers rather than begin a full-blown political discussion.

A few dozen union men appeared to support Lieutenant Pace, preferring to ignore their mutual condition with the rebels and holding false power over the imprisoned men. They made no secret of their hatred of all things southern. Colonel Beltran held the men in check by ordering them to duties at the parade ground and pier within view of senior officers and do less damage to the overall morale of the prisoners. The colonel’s touch was softer than Roberts, but the younger man had to admit the colonel achieved his goals with less effort.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Work kept thousands of men busy and able to ignore the meaningless existence of trapped men; in truth, survival was only a benefit. Despair could easily claim the men and drive them to madness that made the idea of braving the lake in pursuit of freedom a possibility.

The ever-present lake that never truly left their minds and added to the oppressive atmosphere of the island.

Robert could easily imagine there was no distant land beyond the empty horizon. A few clouds graced the blue sky slowly, casting shadows on waters that were gentle for the moment. This lake could fade from blue to gray on a cloudless day. Today the water was a rich blue turning ink blue in the shadows of clouds. Robert came to believe Captain Marsh’s claim of the lake’s personality.

At present, only newspapers provided by the good captain allowed for hope of home. Unfortunately, the news spoke only in generalities. Northern reporters dwelled on the strength of the union and the courage of northern troops; they crow out the list which towns fell victims to General Sherman’s depredations. For most of the prisoners, this was the topic of concern. As Union troops moved to southern lands, their homes and families came under threat. It was but one more reason to get off this island.

The papers also talked of President Lincoln’s fight for freedom of the slaves. Abolitionists argued the war was only about slavery while forgetting the disproportionate balance of wealth and industry that favored the northern states. Everyone south of the Mason-Dixon Line knew the war was about slave’s rights and federal dominance. It was an argument that could easily grow heated, and it was not an argument Robert allowed on Coal Island.

In war, men only fought to survive. There was no room for politics in a battle line. This was a truth politicians could only pretend to believe and soldiers could feel to their core.

Soldiers who fought, Robert corrected himself.

While Pace was a soldier, he was far from battle hardened; the seventeen-year-old lieutenant had yet to fight a single engagement. Yet his character was all too understandable. It was something every battle veteran had seen. Occasionally, a man would join the battalion who talked of nothing other than his bravery and the glory of righteous battle. This was usually the same person fainted or ran when blood hit the ground.

Only time would tell if Pace could become a competent officer. For the moment, he was an annoyance.

His latest in the constant wrangling for superiority was the suggestion Pace could command Confederate troops near the pier. It was obvious any such permission would violate Colonel Beltran’s order and would end in acrimony from the rebel troops, forcing eventual retaliation by Pace and his sympathizers.

This was the daily discord Robert suppressed with the help of Corporal Anders, who was now his aide-de-camp. It seemed the corporal had taken a liking to Robert or wanted to protect him. Either way, Robert now had someone who followed him everywhere he went and tended to the small shack he called home.

The discord was like the whistling Dixie affair repeating itself. There was no rule prohibiting the tune, only Pace’s assertion that the music was seditious and disrespectful. For their part, the prisoners still whistled Dixie to aggravate the hell out of Lieutenant Pace. Perhaps they were following Roberts’s example from the day they arrived on Coal Island, maybe they thought it was funny. Robert didn’t care if the union popinjay’s feelings hurt.

The men could softly push the edges of the lieutenant’s patience and hopefully stretch the boy into a man.