From somewhere in the crowd ashore a single prisoner whistled Dixie, imbuing the tune with a strain the defiance. The number of men whistling increased rapidly, the glaring faces telling of the hatred the prisoners felt for a lieutenant too young to have fought in any battle.

Stepping onto the gangway, Lieutenant Pace drew his revolver, held it pointed skyward, thumbing the trigger back. A single shot rang out, blue smoke drifting slowly from the pistol as confirmation of lieutenants’ brutal reasoning. Holstering the revolver, Pace waited patiently as the union sergeant led his detail down the gangway to form a wedge and push prisoners away from the base of the gangway.

“As you know,” his youthful voice carried over the crowd with little effort, “that song is no longer tolerated north of the Mason-Dixon Line. It is a seditious song and a sign of your unwillingness to live peacefully in this camp.”

Robert could only see Lieutenant’s back but knew with an unerring certainty that the young man was smirking. He was a bully, the type of officer men never wanted to have as their leader.

Frustrated silence answered Lieutenant Pace as prisoners glared at the man.

Shaking his head slowly, Robert walked to the gangway, pushed past Lieutenant Pace, then descended to the raft, whistling Dixie as he strode casually. Lieutenant Pace fixed a malevolent eye on Robert but could not press the issue. Several thousand rebels were cheering Robert as they watched every move of the handful of union guards; only a fool would push the matter further, and Robert suspected Pace was far from foolish.

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Lieutenant Pace joined the detail by standing behind Robert as the Sergeant ordered a slow walk. The guards pushed a path through the crowd with decidedly less vigor than their actions aboard the Tulip.

Prisoners smiled and laughed as Robert continued to whistle Dixie and nod while looking like a man on a simple stroll in the company of guards. Robert was searching the crowd casually for Confederate officers and saw none.

This was troublesome, as was the state of the men. Well fit, most of the men seemed thin. Admittedly, they lacked the pallor of an army on the march where the only food available was hardtack. There should have been more weight on men confined and inactive.

The escort cleared the crowd eventually and oriented on the crude cabins and fire pits where several men had gathered.

“I believe discipline on this island is every bit as important as discipline during battle.” Lieutenant Pace opined from Robert’s side. “Major.”

“There is a difference between discipline and cruelty.” Robert glanced at the young man, then turned his attention to walking on the uneven ground.

“A senior officer should not publicly challenge his captors.” Pace countered.

“Officers in battle learn deed and word earned respect.” Robert refusing to look at Pace, “not at gunpoint.”

“This is not a battlefield; it is a prison.” Pace snapped, unable to let go of the argument, slapping a hand petulantly against his holstered revolver.

“Not as I have seen,” Robert refused to pursue the argument. Looking up from the ground, he turned his attention to the man at the central fire pit.

There was a Confederate General wearing gray with gold trim, the long coat cut in a Virginia regimental style. Seated next to the general was a union colonel, pale and feeble. There were no other senior officers, no one above the rank of lieutenant. The scent of coffee drifted in the air, coming from a tin pot set on a rock next to the fire. The Sergeants surrounding the officers stood hardened, battlefield veterans who would share similar views on hardship.

Perhaps there was some hope for the men on Coal Island.