Mr. Patrick’s History Class

Written by Tom Fowler, Published on 8/14/2009

Spring term in Gary Patrick’s ninth grade history class was one week away from finals and the beginning of summer vacation. All of his students had worked very hard this year and Gary considered this class the best he had ever had scholastically. That was indeed high praise, as Gary was nearing retirement from a 35-year teaching career.

As final exams in all classes loomed near, Gary’s students were becoming increasingly stressed and tension filled the air. Today, Gary decided to tell them a Patrick Family story, one he had never shared with anybody outside of his immediate family. He wanted to do this for two reasons: his students deserved a reward for a good school year plus he wanted them to relax for a little while and relish an interesting story.

An interesting story it was. Gary was entering the seventh grade in 1962 when he first heard the story told by his grandfather, Tom Patrick, Jr. At that time, “Granddad” as he was called, told him he had heard the story himself at age 13 when his own father, Tom Sr., relayed it to him. It was the year 1900 and Tom Sr., was 69 years old and nearing death. He wanted to get the story out while there was still time.

Gary reflected often upon the state of the Old South after the Civil War. Older men would marry very young girls for a number of reasons, one being the protection of family property but another, more somber, was the fact that there was a dire shortage of young men in both the north and south after the war was over. The war had taken a tragic, terrible, human toll on both sides.

Gary shared his thoughts concerning this with the class. First he attempted to link the present day with that time by relating an interesting tidbit concerning the recently deceased Senator Strom Thurmond. “Strom Thurmond, as most of you know, was a southern senator from South Carolina and 100 years old when he died. When Thurmond first ran for public office in 1929, he ran for county judge and his main campaign strategy was to court the vote of Civil War Veterans. That doesn’t have anything to do with my story, but it puts some context to the time between then and now.”

“Granddad Patrick’s story is grim, but very interesting and I have worked it into a mystery. At the end of my tale, I want to see if you can figure out who the guilty party was.” Gary had achieved his goal. The entire class was sitting up straight, alert and hanging on his every word.

He began. “In the spring of 1862, the 11th Texas Cavalry headed east of the Mississippi River for the first time. Along the way, they picked up horses and volunteers. That is where Great Grandfather Patrick enters the story. He owned a farm in Russellville, Arkansas and joined the confederates, bringing his stable of six horses to the cause. Late that summer, he was captured by the Northern Army at the battle of Richmond, Kentucky, when his horse was shot from underneath him. For the remainder of the war, he spent time in Northern prison camps. He was in a camp outside Cincinnati, Ohio for a time before being sent to Elmira, New York, the dreaded ‘Andersonville of the North’. This is where the rest of the story – and the mystery – takes place.”

“Everything was in short supply during the War Between the States. Supply and transportation were not nearly as advanced as today and, remember, we were fighting ourselves, not an overseas threat as we face today. Hardship and deprivation come quickly when you are beating yourself up with the viciousness we unleashed in that war.” Gary paused for a moment, catching his breath and emotion. It struck him, as it often did when he told this story, how proud he was to be the descendent of a true ‘Son of the South’. Continuing, he said, “Great Grandfather was in a small cell with three other soldiers. It was not much bigger than a broom closet but it was all the Yanks could offer as their own troops were not much better off. Tom and his buddies were given enough food for one man, so they played poker for it. Tom was a good card player and I am glad he was. Were he not, I probably would not be here talking to you now.” Gary paused, wishing to see if that evoked a chuckle from the class. He was pleased that it did not.

Gary was deep into his story now and so were his students. He lowered his voice and said, “But, one night, one of the Yank guards was found dead in Tom and the other’s tiny cell. The guard was dead but there was no apparent reason as to why. But, everyone would know that the guard was more than likely killed for food. Bartering went on all the time in both northern and southern prison camps and was an open secret. The only thing that saved Tom and his friends was the fact they reported it before another Yank discovered it on his own. The guard had been murdered, but which of the four of them did it?”

“This question was bluntly put to them by Sgt. Denny McCool, a wiry, no-nonsense Irisher from New York City. McCool was tough as nails but fair, which was another factor in Tom living to relate this story. It was summer time and he took Tom and the others outside to the prison yard for interrogation. He pointed to the guard tower above them and mentioned, almost off handedly, that he would not hesitate to signal the guards to shoot them all if he did not hear what he wanted to hear.”

“Softly, McCool asked, ‘What happened?’ Tom later told my grandfather that his soft spoken-ness unnerved them more than bullying or a beating would have. They knew that they had to answer his questions quickly and to the little Irishman’s satisfaction. Tom spoke first, ‘After evening chow, we always spend time in the courtyard. We always do this as it relieves the stress of being cooped up together. As far as I know, the cell was empty until we gathered in the yard to return to the cell together. We found Corporal Brubaker in our cell, dead.’”

“McCool listened intently. All Tom had said so far was believable. He pointed to the man beside Tom and said, ‘Who are you?’”

“Nervously, the rebel soldier replied, ‘Pvt. Jack Trueblood.’”

“‘What do you know of this?’”

“‘Nothing,’ Trueblood answered, cautiously.”

“‘How about you?’ McCool asked, pointing to Sgt. Patrick Culpepper.”

“’I’m Patrick Culpepper, Corp.’ Culpepper hoped that being familiar with a fellow Irishman would help his cause. He could not have been more wrong. Denny McCool, first of Galway, Ireland and then of the New York City Bowery, could smell a con artist a mile away. He was already losing patience with this one.”

“’It’s Sergeant McCool, laddie, and don’t make that mistake again.’ Culpepper seemed to shrink into his sole-less boots. McCool asked, ‘What’s your story?’ Culpepper replied that he didn’t know anything about the dead corporal, either.”

“Turning to Private Billy Calhoun, McCool repeated the question, ‘What do you know of this? You Johnnies better know that Timmy Brubaker was a good friend of mine. Shared more’n one pint with ‘im back in the day.’”

“Calhoun, 21 years old and an illiterate sharecropper’s son from Thurman, Alabama, was so fearful that Tom felt he would collapse. But, he held it together long enough to inform McCool that he, as the others, knew nothing of the corporal’s death.”

“McCool, who after the war would become a history teacher and administrator in the New York City public school system, knew that one of them was lying. It is well known in our family that the only reason Tom lived to tell this tale is because of the thoughtful Irishman’s reason and cool-headedness. He had Tom and the others stand at attention underneath the guard tower while other Yankee blue legs searched their tiny cell. One by one, he had them empty their pockets and remove their filthy clothing for strip searches. McCool was looking for anything that would point to one of them being the killer.”

“Tom went first. McCool found a small cube of rancid pork in a trouser pocket and an empty tobacco pouch. McCool said to him, dryly ‘Not having any ‘baccy can put a man in a mean mood.’ Tom replied, ‘I haven’t had tobacco or chaw for a long time now.’ Tom thought the saw an ever so slight amusement upon the face of the man who at this moment had the power of life or death over him. Upon inspection of his person, McCool’s men found the usual head lice and body sores caused by filth and malnourishment. But, they found nothing incriminating upon his person or in his clothing.”

“Next to be stripped and searched was the terrified Calhoun. Upon his emaciated left bicep was a small bruise, about ¾ of an inch in diameter. There was dirt in both trouser pockets but McCool noticed it had an odd consistency. Calhoun’s boots, like Culpepper’s, were worn to the point that they were uppers only. The soles had completely worn away.”

“Next to be inspected was the fearful Trueblood. Trueblood had a cornhusk in his pocket and a dirty, dog-eared diary. Within the diary, McCool noticed that Trueblood wrote only of family and the end of the war. He quickly saw that his fearful demeanor was a facet of a sensitive and thoughtful nature. He also noticed when inspecting his person that his shoulder was discolored from dislocation and a broken wrist was limp and useless. Like the others, they found nothing incriminating upon his person or in his clothing.”

“Last to be inspected was the cocky Culpepper. Tom was afraid that he would say something to get them all shot but, mercifully, this did not happen. McCool motioned for Culpepper to step forward but the obnoxious Texan stood motionless. After McCool’s men physically prompted Culpepper to attention with a sharp blow to his belly, Culpepper dropped his cocky façade and pleaded for mercy from the guards. He cried out an apology and confessed that he did not see the Corporal motion because he was practically blind without his glasses, which had been lost on the battlefield long before he ever reached the camp. Finding nothing in his clothing, McCool seemed satisfied.”

“Not long after the questioning and bodily searches ended, McCool received word concerning Corporal Brubaker’s body. A small puncture wound was found in his temple. Beside the body, a rusty nail with blood on it was discovered; no doubt this was the murder weapon. Within his pockets were found a small amount of salt and a half full tobacco pouch. Upon the dirt floor of the tiny prison cell a tattered bag was found; remnants of salt were found within it. An inspection of Brubaker’s body found a small cut on his neck and a small bruise on his right knuckle. His murder had been committed swiftly, silently and efficiently.”

“The yard went deathly quiet as McCool considered everything he had learned. He knew that the prison commandant, Colonel Nix, would be outside soon demanding answers and punishment for the guilty. However, before this happened, McCool pointed to the guilty rebel soldier and said, quietly, ‘arrest this man.’”

Gary fell silent, letting his story sink in to his students. He asked, “Anyone have any idea who the killer was?”

Justin Miller, one of Gary’s more astute students, commented, “It couldn’t have been Tom Patrick. If he had been the murderer, you wouldn’t be here now.” At this, the class roared with laughter, breaking the tension. Even Gary chuckled. But, he replied, “Don’t assume it wasn’t Tom. You have no idea yet what happened to him after this incident.”

April Park, another of Gary’s gifted students, correctly chose the guilty confederate and explained her reasoning too. Gary said, “Very good, April. Allow me to finish the story.”