Don’t get too invested in any of the characters in Andersonville. This gripping, revolting, shocking tale of man’s inhumanity to man will pull you in and have you rooting for its many compelling, fascinating, characters. But, be warned, your heart will break in each case. Yes, each one. No matter how much we may learn about the prisoner, or his family, and come to care about him and want him to survive and flourish, or escape and flourish – sorry, no quarter granted. And the book is all the better for it.
The gritty, sometimes repulsive realism of this historical novel, built around the largest Confederate prison of the Civil War, is what makes this work breathtaking. It is virtually impossible to believe that humans treated other humans as these Union prisoners were treated - being herded into a giant pen, with no shade, little food, no clean water and minimal sanitation – a veritable pig pen for humans. Yet, while the treatment appalls us, we are made to see that the choices for those running the prison were few, as they became overwhelmed with overcrowding, disease and concerns about a potential violent uprising.
We enter Andersonville through the eyes of Ira Claffey - a good man, a good husband, and a good father – from whom land and slaves were appropriated to build the prison. Did I say “good man” and “slaves” in reference to the same person? I did, and that illustrates another beauty of this book: it reveals the shades of gray in every situation. For although Claffey owns slaves, he treats them well; to the point that after they are freed, they don’t want to leave him. This is an altogether provocative and nuanced way to view a slave owner. Claffey, an almost wholly sympathetic character, also suffers more than his share of tragedy in the novel, as each of his sons is eventually killed in the war. As a result, his wife is driven mad, and ultimately dies as well. Claffey suffers mightily, but remains a good father to his lone remaining child, a daughter, and continues to work his farm and work to improve conditions at the prison.
Ira Claffey is a fictional character which Kantor uses to illustrate some of the paradoxes of the war and the slavery issue. And, in a particularly interesting recurring plot point, we see Claffey wrestling with his conscience about conditions at the prison, which sits in part on his land. At the same time he is being forced to deal with the stench and noise from that prison permeating his formerly peaceful and pastoral home. Although Kantor is in no way an apologist for the South, he makes certain that we realize the there are two sides (and sometimes more) to every issue. Another example: the prison commandant, Wirz, is not drawn as a complete monster, but a man with a painful injury which has not healed well, in addition to troubles at home. His physical and emotional pain bear on his attitude toward, and his treatment of, his prisoners. And we are privy to just how difficult a job he has.
But it is in the descriptions of the despicable and deplorable conditions at the prison where the book, oddly, takes flight. Ghosts of men, drinking filthy water, eating other prisoner’s scraps, sleeping in the mud, having their possessions stolen from them by crueller and more resourceful prisoners, and yet struggling hard to preserve a life that they truly may no longer want, sear themselves into our psyche. We see prisoners (and one in particular, whom we come to know all too well) being shot simply because a new, underage guard is angry when he learns, first hand, that his mother is the Confederate soldiers’ recreation of choice. This anger, coupled with his desire to earn the respect of his fellow guards, and show them that he is a man, ignites a burning desire to shoot a prisoner. He, of course, finds an excuse to do so and our hearts are broken yet again.
Another prisoner, desperate to escape the stench and crowding and heat and bugs and dysentery, feigns death so that he can be taken with the corpses to the dead house, where he believes escape will be much easier. He does not, however, take into account the extremely rough treatment to which the corpses are subjected. After being thrown onto a wagon, losing consciousness from the massive jolt, and having other corpses thrown on top of him, he finally awakens in the dead house so fearful and distraught that he runs outside… only to be shot by the caretaker of the dead house, who believes a ghost is chasing him.
All of these tales are beautifully crafted and keep the reader (at least this reader) at rapt attention. The meticulous historical background (we learn the true meaning of the term deadline, for example, which turns out to be exactly what you might imagine), and the interwoven lives of Ira Claffey and his family, and the Andersonville physician who becomes his daughter’s husband, make for a book that is rich in detail, rich in emotion and rich in the strength of the human spirit.
Andersonville is a long book (even longer than this post!) of massive scope, yet it feels intimate and welcoming through our connection with the Claffeys. Coming back to Andersonville day after day is a pleasure, no matter how horrific the story itself may be and how many times we suffer that broken heart. This tale of humans, treated as inhumanely as humanly possible, in a vast pig pen will take you aback and leave you reeling while at the same time leave you wanting more.
RogerRater Score: (1 – 5) 4.9
Tags: Andersonville, Claffey, Confederacy, dead house, inhuman, Kantor, pigpen, Slave owner, Wirz
