A Flimsy Gallows

by Chad Towarnicki

Two men approached a pile of building supplies that were gathered in the yard. One man stood sweating through a yellowed civilian shirt, suspenders lifting his light blue woolen trousers. He wore a primitive farmer’s hat, thin hide pressed into a tall, almost conical shape, with a brim that hung low blocking the sun. Shrouding his eyes, it made his wide grin pronounced.

The other unbuttoned his deep blue Union overcoat, the tiny brim of his forage cap offering little protection from the midday sun. His eyes were nearly closed as he looked at the younger man before the pile of supplies. “Morning, Henry.”

Henry removed the floppy hat and held it out from his hip with his elbow crooked, placing one foot on the pile of wood, rubbing the top of his thigh. He took a deep breath in through his nose, and exhaled through a puckered smile. The heat was bottled up by the walls of the Fort Mifflin.

“Matthew, how we doing today?”

“Not so bad, young man. Not so bad.” He perused the pile of supplies. “Any nails to go with this timber? I’m no Amish carpenter.”

“That crate over there. Nails and hammers.” He arched his back and located the sun. “I drew up some plans this morning.”

Henry handed a small piece of paper to Matthew. It was roughly drawn, and though Matthew hadn’t a clue whether the structure depicted would stand sturdy, he asked a few clarifying questions about the illustration, adding “I haven’t built much since I left my father’s farm. Christ, that was nearly twenty years ago.”

“Not much of a carpenter myself,” said Henry, counting back five years to when he left his family’s homestead.

“Makes you wonder why we’re on gallows duty.”

“It’ll stand. He weighs less than two hundred pounds. And he needn’t hang for long if he falls a good bit. That alone should break his neck.”

Matthew lifted his hat, ran his hand over the tangled mess of graying hair, and replaced his hat. “Who else is giving us a hand with this?”

Henry’s masked grin grew. “They’re resetting the battery. Most everyone’ll be outside the walls for the day. Well, until tonight of course.”

“You believe they sold tickets for it?” Matthew exhaled a soft decrescendo of aitches, shaking his head. “Poor bastard.”

Henry smacked his hat against his legs, freeing dust from both his trousers and the hat. He crouched with wide knees beside the supplies, elbows on thighs and both hands turning his hat by the brim. Never looking up he said, “Why not just execute him, if he really committed such a wrong?”

Matthew stepped to his left, draping his shadow over Henry. “That’s what we’re going to do. Execute him.”

“Well, we’re not really executing him.”

“Not you and me, no.”

“No, I mean the hanging. Why bother with all of this? Why not just shoot him?” Henry looked up at Matthew, one eye shut, one eye squinting.

“Well, who would shoot him?”

“Whoever says he’s guilty.” He stood up, ran his hand through his hair and returned his hat to his head with a sweeping motion. “Whoever says he’s guilty is the executioner, somebody else just does the dirty work.”

Matthew began taking off his coat, “Are we doing the dirty work?”

“I haven’t seen the judge all day. Must mean it’s us.”

Chuckling and rolling his sleeves, Matthew took note that Henry had hardly worn the Union uniform. “Where’s your hat and coat?” he said.

“Hat’s in on my bunk. Prefer my own issue. And that damn coat is awful warm for dirty work.”

The two began separating the timbers by diameter, placing the thicker lengths in a pile to use for the building of the base. The thinner branches and planks would be used as a rugged decking for the platform.

“No shovel.” Henry stood before the sorted poles. “I’ll get a shovel. Must be one in the guard house, there.”

“Can’t go in the guardhouse. Don’t need a shovel.” Matthew wiped the sweat from the sides of his face, looked at his wet fingers, and then wiped again. “Main post will have to be attached to the frame.”

“No. Then the frame’ll need to be heavier all the way around. I’d rather dig for ten minutes apiece and do it right. No sense spending more time on the framing.”

He started walking toward the guardhouse on the other side of the yard, the heat of the day pressing on the open space.

“Henry, go get it out of the stable outside the wall. They won’t let you in that guardhouse.”

He stopped and turned, breathing through bared teeth. “Why not?”

“They’re keeping the accused in there. Howe. He’s in that back room right there.”

Henry turned back to the guardhouse: a small one story brick building, twice as long as it was tall, with a chimney at the far end. There were three windows, all with vertical bars. The third and final window had two pale hands wrapped around the bars. They slowly released and faded into the blackened square. Henry stood for a moment with his head down. The warm sun on his back tilted his shadow in the direction of the cell. He turned and marched out to the stable.

Returning with the shovel, he walked past Matthew without a word, stepped beyond the arrangement of poles lying flat on the ground, and began to dig. He kept his face down, the sweat gathering at the tip of his nose before dropping to the dry soil.

“He’s a risk,” Matthew said. “Had to keep him under watchful eye.”

“Well, who’s watching who? He can probably hear every word we’re saying.” Henry stepped hard into the back end of the spade.

“Lincoln himself could let him go. Howe supposedly wrote to him twice. That’s a judge and the president that say he’s guilty. All we’ve got to do is follow orders.”

“Funny, didn’t see either when I went for the shovel.”

Matthew held out his hand and shooed Henry, “You said it yourself. Dirty work.” He took the shovel and began digging the hole wider.

Henry went to the largest post, what would be their center post, and rolled the end to the lip of the hole. He straddled it and sat, watching Matthew sweat and dig. He spoke in a whisper now, his eyes peering from the shade of his brim to the white wall of the guardhouse. “You know why he deserted them boys down South?”

Matthew stood up straight, attempting to touch his elbows behind his back. He stepped to Henry, shovel handle first, lowered his voice and said, “Yeah, he was down at the Battle of Fredericksburg.” Henry took the shovel handle, and they replaced positions. Matthew sat on the log, still speaking in a soft, polite tone. “Put the scare in him. A month later he turned up missing. Went back up to P.A.”

“He had dysentery, though. They say he lost twenty-five pounds. What good was he to the Union?” Henry drove the shovel.

“There were some men in worse shape than him who stayed and fought.”

“Some men died just the same. You know as well as I do, more men die sick than shot at.”

“You can’t know such a thing.”

Henry reached the shovel into the hole to check the depth. “If you had dysentery would you be building a platform right now?”

Matthew only turned and looked to the last window on the guardhouse.

“How far down should I go?” Henry was coated in a film of perspiration and grit. His clothes were sopped close to his body.

“Until it makes sense.”

“Well, how far makes sense?”

“This pole’s about fourteen, sixteen foot, or so. I’d say a good three to four feet. Then we can brace it low. Little further. You wanted to dig, boy.”

The sun peaked, casting light to the bottom of the post hole. The men had no shadows, but were outlined in dark lines by their saturated clothing. There was hardly any wind within the walls, and every little sound carried through the yard. Both men worked in silence, listening to the staccato echoes that were pinched in between the wall and the guardhouse with every shovel load. Old Glory flapped in muffled claps, catching gusts of wind high above the parched grounds.

Matthew produced two canteens from a satchel by the timbers. He reached one to Henry before helping himself. He watched Henry drink. “You know, he’s not being hung just for deserting. He killed the soldier who tried to arrest him.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yes sir.”

Henry squatted beside the hole, sliding the shovel in to check the depth again. “How’s that?”

Matthew spoke deliberately. “How’s that? Two officers hunted him down.”

“Not that—”

“Nonsense. You listen—”

He stepped round the edge of the hole, and crouched beside Henry. He lowered his voice to a whisper once more. “They find this little stone house up in the hills there outside of Philadelphia. The soldiers knock and knock and knock. Finally his wife comes to the door—he sent his wife to the door!”

“Matthew, I—”

“Hold on now, this is the part you’re asking for.” He looked over his shoulder at the guardhouse, then looked down at the hole and chuckled, “His old lady says he’s not home. Calls out the window, ‘No, sir. William’s not here. Never made it back from the war.’ Some song she was singing. Anyway, to make a long story short, they kicked in the door and he’s there hiding with his kids. They try to arrest him. The bastard gets loose and leads them back out into the yard. He puts a bullet in the belly of one of the officers. He’s lucky they—”

“Matthew, I meant how’s that for depth?”

“Oh. It’s good. That’s a good depth.”

Matthew took a seat on the end of the timber post and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck.

Henry stood up. “Where were you when all that went on?”

“When what went on?”

“The arrest. You make it sound like you were tying up their horses.”

“No. Not at all. I was here, likely. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Sounds like awful far for you to have a clear vantage. Hell, we’re at sea level here.”

Henry grabbed a rope and tossed it at Matthew. “Tie that up there where the pole is notched. We’ll hoist it in, then set it with some gravel from the road and a dirt and water mix.”

Matthew walked to the far end of the post. He tied it off and pulled the rope taught from a few yards away. Lifting the thin end of the post up, Henry walked his hands down the timber as Matthew pulled the rope. The timber slid to the edge of the hole, sank through the rim and toppled in. Henry hugged it close as Matthew walked shovel loads of gravel from the path to the hole. Soon it was sturdy enough to stand on its own, and Henry made quick work of braces to keep it from teetering to one side or the other. While affixing the brace low, he said “Can I ask you something, Matthew?”

He nodded, spreading his legs to control the sway of the pole.

“You have kids?”

“I do. Three kids. Oldest is probably close to your age now.”

“Alright. Well, imagine you leave the service sick as a dog. You somehow find a way back home, with your kids, and look to get healthy. Two men come to your house and kick your door in. What would you have done?”

“I wouldn’t have murdered someone.”

“Well, what would you have done?”

Matthew looked up to the top of the post and exhaled, then looked down at Henry. He spoke with confidence, allowing his voice to carry in through the little guardhouse window. “Any man who motions to take the life of another is a murderer. And he ought to be hanged.”

“But what would you have done?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ Henry. Why not go break him out then?”

“They didn’t have to make him watch us build the gallows. He fought for the Union.”

“Henry, just finish the goddamned brace.”

“This is the closest to the fighting I’ve gotten so far. Building a damn gallows on Mud Island. He fought at Fredericksburg, against actual graybacks.”

“Let go, see if it holds.” Matthew nudged him away from the post.

The pole stood, turning the courtyard into a small sundial that was counting down to the evening’s execution.

“If a Rebel broke in tonight to this fort, what would you do?”

Matthew kneaded his forehead. He clenched his lips together and exhaled deeply through his nose. He spoke while nodding to himself, “I’d shoot the son of a bitch. I’d send his body back to the Carolinas.”

“Why?” He picked up a saw to cut the platform posts to equal heights.

“Oh, come on Henry.”

“Howe is a threat, just the same. Based on accounts he’s killed more Union soldiers than some of the more cowardly Rebels. Go shoot him.”

“Stop with this.” Matthew laughed to himself under the pressure, and stepped in a half circle with his hands on his hips and his shaking head looking down into a shadow. “I ain’t a murderer, Henry. I ain’t no goddamn murderer.”

Henry tossed the saw at Matthew’s feet. “Neither am I.”

In a fury, he grabbed a pry bar from the tool crate, and pried off the braces. In one easy push he felled the main post that rattled to the ground in loud echoes like gunfire. Matthew stood and watched as he threw the pry bar at the guardhouse. Never speaking, only grunting like a child subduing emotions, he lifted his hat, wiped his hair, replaced the hat, and took pause at the hands on the bars of the window. He made his way to the bunkhouse and disappeared into the dark entrance.

Matthew laughed to himself. “Youth,” he said as he picked up the satchel, stood for a moment surveying the supplies, looked upward to the relentless sun, and headed to the outhouse where he might sort out the events of the afternoon. On his way past the guardhouse, an officer stepped from the doorway and bristled at the extreme heat.

“What the hell is going on out here, Matthew?”

In stride with his head down he said, “Henry boiled over. I think the heat got to him. Give him an hour or so. We’ll get it done when the heat of the day dies down a little.”

“Matthew, we don’t have all the time in the world. They sold tickets for tonight.”

He stopped and turned to the officer. “Well, if you’re in a hurry you could just shoot him yourself.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean, Matthew?”

“Suppose it means that you’ll wait.”

He resumed his course to the latrines, leaving the courtyard empty of anything but a flag and a mirage.

* * *

When the heat of the day began to subside, Matthew crossed the courtyard. He stood over the building supplies as if viewing them for the first time. His shadow reached out in front of him, and as he rolled a post over with his foot, he lifted his eyes but not his head and looked to the window. In the blackened square, there may have been a face behind the bars.

He placed his satchel beside the supplies, and tossed his hat on top. Cupping a brim with his hand he squinted to the bunkhouses, where he was no better at discerning the shapes through shadowed windows. He let out a loud alarming whistle, which bounced around the walls of the fort. The only thing that stirred was Howe’s hands, which returned to the bars of the guardhouse window. A sweeping shadow of a bird circled the courtyard before spiraling to the outer walls. Matthew looked to the hands and tried to make out eyes based on proportion.

He kicked dust across the yard and was quick into Henry’s bunkhouse. Inside was dark and cool, and the transition left him sun-blind and blinking heavily. As the fog sharpened he took note of six beds, five of which were made up with bedding. At the foot of the single open bed was a union blue coat and hat, clean and folded.

* * *

Outside the wall of the fort, Henry entered the stable with a pack slung over his shoulder. The soldier who ran the stable was getting ready to lay down for a midafternoon nap where the overhang of the stable merged with the shade of a tall oak tree.

“I need to borrow a horse for about an hour,” he said, grinning again from beneath the floppy brim of his primitive hat.

“Where you going with it?”

“We’re a little light on supplies for the gallows. Need a small portion of nails. Won’t take me long.”

The soldier wore an air of skepticism. He took a bite from an apple, and chewing with his whole face, he pulled a knot tight on his makeshift hammock. “Is this thing going off tonight, or what?”

“The sooner I get back, the better. Not much of a hanging if the gallows not been built.”

The soldier sat into the hammock, tossed Henry the rest of his apple, and then laid back awkwardly. “Take one of the bay horses,” he said, “and hurry back. They sold tickets for tonight. Guess everyone knows, there ain’t nothing worse than a deserter.”

About the author

Chad Towarnicki is an English teacher and writer working in Pennsylvania. He has earned his Master of Fine Arts at Arcadia University, with a Civil War short fiction manuscript. @ctowarnicki on twitter and Instagram.

About the illustration

The illustration is a painting of Fort Mifflin by Seth Eastman, 1870. In the public domain.