“The greatest of our Civil War novels” (New York Times) reissued for a new generation
As the United States prepares to commemorate the Civil War’s 150th anniversary, Plume reissues the Pulitzer Prize–winning novel widely regarded as the most powerful ever written about our nation’s bloodiest conflict. MacKinlay Kantor’s Andersonville tells the story of the notorious Confederate Prisoner of War camp, where fifty thousand Union soldiers were held captive—and fourteen thousand died—under inhumane conditions. This new edition will be widely read and talked about by Civil War buffs and readers of gripping historical fiction.
Middle of his back, and it was splitting wide. No, no, no hospital, mates—they’d never be letting me tend him. . . . Another steaming, frying, boiling, stewing afternoon, when the whole marsh crawled and lifted and sank in its maggoty tides. People went down beneath the heat, they went flat in permanent submission. As the Vermonters sat weak in sweat beneath the shelter, Garrett pointed out to John that four different dead-parties were wending toward the dead row at one and the same time.
Harry talked constantly, with spirit; he’d interrupted Ira’s reading several times with approving comments, with further suggestions. Now that the letter was put next to Ira’s plate, Elkins discoursed on vinegar. They appear to have forgotten it. Few other adjuncts to the diet could be more efficacious in treatment of scurvy. If you could get word to those Americus folks, they might fetch some barrels of it. Our own supply is limited, said Lucy. Elkins stared at her, watery eyes.
Childhood, and was stricken with the notion that if she had been grown-up and a capable nurse, the children might have lived. When her mother was ill Lucy tended her eagerly, banishing the wenches, banishing even old Ruth who was the wife of Leander and a skilled nurse in her own right. There was no instruction in the art Lucy loved most, at the Americus Female Institute. An attempt was made to teach the young ladies French, religious history, geography, Use of the Globes, Belles Lettres,.
. . . They issued from Nile and Congo and Niger, they had come a long way to grow Ira’s corn for him and now to carry him in triumph amid it. They jigged in orange and black and shadows, with eyes agleam, they came pirouetting, the fierce barbaric rank of strong men in the lead. Now was the time for the planter to arise and step to the front of the gallery (as a general might have stood, as a Highland chief might have stood when pipes came screaming in the March Past). Silence chopping.
Grinning contemptuously under the wide-brimmed black hats they all affected, and when hymns were tuned up the Monger gang made meeowings and calf-blattings under cover of the music. Old Reverend Grosscup went tiptoeing toward them and was heard to say, If you boys can’t act civilized in true Christian fashion, we ask that you withdraw. They pretended not to have heard his quavering voice, but kept winking at one another; they planned fresh mischief. Eben Dolliver could watch his father’s face.