MacKinlay Kantor

Language: English

Pages: 768

ISBN: 0147515378

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

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.

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Union River Ironclad 1861-65 (New Vanguard, Volume 56)

1858: Abraham Lincoln, Jefferson Davis, Robert E. Lee, Ulysses S. Grant and the War They Failed to See

Kentucky Rising: Democracy, Slavery, and Culture from the Early Republic to the Civil War
















axles screamed like caged demons above tortured boxes, loose metal banged and thudded, steam and smoke went coughing. May we get to Savannah, Sherman is loose, Sherman is loose, Sherman is coming. Sherman has left Atlanta, gulp, Sherman has left Atlanta, gulp, Sherman is loose, gasp, Sherman’s coming, gasp. In its soiled pink shawl the baby cried. Rustling in soiled silken skirts, the girl with brassy locks still squealed, boy soldiers said funny things to her. In late afternoon the train

knife keenly, surely. Uncle Dan. Who was that old man? That old soldier? What say, bubby? He played that thing yesterday. At the rally, before all them gentlemen started to make speeches. He played the fife— Oh. Name is Parker. Mr. Abijah Parker. Dwells over to Crow Corners. Crow Corners was a weary way: six miles. Merry Kinsman went there on that same day. He carried his grandfather’s fife. He walked through dust all the way to Church Hollow, then a farmer came along with a

come a weary way, crutches sticking in soft ground long the edge of this here marsh. Wonder how many other one-footed folks ever try to leg it through woods like these, crutches and all? . . . Chicken stealer! I’m going to spoil your guts. He had been waiting over two hours for the hawk to return to its perch, and now the hawk had come back, and Coral’s bony finger sank slowly against the trigger. Powder exploded, the boom hurt, the butt crunched into the youth’s shoulder. A

they were laying it on mighty thick, just for his benefit, because they knew he was Secesh. But finally they got taken away to a prison hospital, and then there were just Secesh alongside. That talk about the powder haunted Coral’s mind. Finally he asked an older man—a corporal, he was, from the Twelfth South Carolina, and also wounded at Gettysburg— Asked him if twere so. Hell, yes, said the South Carolinian. Once’t I was out on the field, a-seeking my young brother after we’d had a mean scrap,

He said that he needed buttons for a new jacket which his wife was remodeling from the uniform of a friend who’d died. Dolliver traded four gilt metal buttons for four whittled from bone, which the Rebel was then wearing; he thought that he could get the bone ones sewn on sooner or later. In appreciation the Confederate disappeared for the better part of an hour and then came back and whispered, Sonny, here’s some rations for you. He offered a little wooden pail containing thick stew—one of the

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