The Past Is Uncovered in This Moving Novel of a Civil War Prison Camp

Author Mary Frailey Calland was born in Elmira, the setting of her latest historical novel, Our Lesser Angels. The narrative centers around a widow of the Civil War whose husband died at the Elmira prison camp, leaving her with questions about his final days, and the meaning behind an engraved ring that was found in his pocket. After making the long journey from North Carolina to New York, her quest for answers leads her to pivotal encounters with other characters struggling to make sense of the war’s aftermath, including a Union guard and a Confederate prisoner, a female college student, and an Underground Railroad conductor who was tasked with overseeing the burials of deceased prisoners.

As their fates intertwine, these characters find themselves examining new perspectives and challenging long-held beliefs. Keep reading to get a sneak peek at the first chapter and find out why Kirkus Reviews called Our Lesser Angels “a stunning literary feat—intelligently composed and historically rigorous, the book leaves the reader haunted by the heights and depths of human nature. An enthralling work that captures the moral murkiness of war.” Then download the book to continue reading!

Chapter 1

Elmira, New York

May 1877

Reckoning

Elmira. To many of the passengers, the name above the doorway of the two-story red brick train station meant home; to others, it was a brief stop on the way to someplace else. To Lettie, the word was fearsome; haunting; a wound that would not heal. She stared out the window as the train stuttered to a stop alongside the platform. Is this where they brought him? she wondered. Did he walk those boards? Stare up at that same sign? Did he have any idea what would happen to him, here?

With trembling fingers, Lettie reached into her reticule and felt for the small glass bottle with its cork stopper. She could still hear the Widow Teblow’s voice, raw with grief and hatred despite the passage of years. 

“You go on up there and fetch them things of Archie’s. And when you do, take this with you.” She pressed two gold coins and a dirt filled vial into Lettie’s palm. “Them Yankees killed my poor Lewis in that godforsaken prison, just as sure as if they’d shot him. I might not be able to bring my boy home, but at least he can rest under some good North Carolina dirt.” 

Lettie felt a twinge of guilt about the white lie she’d told to loosen the old woman’s purse strings. There was no letter to Lettie from a Union colonel; no recently discovered personal effects from Lettie’s first husband to bring back home. But the fact was, without the Widow Teblow’s help, Lettie couldn’t have afforded to buy the train ticket. Or the pistol. 

Then there was Harley. Lettie doubted he would ever forgive her when he discovered the “Tomorrow-Money” stashed in the clay jar atop the chifforobe was gone. Harley was a good man, a good husband, and she didn’t mean to hurt him. But, what else could she do? She had to know. She just had to.

“May I help you with your bag, Ma’am?” A Negro porter dressed in the uniform of the New York, Lake Erie and Western Railroad Company stood in the aisle.

Lettie tightened her grip on the faded yellow satchel in her lap. 

“No!” She softened her tone. “No. But I will be needin’ a cab.” If her Southern accent elicited any emotion from the man, his face did not betray it.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Lettie gathered her belongings, straightened her stiff legs, and made her way down the narrow aisle of the train. At the doorway, she hesitated. 

The commotion at the railway station was the same as it had been at the station in Wilmington, North Carolina: rumpled but excited passengers being greeted by family and friends; businessmen rushing off to meetings; a few travelers, like her, tentative and disoriented. But the sharp nasal accents here were harsh on her ears. And, of course, the people looked more prosperous. They wore suits, dresses, and hats that were new and stylish, not the outdated and patched clothing of the defeated. And, though Lettie had layered on a jacket for warmth, she noticed the townspeople wore light fabrics and frocks and seemed oblivious to the chill in the air.

If it’s this cool in May, how must it have been here durin’ the harsh winter months? 

The porter reappeared.

“Ma’am. If you’ll come this way.” 

Lettie stepped down onto the stool the porter placed below the door of the passenger car to aid her descent. She followed him through the crowd, into and out of the small train station building, to a line of horse drawn hansom cabs waiting along the street. There, he stopped and turned to her. 

Oh, dear. Is he expectin’ a tip? Lettie reddened. But the porter merely touched the brim of his cap and melted back into the crowd. 

“Ma’am?” The first driver in line stood beside the open door of his carriage. He had a long thick scar on his temple and looked old enough to have fought in the war. 

Could he tell? Did he look at her and think, ‘Rebel? Traitor?’

He helped Lettie up into the passenger’s seat. 

“Where to, Ma’am?”

Lettie fumbled in her reticule for the scrap of paper on which the one-armed corporal at the Soldiers’ Home in Wilmington had scribbled the name of the only Elmira hotel he could remember. “Here it is. The Delevan House. On Railroad Street.”

The driver frowned. “Oh, no, Ma’am. You don’t want to go there. The Delevan House caters to a pretty rough crowd. Canal and railroad workers, mostly. A few traveling salesmen.” At the anxious look on Lettie’s face, he cleared his throat. “If I might make a suggestion?”

Lettie nodded.

“Mrs. Crown’s rooming house over on Columbia is quiet and clean. I think you’d find it more suitable.” Seeing her hesitation, he added, “Mrs. Crown is a good Christian woman. And her rooms are reasonably priced.”

Lettie wondered at the man’s definition of “reasonably.”

“All right, then,” she said with more assurance than she felt. “Take me to Mrs. Crown’s.”

As the carriage rattled through the streets of Elmira, Lettie took note of the mature trees, tidy homes, and well-appointed brick and stone stores and public buildings. The streets were busy but not overcrowded with carriages; the wooden sidewalks sprinkled with people off to some errand or appointment. And, between buildings, she caught a glimpse of a shimmering blue river to the south. She had to admit it was a pretty town, nestled in its green valley surrounded by tall rounded hills. 

But, then, why wouldn’t it be? Here, there were no buildings scarred by shot or shell, or pock marked by rifle fire; no structures reduced to rubble; no scorched vacant lots where once beautiful homes had stood. The town gave off the careless conceit of a place untouched by war.

Did he march by this same barbershop on his way to the prison camp? Did the townspeople watch him in silence, or did they yell and jeer? How frightened he must have been. How lonely.

Perhaps not lonely enough, she reminded herself. She squared her shoulders for the task ahead.

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