Prison Life in the Old Capitol and Reminiscences of the Civil War

by James J. Williamson

SONG.

Air—Villikins and His Dinah.

All persons confined in the Capitol jail

Must know that habeas corpus shall never avail

In taking them hence, for ’twas lately decreed

That laws are denied to all men of our creed.

Chorus

So let’s be contented, whatever may come,

We’ll live upon hope in the absence of rum;

And in water we’ll drink, when affected with drought,

A health to old Jeff and success to the South.

Now, this one advantage ’tis ours to claim—

Though prisoners in fact, yet proud of that name;

While others their statutes pull down from their shelves

We legally make other laws for ourselves.

Chorus

Abe Lincoln, full gorged with imperial power,

Destroying the work of long years in an hour,

Makes anarchy reign, heaping sin upon sin,

Whilst we are establishing order within.

Chorus

On the streets, in the halls where the multitude throng,

To speak certain things is essentially wrong,

But here we’re more free, be it spoken or sung;

There’s a lock on the door, but no lock on the tongue.

Chorus

Outside, if you drill with a stick for a gun,

You are called a vile Rebel, and treated as one;

But here we’ve a barrack in every room,

In lieu of a gun, we disport with a broom.

Chorus

We’re healthy within, but there’s danger without,

For wherever you turn there’s a gun at your snout,

But here we’re as safe as a bug in a rug,

And the adage is false, “There’s death in a jug.”

Chorus

But heed not the twaddle of tyrants and knaves;

Though they the laws make, they cannot make us slaves;

Unheeding the wrong and maintaining the right,

We’ll stick to our creed to the end of the fight.

Chorus

Old Capitol Prison, Washington, 1862.

This would be one feature of the program, with “Maryland, My Maryland,” “Dixie,” “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” and a song, the chorus of which ran—“Ain’t You Glad You’re Out of the Wilderness?” but which a few months later was changed to “Ol’ Joe Hooker, Come Out of the Wilderness.”

When the singing would lag a little, Fax Minor, on whom the sound of music or singing caused a contraction and extension of the muscles, producing an effect like pulling the strings of a supple-jack, would jump up and execute a regular plantation break-down.

Some of our room-mates were gifted with good voices, which, though untrained or uncultivated, were pleasing to the ear, and, combined with the sentiment of the songs, had an inspiring effect on the listeners, like the strains of martial music on the lagging footsteps of the marching soldier.

One day as they were singing “Maryland, My Maryland,” Gus Williams, getting up from a bench near the stove, where he sat whittling a stick, advanced toward the group of singers and said:

“You boys sing that well, but I’ve heard ‘My Maryland’ sung here in the old building in a way that would make you feel like jumping out of the window and swimming across the Potomac. When Belle Boyd was here I was on the same floor. She would sing that song as if her very soul was in every word she uttered. It used to bring a lump up in my throat every time I heard it. It seemed like my heart was ready to jump out—as if I could put my finger down and touch it. I’ve seen men, when she was singing, walk off to one side and pull out their handkerchiefs and wipe their eyes, for fear some one would see them doing the baby act.

“She left soon after I came in. I was glad to know that she was released, but we all missed her. Even some of the Yankees, although they would not show it while she was here; but when she was sent away they missed her sweet singing—Rebel songs though they were. One of them told me it made him feel sad to hear her sing.

“And on Sundays, when there was preaching down in the yard, she would be allowed to come down and sit near the preacher. If you could only have seen how the fellows would try to get near her as she passed. And if she gave them a look or a smile, it did them more good than the preaching. You wouldn’t hear a cuss word from any of them for a week, even if one of the guards would swear at them or threaten them.”[D]

Friday, Feb. 13.—George Hammett, Davis, Gardner and George were released this afternoon upon taking the oath.

Saturday, Feb. 14.—A number of prisoners were brought in to-day. There are said to be 450 prisoners here at present, the greater portion of them being citizens.

Last night I was awakened by hearing an unusual commotion throughout the building. This morning there were a number of prisoners in the guard house. It is said that Captain Darling and George Adreon escaped. The sentinel was bribed, and a greater number would have escaped but for the indiscretion of the prisoners. They were so jubilant at the prospect of getting out, that they had some whiskey sneaked into the room and treated the sentinel. They made him drunk, so that he had to be taken off post, and he was put in the guard house. The new man being ignorant of the deal made with his comrade, the whole scheme failed. There is a standing order to sentinels on each floor to allow not more than two men to leave their rooms at a time. Trusting to their arrangement with the sentry, the prisoners who were in the plot would leave singly on this night, at slight intervals, until the guards, seeing so many more going out than the rules permitted, became suspicious and reported their suspicions. Consequently, as each prisoner left his room and went down stairs, he was quietly taken to the guard house, until the number of absentees from the rooms became so numerous the prisoners themselves grew suspicious, and the exodus was stopped.

It is an easy matter to get whiskey here. A bright young contraband, whose ebony face gives proof of the purity of his Congo blood, comes into our room every morning to remove the ashes and refuse. For a trifling sum Charlie will bring in two flasks of whiskey in the breast pockets of his coat, and afterward take back the empty flasks. Many of the prison guards are ready to do the same when asked.

Mr. James Fullerton came to see me to-day. He told me my wife went to the Provost-Marshal’s office last Tuesday and asked for a pass to visit me, but was refused.

Sunday, Feb. 15.—Stephen R. Mount, of Loudoun County, Virginia, aged sixty-eight, was put in our room to-day. There is another old gentleman here, named Randolph, aged seventy-five. He is also from Virginia.

An order was issued to-day that no more singing of Rebel songs will be tolerated. Also, that any prisoner bowing or otherwise noticing persons passing on the street, will be put in the guard house.

There are no printed rules for our guidance placed where they can be seen, and no official instructions as to how we are to act, or to whom we shall make known our necessities. A knowledge can only be gained from conversing with prisoners who have been a long time in the prison, or from actual observation, or from seeing punishment inflicted upon some poor wretch for a violation of an unwritten law. One can only do as you see others do, and if you blindly follow a willful or ignorant transgressor, you must take the punishment of a guilty person.

The daily routine may be summed up as follows:

The first call in the morning is when the door is thrown open and breakfast announced. All in the room then scamper down to the yard and into the mess-room already described.

About nine o’clock the door is again opened and a voice shouts in tones loud enough to be heard by all, “Sick Call.” Then all who have need of medicine or treatment go to the hospital, located in a two-story wooden building, an extension of the main building, and reached by a flight of steps leading up from the prison yard.

The next sensation is the dinner call. This gives the prisoners a half-hour, most of which, if not all, is spent in the yard. The yard is about one hundred feet square, partly paved with bricks or cobble-stones.[E] On the side of this yard, extending from this wooden building occupied as sutler’s shop, mess-room and hospital, and running back to the gate, is a one-story stone building in which are the cook house, guard house and wash house. Back of this building are the sinks used by the prisoners. These are wide trenches with a long wooden rail in front, after the manner of the trenches in the camps, except that when those in the camps become offensive they are filled in with earth and new ones dug. The presence of these sinks, used for months by several hundred men, it may be safely said, did not contribute to the beauty of the scenery or add sweetness to the tainted air. Any further description, I think, is better left to the imagination than expressed in words.

STOVE WHICH STOOD IN CENTER OF ROOM 16

After returning to our rooms there is another lull until supper-time, when we enjoy the freedom of the prison yard until it is rudely broken into by the gruff voice of the sergeant: “Time’s up. Go to your rooms.”

Next comes the roll-call, when the prisoners are lined up in their respective rooms to answer to their names as called.

Lastly, taps is sounded, by the guard marching through the halls and calling out at the doors of the rooms: “Lights out.” At this warning cry every light must be extinguished, and the prisoners are compelled to go to their bunks or sit in the dark. And here is where our rusty fat pork, saved by us from the mess-room table, is made do good service.

One night we sat around the stove, with a quantity of this over-rich food, contributed by the inmates of our room, one of whom sat in front of the stove and threw in piece by piece as it burned away. This shed a light over the room, and it was seen by the sentry pacing his beat in front of the building. He called out “Corporal of the guard, Post No. 1.”

In a few minutes the sound of approaching footsteps was heard in the hall outside, the door was thrown open and a corporal with guard entered.

“What are you doing with a light here?” said he.

“We have no light here,” was the reply.

“You have,” said the corporal, “we can see it plainly from the street.”

“Oh, that is only a piece of fat meat we threw in the stove.”

The corporal, although he saw the flickering remains through the open stove door, marched away with an incredulous and unsatisfied air.

Tuesday, Feb. 17.—Captain Parker called me down this afternoon. He told me he had received a letter from Mr. James Fullerton, stating that my wife was ill, and my eldest child very ill with dropsy after scarlet fever. He said that under the circumstances he would grant me a parole for one day only, to see them. I was accordingly released to report to Superintendent Wood at five o’clock to-morrow. On reaching home, I found my son Henry lying ill, delirious, and so changed I could scarcely recognize him.

Wednesday, Feb. 18.—At Home.—Mrs. Fullerton called this morning. She said she had been to the prison and had carried a few things, including my wife’s picture. The officer who received them said he would give them to me. She then handed him a note from my mother, stating that my wife was recovering from her illness and was able to go about the house. When requested to hand me this the officer said: “There can be no communication, unless it goes through the Provost-Marshal’s office.” So I had been denied this slight gratification, of knowing that my wife, whom I left suffering from an attack of typhus fever, was improving in health. This afternoon I went to prison and reported myself to Captain Higgins. I told him my child was very ill; that the disease was just at its height and his recovery doubtful. That under the circumstances I would like to have my parole extended for a short time, until I saw how the disease would likely terminate. He told me he would see Captain Parker. After hearing my request, Parker asked if I could get a certificate to the effect that my child was dangerously ill. Told him I could. He said: “If you will bring me such certificate from the attending physician, I will grant you a parole until Friday, at 5 P.M.” He added, “As you are living in this city and refuse to take the oath, it proves that your sympathy is with the South.” After leaving the prison I went to the office of Dr. Toner and procured the required certificate.

Thursday, Feb. 19.—This morning went to headquarters of Military Governor, and gave the certificate to Captain Parker, according to agreement.

From a conversation which I overheard while standing on the steps at the Provost-Marshal’s office, one can get a faint idea of the state of society now existing under the infamous spy system. A sergeant and corporal were standing near the doorway, conversing with a citizen:

Sergeant—You know he is a Secessionist?

Citizen—Yes.

Sergeant—Then go in and report him.

Citizen (smiling and shrugging his shoulders)—I don’t like—

Corporal—You have gone too far now; you must go in and report him.

Sergeant—Your name won’t appear at all in this.

The citizen still appeared to hesitate, but the two were still urging him when I passed on.

Fostered by partisan hatred or private malice, a system of espionage has been established which is felt on every side. Servants and employees are tampered with, witnesses are bought or threatened. Actions or expressions, in themselves perfectly innocent, are perverted and by misconstruction made to assume an air of treason or disloyalty. In this way persons are often arrested and imprisoned for months without trial or without even knowing the nature of the charge against them or the name of their accuser.

Friday, Feb. 20.—Henry passed a very uneasy night. The doctor says he is not so well this morning as yesterday; still, he says he has hopes of saving him. I hope for the best, yet fear the worst. This afternoon, between four and five o’clock, reported myself at the Old Capitol. After having my valise searched, I retired to my room, where I found a number of prisoners in addition to those I left when I went out on parole.

Captain Phillips was released from guard house this afternoon. A few days ago he asked Wood to give him a parole. Wood refused, and said no paroles would be granted. Phillips said a man who was confined under similar circumstances to himself had been given a parole on the day his vessel was to be sold. Soon after this interview I saw Phillips and Wood running around the yard, both much excited. Phillips said, “Come on; I will show you the man.” Wood said, “Go on; I’ll prove either you or him to be a liar.” When Phillips found the man, Wood was not to be found.

A day or two after this, Phillips was going into the office to pay the clerk, Mr. Drew, for a pair of spectacles, when Wood, who was in the office at the time, called out to him in a rough manner, and Phillips went out and closed the door. When he got to his room a guard came up and took him to the guard house, from which he was only released to-day. Wood said he had not intended to keep him there so long, but had forgotten him.

How faithfully does history repeat itself. How many unfortunates have been arrested, thrown into prison, and their accusers having accomplished their object in placing them in durance, cared no more about them, and their jailers were totally indifferent in the matter. Wood said the principal cause for his punishment was the indifference with which Phillips appeared to treat him.

Sunday, Feb. 22.—I was told there are over five hundred prisoners here now. When those in our room were counted last night there were found to be thirty-four. A number of fresh fish have been brought in since my return.

Sixty-two prisoners were brought here from Camp Chase. Some have been imprisoned for fifteen months. About twenty of them have no charge against them except refusal to take the oath.

Goldsmith said that while he was in the guard house a Union soldier was put in who was drunk and noisy, and the lieutenant came in, slapped him in the face and kicked him several times.

One of my fellow-prisoners is an old gentleman from Virginia, named John B. Hunter. He is over sixty years of age. He is detained without any charge whatever, but as a hostage for a man named Stiles, who has made himself notorious as a spy and detective, and by acting as guide in piloting raiding parties through Virginia. Mr. Hunter was called down last night by Captain Parker, who told him information had been received that Stiles had been released, and that he, too, would be released. That he could leave the prison then or wait until to-day. He has been in prison forty-two days altogether, and his health is now very poor.

Another of my room-mates is John Carr, of Fauquier County, Va.; he is a widower, who was about to be married. As he was journeying on to the home of his intended bride, where all the preparations had been made for the approaching nuptials, he was rudely seized by a scouting party and landed here in the Old Capitol. He has been unfortunate in his matrimonial ventures. He was married to his second wife a few years before the war, and started on a bridal tour through some of the Western States. It happened that the cholera was raging at the time in some parts of the West, and while going down the Mississippi River on a steamboat his wife was suddenly taken ill with cholera and died on the boat. The passengers became frightened and put him ashore with the dead body of his wife at a desolate spot on the banks of the river, at night and in a heavy storm. He was compelled to remain there through the long, dreary night, sitting beside the corpse, holding a blanket over it to protect it from the rain, and keep the wind from blowing away the covering. The splash of the water, the puffing and snorting of the boats on the river, with the shrill blast of their whistles or the bellowing of their signals in passing each other, found an echo in the moaning and shrieking of the angry wind. These mingled sounds to the sad watcher in his lonely vigil seemed a requiem for the dead.

Tuesday, Feb. 24.—Three of the prisoners brought in last Saturday were Italians—Peter Eorio, Raphael Rinaldi and Marco Comastri. They appear to be very intelligent men, and I have derived much pleasure from conversing with them. They have been in this country about three years. Living in the South, and wishing to return to their native country, they asked and received permission from the Confederate authorities to pass through the lines; having first procured certificates to the effect that they were citizens of Italy and as to their intentions. On their arrival in Washington they were arrested and brought to this place.

To-day the Commission appointed to try political prisoners commenced their sittings.

Fourteen prisoners were sent off to-day upon taking the oath. Quite a number have been released lately by so doing. Many of them say they do not regard the oath—that it is unconstitutional, unlawful, and not in any sense binding.[F]

Wednesday, Feb. 25.—This morning one of the negroes in the breakfast room accused a prisoner of taking two pieces of bread instead of one, which is supposed to be one man’s portion. Although the man denied having done so, the negro persisted in saying he had, and the man was put in the guard house.

Peter and John Flaherty were called before Parker. They are British subjects and are provided with British protection. They had been at work for some time in Richmond, and were on their way North when arrested. Parker asked them why they left Richmond. “Thinking to do better, sir,” promptly replied Peter. They were released with the injunction to leave the city within forty-eight hours.

Thursday, Feb. 26.—Three more prisoners brought into our room—twenty-nine now in all. Some Yankee sutlers were brought in lately. They are very bitter in denouncing the Federal Government.

It is rumored an attempt will be made by some of the prisoners to escape. The matter was talked over to-day in our room. Many plans were suggested as being feasible and attended with but little danger. One said it would be an easy matter, when we were out in the yard, and the wagon came in to deliver bread, for the prisoners to make a rush for the gate, and before the gate could be closed quite a number could get out.

“But the guards would fire on us, and some of us would be killed,” said Fax Minor.

“Of course,” was the reply, “somebody might be shot—perhaps killed. We must expect that. But many would get away safely.”

“Yes, that is all true,” returned Fax; “but just suppose there was only one killed, and that one was poor Fax—what then?”

A noticeable character in the prison yard at one time during the half-hour allowed for recreation was a Hebrew named Fleggenheimer. He was captured while attempting to run the blockade on the Potomac, and his goods confiscated. Like Rachel of old, he would not be comforted, but was continually bewailing his loss. One of my room-mates, John Pentz, of Baltimore, finding that sympathy only added fuel to the fire of his distress, sought to divert his thoughts into another channel by bantering him.

“Oh, Sledgehammer” (as Pentz was accustomed to call him), “don’t worry; you’ll soon be out of this place, and it won’t take you long to make up what you lost.”

“Ah, but, Mr. Benty, I lose more ash five t’ousand dollars.”

“Well, you can get that back in the profit of one good trip.”

“And den it vash all borrowed monish.”

“Then that is so much the better—you won’t lose anything.”

“Oh, you don’t know all, Mr. Benty. My poor wife, she yust git a leetle baby, unt ven she hear dis it makes her right down stone dead.”

From conversations had with Western prisoners, I judge there is more intense bitterness of feeling in the West, particularly in Missouri and Kentucky, than in the Eastern border section. One old Missourian in our room said he was from Schuyler County, and had been in prison since the 12th of August. That one of the prisoners in the Court House, named Ford, was shot with a pistol by one of the guards.

He said the Union men were called “Sheepskins,” and they perpetrated the most villainous outrages. That on one occasion a party arrested a man, and while carrying him through the village, some little boys playing marbles, cried out: “Here comes the militia,” and ran away. One of the “Sheepskins” fired into the crowd of children and killed a boy twelve years old. They picked the child up, carried him to his home, and threw him in the door to his mother, saying: “Here is one we’ve kept from growing up to be a damned Secesh.”

Another man told me he was in prison with some of the men who were executed by General McNeil. He said he was playing cards with Wade when he was called out. Wade put down his cards, saying he knew he was called out to be killed. There was among the doomed men one old man with a large and helpless family. A brave young hero volunteered to take the old man’s place, saying he had none to leave behind to regret him or feel the loss. He was accepted. His savage executioners, dumb to this noble exhibition of heroism and self-sacrifice, sent him off on his coffin with the others.

I afterward learned the facts concerning this brutal tragedy:

In the Fall of 1862, the Confederates, under Colonel James Porter, captured the town of Palmyra, and during their occupancy a man named Andrew Allsman, an ex-soldier of the Third Missouri Cavalry (said to have been a spy), disappeared.

After the Confederates evacuated the town and McNeil returned, he learned of the abduction of Allsman, and thereupon issued a notice, that unless Allsman was returned within ten days he would retaliate upon the Rebel prisoners then in his hands. At the expiration of the ten days, ten prisoners then in his custody: Willis Baker, Thomas Humston, Morgan Bixler, and John Y. McPheeters, of Lewis County; Herbert Hutson, John M. Wade and Marion Lair, of Ralls County; Captain Thomas A. Sidner, Monroe County; Eleazer Lake, Scotland County, and Hiram Smith, Knox County, were selected—ten men, to give up their lives for one man missing.

Three Government wagons drove to the jail, with ten rough board coffins. The condemned men were taken from the prison, seated upon their coffins in the wagons, and driven to the place of execution—the Fair Ground. There the coffins were arranged in a row, six or eight feet apart. Thirty soldiers of the Second Missouri State Militia were drawn up in line facing the coffins. The ten men knelt upon the grass between the coffins. A prayer was offered up by Rev. R. M. Rhoades, and the prisoners each took his seat upon the foot of his coffin. Two accepted bandages; the others refused. The officer in command then stepped forward and gave the command: “Ready—aim—fire!” Two of the prisoners fell backward upon their coffins, dead. Captain Sidner sprang forward and fell with his face to the soldiers, and died immediately. He had requested the soldiers to aim at his heart. The other seven were not killed, and the reserves were called and put an end to their lives with their revolvers.

Among the Camp Chase prisoners are three little boys, their ages ranging from ten to fourteen. I saw one in the yard to-day. The men called him “John Morgan’s Orderly.” He was dressed in gray and seemed a shrewd, bright little fellow. He told me he was fourteen years of age. That he had been with John Morgan, and was captured while carrying a letter from General John C. Breckenridge to General John Morgan. He said he had been in prison thirteen months.

The second boy was held on charges similar to the one first mentioned. The third, and youngest, says he does not know why he was arrested, or why he was brought here.

Friday, Feb. 27.—Boyd Barrett and others, ill with smallpox, were removed in ambulances to-day.

Messrs. Ayre, Carr, and Brawner were called to-day and the oath offered them. They refused to take it and were marked for exchange.

It is said one of the prison officials was going around the yard last night, dressed in Confederate uniform, endeavoring, by offering bribes, to test the fidelity of the guards.

Saturday, Feb. 28.—I slept but little last night. Some prisoners who were put in the room were very noisy, and I was cold. I had one sheet and one blanket, and I had to take my overcoat for a covering. When I got warmed up, the mice became lively and commenced a game of tag. They appear to think it fine fun chasing one another under the board pillow at my head, and then running over my bunk and crawling about through the folds of my blanket. When I shake them off they scamper away, only to return when they see I am quiet again.

There is also a large force of bedbugs in the room, and they send out detachments and raiding parties to all the different bunks, and draw their full supply of rations from the occupants. Sometimes we get together and have a round-up, and a promiscuous slaughter, regardless of age or sex. But they must recruit from the other side, like the Yankee army, as we can notice no diminution in the forces. I suppose, like the poor, we will always have them with us.

Owing to the dirty and overcrowded condition of the building, we have another pest in the shape of an insect, smaller than the one just mentioned, but equally bloodthirsty, who makes his presence felt, and has reduced us to such a condition that we have to scratch for a living.

This morning, while standing near the window, I saw two little boys, ten or twelve years of age, standing on the street corner, opposite the prison. They were looking down the street and did not hear the guard calling to them to leave the corner. Presently a corporal was sent over and the children, now in the act of moving on, were arrested and brought into the prison. I stood at the window for some time, but I did not see them pass out.

Six prisoners brought into our room to-day. Thirty-seven now in the room, with bunks for twenty-one; the balance sleep on the floor as best they can. At night the floor is completely taken up by sleeping men, so we can only walk the floor by stepping over them. They roll themselves in their blankets and go to sleep.

Frank Thornton released on parole to-day. John Pentz went out at night.

A man in Room 15 threw a piece of bread out of the window into the street. In consequence of this, all the inmates of the room, twenty-eight in number, were confined to the room during the half-hour usually allowed for recreation, and put on bread and water diet—two pieces of bread being allowed them daily.

Monday, March 2.—Commission in session to-day.

The surgeon came in and made inquiries as to the number in our room, etc. Thirty-nine in room—beds for twenty-one. Call for all who desire to be vaccinated to come into the hospital.

In the dull uniformity of prison life every trifling event which breaks the monotony and diverts the attention, for the time, from the unpleasant reality of our situation is seized upon and becomes a subject of conversation. To-day a drove of mules was passing the prison on their way to some of the camps or corrals, and this brought out a number of stories illustrating peculiar traits or features of that useful and much-abused creature—the mule.

“When the Confederate army was encamped at Manassas,” said Bennett, “after the battle of Bull Run, the mules, being fastened to the wagons by their halters, after eating their supply of provender, would start in, biting and chewing the feed-boxes and wagon bodies. They were not satisfied with the quantity of long-feed that was dealt out to them and sought to make good the deficiency by chewing up the wagons. To prevent the total demolition of wagons, details of men were sent out daily to cut and bring in loads of hoop-poles for belly-timber, as Bennett termed it. These were spread out before the mules who no doubt found the wood in its crude state as appetizing as when fashioned into wagons or feed-boxes.”

“An old friend of mine, Dr. Green,” said John Carr, “was at one time induced to purchase a lot of mules. They were sold at a sacrifice, and knowing there was a constant demand for mules in army circles, he flattered himself that he had been cut out for a sharp trader, but had always before that time missed his opportunity; that he had made a good investment, and now having the long-delayed opportunity, he would surely get all there was in it. So when he had paid his money he patted himself on the back—figuratively—in a patronizing manner and turned a round dozen well-conditioned mules into his pasture.

“In this field where he had put the mules his riding-horse was accustomed to graze. A close intimacy sprang up between the mules and the horse. On Sunday, when Dr. Green brought up his horse in order to attend service at the village church, he noticed a commotion among the mules, but paid no further attention to them.

“While riding to church with his wife, however, he heard a noise on the road behind them, a tramping of hoofs, with a nickering and braying. Soon the mules came in sight, frisking about and apparently delighted to overtake their newly-found friend and comrade, the horse. They refused to be sent back, and the Doctor and his wife rode into town to church at the head of a drove of mules.”

Tuesday, March 3.—Last night about midnight I was awakened by a noise and great commotion in the building. A man in the adjoining room cried out lustily, “Fire! Fire!” Then there was a knocking at the doors. The flames were breaking out through a board partition which cuts off a portion of our room, making an entry to the adjoining room. The fire had not gained much headway, however, and a little water soon extinguished it. For a time there was great confusion and excitement. The guard at the door, as soon as he was aware of the fact, cried out “Corporal of the guard, Post No. 5—Fire!” Then the word was passed from sentinel to sentinel, until it rang through the building. Men were jumping out of their bunks, hastily putting on their clothes, some cursing, calling for things they were unable to find—“Where’s my pants?” “Where’s my boots?” In the confusion one man would grab up an article belonging to another—often a misfit. I lay quietly in my bunk for a while. I felt there could be little danger from fire occurring in the rooms occupied by either the prisoners or guards; for if by any mischance a fire should break out, it would soon be discovered and quickly extinguished. Or, if in the outhouse or kitchen, they, being small buildings, the fire could be put out before it communicated to the main building—the prison itself.

At the time of the greatest excitement one man said: “Look out of the window and see the light. The building is on fire.” When this light was found to proceed from the rising moon, it had a quieting effect on the panic. A sergeant came in with a light and searched around to find out how the fire originated. After this a lieutenant with a few privates came in under arms, and examined thoroughly and questioned, but no one appeared to know how it started. If the fire had progressed to any great extent before discovery, no doubt many of the prisoners would have escaped as it would have been impossible for the guards to have kept in check the large number of prisoners now in the building.

Wednesday, March 4.—Congress adjourned to-day. From the prison window we saw the flag lowered.

At night Superintendent Wood came to the door and called me out of the room. He walked over and sat at the foot of the stairs in the big hall leading to the floor above, and told me to sit down beside him. He asked me where I belonged. I said:

“I am a citizen of Washington. This is my home.”

“What were you doing South?” asked Wood.

“Working at my business.”

“Where did you work?”

“At Ritchie & Dunnavant’s.”

“What kind of work was done there?”

“They did the State printing and a portion of the Government work.”

“When did you go South?”

“Just before the commencement of hostilities.”

“How did you get back?”

“I came across the Potomac River.”

“You didn’t bring any letters, or anything of that kind?”

“No; I brought nothing but my wife and children.”

“Are you willing to take an oath to support the Government?”

“No, sir.”

“Then we will have to send you back South.”

I said, “Mr. Wood, I am in your hands, a prisoner, and powerless to resist. I am obliged to submit to whatever disposition you may make of me.”

“A couple of gentlemen called to see me about you,” said Mr. Wood, “and I am anxious to do all I can for you. You know that this city is in a special manner under the care and jurisdiction of the President and Congress, and if you are a citizen of this place you ought to submit to the law.”

“But, Mr. Wood,” said I, “there is no law to compel me to take this oath.”

“You violated the law when you crossed the Potomac.”

“In what manner?”

“In running the blockade.”

“This city is my home. I was South with my family. How could I get home with them without crossing the Potomac. What law did I violate?”

“I have no time to spare,” said Mr. Wood, as he arose and walked away, and I went back to my room.

One more prisoner brought into our room—thirty-seven now in.

Thursday, March 5.—Boyd Barrett returned. He had a slight attack of varioloid. Haskins, of South Carolina, who was taken away with him, died of smallpox. Another of the party is in a fair way of recovery.

At night about one hundred and fifty Union soldiers were brought in; mostly for desertion and insubordination. They are very bitter in their denunciation of the Government. They seem to care but little for the guards, and do pretty much as they please. Whether from fear or sympathy, the guards appear indifferent to their words or behavior. Some of the soldiers say they “enlisted to fight for the Union and not for the nigger.” One said, “If they bring up all the men who are dissatisfied, the Government will have to build more prisons.”

Friday, March 6.—My wife came to see me. A corporal came up and escorted me down to the reception room. On entering the room we were seated in chairs placed opposite each other, and at a distance of about three or four feet apart. Then a little puppy, who acts as a clerk or detective, took his seat in a chair which he drew up in front of, and between the chairs occupied by myself and wife; where he could not fail to hear every word that passed. Then he threw himself back in his chair with an air of self-importance, as if to say, “Now you can go on, with my permission.” He interrupted our conversation several times by volunteering remarks altogether uncalled for. My wife said that my mother and she were worried about me at home, as they heard I would be sent away. Hearing this the fellow turned to a lieutenant who was in the room, and asked in a tone which could be heard across the room:

“Can you give me the number and names of the prisoners in Rooms 15 and 16, as they are about to be sent away?”

He knew I was in Room 16, and thought to annoy us by asking this question. At the end of fifteen minutes our conversation was abruptly brought to an end. My wife was compelled to take the oath before she was allowed to see me.

She told me that my son Henry had taken a change for the better within an hour after I left him, at the expiration of my parole, and, knowing I would be anxious to hear about him, they sent me a message to that effect immediately. Two weeks have elapsed, but the message has never been delivered.

Young Thomas Hurst was called down to see his sister directly after my wife left, and he told me he had the same experience as we had, and the same remark was made in the presence of his sister as that used to annoy my wife.

Three Federal soldiers confined here attempted to escape by way of the cellar. Two succeeded and one was caught.

Sunday, March 8.—About 1:30 P.M., one hundred and fifty prisoners were brought in. They came from St. Louis direct; they are mostly soldiers. They have been in prison—some one, others three and five months. With regard to the soldiers this is a violation of the cartel by the United States authorities. The cartel of exchange provides that prisoners of war be discharged on parole within ten days after capture. These expect to be exchanged about the 16th of this month. They were brought through Baltimore, arriving in this city last night, and were crowded in a place which, from the description given, I judge to be the Central Guard House. They say that they were put into rooms where they were obliged to pass the night in a standing posture, as there was not room enough to lie down. After being brought here they were kept standing in the damp yard (part of the time it was raining), until after ten o’clock at night, when they were removed to the adjoining houses (Duff Green’s Row), Carroll Prison.

Two men, Wesley Phillips and Mitchell, were released to-day. They were captains of schooners engaged in carrying sutlers’ stores to the Army of the Potomac. They were Baltimoreans and very fine men.

Monday, March 9.—Fine day. After a rain the water drips from the window cornices or eaves of the roof, to the ground, sometimes dropping over the doorway. As some of the guards were on the doorstep they caught the drops and said the men in our room were spitting out of the window. A corporal was sent to the room and although the men explained the matter to him—said they had not spit out, and called his attention to the falling drops, the window was shut down and we are now forced to remain in this close room, with no ventilation and the breaths of thirty-seven men poisoning the air. Our keepers appear to take pleasure in annoying and persecuting those in their power, knowing they can do so without fear or resistance or retaliation.

A man who either drunk or crazy, passing on the opposite side of the street, looked up at the window and seeing the crowd of prisoners, laughed and waved his hat. The officer standing at the door said to the sentry, “You had better bring that fellow in, anyhow.” He was accordingly brought in.

There is a man in Room 16, named Armand. He claims to be from Louisiana. He is of very dark complexion, with black hair, short black beard and mustache. He always wears a blue uniform, but I never saw him with a hat, either indoors or out. He is looked upon with suspicion and shunned by all. By many he is thought to be a spy. If he goes out of the room for any purpose whatever, the other prisoners exchange knowing glances, and shake their heads in a manner indicating distrust. Some do not hesitate to say: “He is now going down to make his report to Wood.” Every act is observed and commented on.

No one cares to be seen speaking to him or noticing him. If he approaches one with a pleasing expression on his face, as if about to speak, the person so approached will turn from him with a look of contempt, or, if addressed, return a half-hearted reply, and with a stealthy look around, as if to see if anyone observed him, shy off in a direction opposite that in which Armand appears to be going. Even the Yankee prisoners are shown more consideration, and more regard paid to their wants and advances. Men who occasionally bestow upon him a look of pity—such as they would give to a poor friendless dog—will quickly turn away if he shows a disposition to return a grateful acknowledgment.

Although I have no means of ascertaining whether this treatment is deserved, or if he is unjustly suspected, yet I cannot shut out from my breast a feeling of pity for the poor fellow.

At night, when all others were soundly sleeping in their bunks, I have often watched him as he paced the floor or stood at the window, his hands folded behind him, looking out into the deserted street, as lonely and forsaken as himself, singing, or rather crooning in a low, mournful, but not unmusical tone:

“When the sad, chilly winds of December,

Stole my flowers, my companions, from me.”

Tuesday, March 10.—Eorio, Comastro and Rinaldi, the three Italians I have already mentioned, were called before the Colonel acting in place of Parker, who is sick.

He questioned them in regard to their arrest, etc. He told them there was no reason for keeping them and they would be released to-morrow. Eorio promised to see my wife and tell her what I could not write her with any certainty of its being delivered. This I learned afterward he did faithfully.

Old Mr. Love was again called before the colonel. He had a certificate from the prison surgeon, stating that he was ill. That the confinement was injuring him, and he should be discharged. The Colonel told him his case would have to go before the Commission.

One of the prison guards to-day snapped his gun twice at a man passing on horseback, but it missed fire each time.

Captain Thomas Phillips was released this afternoon.

Wednesday, March 11.—This morning as Keleher was looking from the window, singing:

“The niggers we will sell

And the Yankees send to hell,” etc.,

a little fussy lieutenant, named Thackery, came bristling up, saying, “I’ll send you to hell,” and as if intending to carry out his threat literally, rushed at Keleher with his arm outstretched to push or grasp him, but just before the hand touched him, Keleher stepped to one side and Thackery, unable to check or recover himself, went spinning halfway across the room. The men, none of whom have any love or good feeling for Thackery, laughed at his discomfiture, and this so irritated the crestfallen lieutenant that he had the guards take Keleher off to the guard house.

James Taylor and James Stant were called and took the oath not to attempt to run the blockade again. Aaron Lewis released.

Thursday, March 12.—Three more prisoners brought into our room last night. One belonged to Stuart’s Horse Artillery; the other two were citizens.

James Ewell released. Russell released; he had British protection. Frank Thornton, who had been out on parole, returned.

A man confined in the guard house knocked down a portion of the partition. He was taken out and tied up by the wrists to a tree. He broke the cords after a time and released himself. He was then removed, but I do not know what was done with him after.

Among my room-mates I have discovered an old schoolmate, Thomas Holbrook, of Baltimore. He and I were schoolboys together at a school kept by Martin J. Kerney, in a little one-story brick building, situated on Exeter Street, between Baltimore and Fayette, Baltimore City. Mr. Kerney was a graduate of Mount St. Mary’s College, Emmittsburg, Md. After giving up school teaching he entered into the practice of law and was afterward a member of the Maryland State Legislature. He was the author of a number of educational works, some of which are still used. Three of the Booth brothers—Edwin, the celebrated actor; John Wilkes, who shot Lincoln, and Joseph Adrian Booth, who afterward became a physician, and also John Sleeper Clarke, the comedian, who later on married Asia Booth, a sister of the Booth brothers, were all attending this school at the same time with us. Holbrook is quite a valuable addition to our company. He is exceedingly clever in handling playing cards and often amuses us with exhibitions of tricks, in which he displays remarkable dexterity. He thus helps us while away many a tedious hour. He was at one time in the Navy, and, like all seafaring men, is handy about the house. We all are glad when it is Tom’s day in the kitchen as cook for the mess. He will say, “Well, boys, what will it be to-day—lobscouse or skilligalee?”

He will take a ham-bone, from which most of the meat has been cut, and sitting down will patiently pick off with a pocket-knife every scrap of fat and lean, and with the addition of a few potatoes or other ingredients, will serve up quite a tasty little side dish for our table.

An old man who had been confined here for some time, was released a few days ago. He was bent with age, and very feeble and childish, so that when here he would often get lost in the building. After wandering about for some time he came back. He said he thought the war was over when he was sent off. That he was away from home; 84 years of age; with no place to go and no means of getting to his home. He begged to be taken back.

At night a sergeant came into the room with a list of names which he called over; my name being among the number. He asked each one if he wanted to go to Richmond. All those who are booked for Richmond are greatly elated at the prospect of their release from prison and a trip to Dixie. Whiskey was smuggled in and several of the fortunate ones were quite lively. Very little sleep to-night for anyone here.

Fitzhugh Carter, or as he was familiarly called “Chew Carter,” was a sprightly little fellow from Fauquier County, Virginia. Brought up on a farm and enjoying in his early life the companionship of the little darkies, he had acquired much of their quaint dialect and rollicking manners. On this night Chew had by some means got more than a fair share of the smuggled whiskey.

When the lieutenant came in for roll-call, it was the custom for the prisoners to form in one line, while the lieutenant with the guard would stand at the head, and as each man’s name was called he would step out, turn and face the line he had just left. This would be repeated until, when all the names were called, the new line would be formed opposite that formerly occupied by the first line.

As it was a difficult matter for poor Chew to preserve his equilibrium, his comrades endeavored to keep him steady on the perpendicular by bracing him on either side. All went well until it came his turn to answer. When the officer called “Fitzhugh Carter,” Chew stood erect, pushed his hat back from his forehead and snapped out “Yer, sah!” and lurched forward to the line opposite. The loud and jerky way he was answered appeared to strike the lieutenant, for he raised his head and looked to where the sound came from and then cast his eyes down again to his roll. Just at this moment Chew, apparently satisfied with the accomplishment of his little feat, looked toward the head of the line and observing the action of the lieutenant, said “Who de hell keers foh yo’ damn ol’ roll-call?”

The lieutenant heard the voice, but did not catch the words. He looked down the line. The men who stood on either side of Chew nudged him to keep quiet, and all looked so innocent of any wrong-doing that the officer evidently disbelieved his ears, if they carried a trace of the actual words uttered, for he proceeded with his roll-call without further interruption.

When the lieutenant left the room one of his comrades said:

“Chew, where did you get it all?”

“Jis’ had one drink,” replied Chew.

“Then you must have tapped a still-house,” said Ed. O’Brien, and he sung—

“The man that has good whiskey

And giveth his neighbor none,

Sha’n’t have any of my good whiskey

When his good whiskey is gone.”

“When—

“Now, altogether”—(and all took up the refrain):

“When his good whiskey is gone.”

There was one little incident during Chew’s sojourn in the Old Capitol which proved that the course of love does run smoothly sometimes—even love of whiskey. Chew was very thirsty, and was determined to quench that thirst. At “Sick Call,” he joined the throng who wended their way to the hospital.

“Oh, I’m so sick. I got sich cramps. Bin sick all night,” said Chew, as he entered the hospital, with one hand clutching a portion of his garments covering the part of his anatomy where cramps are supposed to locate, and the other pressed against his forehead.

“I’ll give you a dose of castor oil,” said the hospital steward.

“Oh,” said Chew, “I kaint take castoh oil. Nevah could take it.”

“I’ll fix it up so you won’t taste it.”

“It’s no use, I know. You’ll hav’ter give me somethin’ else.”

The steward poured a little whiskey in the bottom of a glass; then poured in the oil, which was quite stiff, and after that put whiskey on top. Chew took the glass and with a quick toss gulped down the whiskey before the oil had fairly started to flow, and handed the glass back, saying: “Take it quick. I’m afeerd I’ll throw it up”—at the same time making such grimaces that one would think he really had swallowed a nauseous dose.

“You haven’t taken any of the oil,” said the steward. “Here; drink it down.”

“Oh, I got a big mouthful, an’ I’m pow’ful sick.”

“I’ll put some more whiskey on top. Drink it quick and you won’t taste it.”

“I did drink it jis’ ez quick ez I could. I’ll try, but I know it won’t stay down.”

Taking the glass he tossed off the whiskey from the top, as before, and leaving the oil. The steward, now seeing through the trick, said: “You can take that now as it is, for I will not put another drop of whiskey in it.”

“Well,” said Chew, as he moved toward the door, “I dun told ye I couldn’t take castoh oil. I nevah could take it. I drink’t it quick ez I could. I kin take mos’ ennything better’n castoh oil.” He came back to his room where he told of the success of his scheme to his laughing companions.

Saturday, March 14.—Last night we got the daily papers—the first for several days. In the kitchen the cooks were at work nearly all night to have the rations ready for to-day. It was reported that the prisoners would leave about ten o’clock in the morning. All day the streets were filled with people eager for a glance at the Rebels. About 2 P.M., orders came to pack up, and about 4 P.M., they left the prison. Seventeen were taken from Room 16. Guards were placed in line along the sidewalks and in the Capitol grounds to keep back the crowd who had assembled to witness the departure. There were ambulances for the old, infirm, sick and wounded. The soldiers expected to leave to-day, but were left behind, with the exception of a few of the wounded.

Sunday, March 15.—It seems lonely to-day on account of the change—we miss so many familiar faces. It seems like a break in the family. Six more prisoners were put in our room, making twenty-one in all. There are two cases of smallpox in the next room.

Monday, March 16.—This morning the prisoners from Room 14, were crowded into our room while that room was being cleaned and whitewashed. There are twenty-one of them—some are broken out with smallpox.

Tuesday, March 17.—The men having smallpox, who were put in our room yesterday from Room 14 were to-day put in Room 18. If they are changed around a few more times the disease will be pretty well spread.

Two men, father and son, just brought in, were captured in a raid on the Potomac River. They are citizens. Their families are left without support or protection. The wife of one about being confined. Both men agreed to take the oath, but were told that as they would do so only on account of their situation they would not be released.

Volney Purcell, of Loudoun County, Virginia, was called to-day. Colonel Buell asked him what charges were against him. He replied he did not know. Purcell then asked Colonel Buell if he knew. Buell said he did not; there was nothing that he could see. Purcell then said: “Can you not release me, then?” “No,” said Buell, “I cannot.” Purcell said he thought it very strange that he should be brought from his home and kept here without any charge. Buell said it was strange, but his case would have to go before the Commission.

The prison yard is now in a very filthy condition. In rainy weather a great part of the space allowed the prisoners for exercise is covered with mud.

Wednesday, March 18.—I was called to-day by Colonel Buell. After questioning me regarding my arrest and imprisonment, he asked if I would take the oath.

“No, sir,” said I.

“What,” said he, “not willing to take the oath. I will acknowledge that my sympathies were enlisted in your behalf, but your refusal to take the oath puts an entirely different face on the matter. Had you told me that at first it might have saved this examination. In fact, you need not have left your room.”

“What charges are against me?” I asked. “If there are any, let me have a fair trial, as is my right, and if I am found guilty I am willing to suffer punishment, but if there are none you have no right to keep me here.”

“You have a very exalted opinion of the leniency of this Government, to think that after having been South you could be permitted to come back here and live without taking the oath.”

“No, sir,” said I, “I have no reason to have a very exalted opinion of the leniency of this Government. I had a right to go where I pleased before the blockade was established, and afterward had a right to come to my home where I belonged. I would not take that oath if it were offered to me at the South, and I do not see how any man can honestly take it with the intention of keeping it—‘to support, protect and defend a government or administration, now and hereafter, under any and all circumstances.’ How do I know what may be done hereafter?”

“I have taken that oath,” said Colonel Buell.

“That may be,” said I; “your views and mine differ on the subject of right and wrong.”

“Go back to your room, sir,” said Buell, and that terminated the interview.

Thursday, March 19.—An officer came up to-day with a paper and called over the names of seven in our room (Room 16)—Holbrook, Barnes, Littlepage, Keleher, Hoyle, Simmons and myself, and at night we were removed to Room 10. With the three prisoners already in the room there are ten of us now in a small room with two bunks and three small beds. Room 10 is on the north side of the building, third story, first window from the corner on First Street.

Friday, March 20.—The prisoners brought in numbered twenty-five instead of seventy-five as reported in the daily papers, where it is stated that they were taken in a fight with Stuart’s Cavalry, and that nothing but the saber was used. The prisoners say the Federals had artillery and used it.

Sunday, March 22.—Two elderly ladies, with a small child, were brought in from the street for saluting prisoners.

The prison officials are taking the names of soldiers to-day preparatory to exchange.

Monday, March 23.—It is said that the private soldiers will be sent off to-morrow. The officers will not go.

One of the prison guards, named Highland, who has always acted very kindly toward the prisoners while on post, and has made many friends among them, told me that two young ladies have been brought in and are now confined in Duff Green’s Row (Carroll Prison). He does not know who they are or what charges are against them. I understand a number of citizens from the neighborhood of Fairfax Court House have been arrested and brought in since Mosby’s raid and capture of General Stoughton, and these ladies may be of that number.[G]

Tuesday, March 24.—I have been suffering from severe cold for several days. Our room is small, close and ill-ventilated, and here we are kept penned up, with the exception of the time we are allowed out at meal times. Then we are out in a damp yard, which is so crowded when there is a large number of prisoners here (as at the present time,) that there is little room for comfortable exercise. In this yard we stand for about a half-hour, consequently nearly all of us are troubled with colds.

The prisoners booked for exchange are here yet, and it is hard to say when they will leave. It is reported that a number of prisoners are expected from Camp Chase or some other place, and that is a reason given for the delay.

Wednesday, March 25.—At night, a short time before roll-call, the clerk came up and inquired if all in the room were “State” prisoners. Receiving an affirmative reply, he asked who wanted to go to Dixie. Simmons, Barnes and myself answered “Here.”