CHAPTER XX.
LIBBY AND CASTLE THUNDER.
In a few hours the train for which we waited arrived, and, passing onward without further noticeable events, long before morning we were in Richmond. There was the same intense and piercing cold which had been the main element in our suffering during this journey, but the sky was clear, and the rebel capital was distinctly seen in the sparkling moonlight. Everything looked grim and silent through the frosty air, and our teeth chattered fast and loud as we walked up a street of the sleeping city.
But the sergeant in command of our party did not know what to do with us. We hoped that some arrangements had been made for forwarding us directly to City Point, the place of exchange, so that we might that very day behold once more the stars and stripes. Yet we knew it was more probable that some detention would occur. The sergeant left us where we were while he started in search of the provost-marshal's office for instructions. We endeavored to shelter ourselves as best we could from the unbearable cold, which really threatened to prove fatal. Two pieces of ragged carpet were all the protection we had, in addition to our well-worn summer clothing, and we spread these over our heads as we huddled together in a solid mass in the angle of a brick wall. It was astonishing what a relief this afforded,—especially to those who were in the inside of the pack, where I happened to be. Here we shivered till the sergeant returned. He had found the headquarters of the prison department and conducted us thither.
Several streets were threaded in the moonlight, and when the office was reached, to add to our discomfort, it was destitute of fire. We stood in the empty room, looking at the grim portraits of rebel generals for an hour or two, until the marshal entered. He did not deign to speak to us, but broke open a sealed letter Sergeant White handed him and read aloud that ten disloyal Tennesseeans, four prisoners of war, and six engine thieves were hereby forwarded to Richmond by order of General Beauregard. The old name applied to us was no small shock. We had hoped that the title of "engine thieves" had been left behind, and that from henceforth we would be only called "prisoners of war." But we still trusted to be soon beyond their lines, and it would make no real difference what name they exchanged us under. The marshal then gave his orders, and we were conducted onward.
By this time it was daylight, December 7, 1862. Richmond looked still more cheerless in the cold morning than in the moonlight.
A long march through a number of streets brought us to the banks of the James River, where we halted in front of a most desolate-looking but very large brick building, situated near the water, and surrounded by a formidable circle of guards. This we supposed to be a prison, and soon learned that we were right. It was the famous Libby.
We entered, were conducted up a flight of steps, and reached a vast, open room, where we saw, almost for the first time since our capture, the old, familiar United States uniform, and were soon in the midst of over a hundred United States soldiers.
Our greeting at first was not very friendly, as we still wore the ragged clothing that had served us all summer; but as soon as our true character and history were known, a most cordial welcome was extended. There was only one small stove in the cold, empty room, around which part of the inmates were huddled. But with the characteristic courtesy and chivalry of the American soldier they cleared a place beside it for us. When I got warm I had leisure to look around.
The prospect was not very cheerful. Above, the floor had been taken out, leaving only the rafters between us and the roof. The window-sashes were all removed, and the cold wind whistled in from the river far more sharply than was consistent with comfort. Only a very scanty amount of fuel was allowed per day, and when that was exhausted they had to endure the freezing as best they could. The room was too large and open to be warmed throughout, and only a few could gather around the stove. The food was neither better nor worse than in other Southern prisons. Probably among all the prisoners, past and present, we were the only ones who were glad to be there. We regarded it as the sure pledge that our foes had not deceived us in their promise of an exchange, for these men, with whom we found ourselves, were actually going northward on the next truce-boat, which was daily expected. What mattered the cold wind or the bare floor with such a hope? We felt that we were no longer held as criminals, but were now in the common prison, with other soldiers, sure that the day of final release could not be far off. What wonder if our joy was too deep for words, and we could only turn it over in our minds, and tremble lest it should prove too delightful to be realized? The vision of freedom was so warm and vivid that all hardships were forgotten.
It was also very agreeable to talk with our comrades who had recently been captured, and get news of the progress of the war from a Federal stand-point. All the intelligence we had obtained for a long period came colored by Southern prejudices. In such communion with friends who were still confident of success in the great conflict the time passed rapidly.
But in the midst of our conversation, probably two hours after our entrance, an officer came to the door and called for the men who had just been admitted. Every one in the room but ourselves had taken the customary oath of parole, not to serve against the Confederacy until regularly exchanged; and supposing that omission in our case was about to be supplied, we gladly responded. The guard led us down to the entrance hall and called over our names. The four prisoners of war who had come from Atlanta with us were sent up-stairs again, while we were turned into an immense, but dark and low, room on the left of the stairway and the door locked behind us.
This was an awful moment. The full meaning of this separation burst upon us. We had been taken away from those who were to be exchanged and put in a room reserved for those regarded as criminals. We had been bitterly deceived, and our hopes at once fell from the highest heaven to which they had soared. A cold sense of misery and despair came over us. No wonder we looked at each other with pale, troubled countenances in the dim light, and asked questions none were prepared to solve.
But for one moment only were we thus crushed; the next we eagerly sought an avenue for hope. Perhaps they did not choose to recognize us as soldiers, and merely wished to exchange us as civilians,—a matter of perfect indifference to us, provided we were exchanged at all. We looked around to see what foundation we could build on for this pleasant conjecture.
Our present apartment contained even more prisoners than that up-stairs. They were not Northern soldiers, but were from all parts of the South. Some of them had been in prison ever since the war broke out, while a few had been arrested for supposed anti-slavery sentiments even before that event, and had lived in loathsome dungeons ever since. There had been a reign of terror in the Southern States preceding the war, as well as after the opening of the contest, which differed from the similar terror in the French revolution mainly in being less theatrical, and in striking humbler victims. A few Northern soldiers were here who had been put in for attempting to escape or for other breaches of prison discipline. Every man in the room had some kind of "a charge" against him. These facts were not calculated to strengthen hopes of exchange, or even weaken fears of further punishment.
In the mean time breakfast was brought in. It consisted of a small quantity of thin soup and a very scanty allowance of bread. To our delight the latter was made of wheat flour instead of corn-meal; and all the time we remained in Richmond we received good bread, though it was very deficient in quantity.
While we were talking with our new room-mates an officer again entered, and inquired for the men who had last come in. We responded promptly, for hope was again whispering in our hearts that probably there had been some mistake, which would now be rectified, and we be taken up-stairs again. But no such good fortune was in store,—rather the reverse. We were taken out of doors, where a guard waited to remove us to another prison. Again our hearts sank.
We crossed the street and marched westward, halting at a desolate-looking building, a few hundred yards from Libby, which we afterwards learned was "Castle Thunder," the far-famed Bastile of the South. Through a guarded door we entered a reception-room and waited for some time. In this interval a fierce-looking, black-whiskered, bustling individual, who I afterwards learned was Chillis, the prison commissary, came by and, looking at us, exclaimed,—
"Bridge-burners, are they? They ought to hang, every man of them; so ought everybody who does anything against the Confederacy." The latter proposition, with the change of one word, precisely suited my own feeling then.
Soon we were ordered up-stairs. Up we went, passing by a room filled with a howling and yelling multitude, who made such an outrageous racket that I was compelled to put my hands to my ears. A score of voices brawled with all the power of their lungs, "Fresh fish! Fresh fish!" The same exclamations greeted every new arrival.
Here we were searched, as usual, to see if we had anything contraband, or rather, anything worth taking from us. I had obtained a large knife in Atlanta, which I managed to slip up my sleeve, and by carefully turning my arm when they felt for concealed weapons, succeeded in keeping it out of the way.
The examination over, I supposed they would put us in the bedlam we had just passed. They did no better, for we were put into a stall beside the large room. I use the word "stall" advisedly, for no other is so appropriate. It was one of a range partitioned off from the room in which were the noisy miscreants, and from each other, by boards nailed to the upright timbers, with cracks wide enough to let the wind circulate freely everywhere. Most of the windows of the large room were out, which greatly increased the cold. Our stall was only eight or nine feet wide, and perhaps sixteen in length. It was perfectly bare of furniture,—not having even a bench or any means of making a fire. It was in the third story, and had one redeeming quality,—it commanded a view of the street, but there was a guard below, who had orders to shoot at any head that might be protruded from the window.
In this cheerless place our party of six, with nine Tennesseeans,—fifteen in all,—were confined during the months of December and January. The first day our spirits sank lower than ever before. All our bright hopes were dashed to the ground, and there seemed every reason to believe that we were doomed to this dreary abode for the whole duration of the war, if, indeed, we escaped sharing with our murdered friends the horrors of a scaffold. It was too disheartening for philosophy, and that day was one of the blackest gloom. We seldom spoke, and when we did, it was to denounce our own folly in suffering ourselves to be deluded to Richmond by falsehood. I cannot say at this time whether the false declaration concerning the exchange was intended to deceive or was only the result of some misunderstanding; but then we had no doubt it was deliberate treachery. Not being able to spare enough guards to make us secure, we felt that they had deceived us to this terrible prison, which we might have avoided by seizing one of the many opportunities for escape our journey afforded. But it was no use lamenting; all we could do was to register a vow never to be so deceived again. One resource remained. It was my turn to lead our devotions, which we had continued faithfully. If I ever prayed with fervor it was in this hour of disappointment and dread. I tried to roll our cares upon the Lord, and at least partly succeeded, for I rose from my knees convinced that we had one Friend who had not forsaken us, and who had often made His children rejoice in worse situations than ours. The next morning we awoke quite cheerful and nerved for any fate that might yet be in store.
The routine of prison-life here differed but little from that in Atlanta, though our condition was far less comfortable. In the morning we were taken down to the court (the building was square and built with an open space in the centre) to wash, and were immediately taken back to our stall and locked up. The principal difference arose from our lack of fire. No other physical suffering I endured in the whole imprisonment was more intolerable than this perpetual freezing. We had no opportunity for those pleasant fireside chats which had done so much to make our days endurable in the Atlanta barracks. In their stead, as the darkness and coldness of night drew on, we were compelled to pace the floor, trying to keep warm; and, when sleep became a necessity, we would all pile down in a huddle, as pigs sometimes do, and spread over us the thin protection of our two bits of carpet. Thus we would lie until the cold could be endured no longer, then rise and resume our walk. When the weather became warmer than usual we would sleep much, to make up for wakefulness during the colder nights.
We never omitted our public prayers. For a while the crowd outside in the large room, which was composed of the very scum of Southern society, such as deserters from the army, gamblers, and cut-throats from the large cities, gave us all the annoyance in their power, by shouting all kinds of derisive epithets through the cracks in the board partition while we were kneeling; but, finding their efforts ineffectual, they finally gave over, and left us to pursue our own way in peace. We found, afterwards, when, for a short time, we were put in with them, that they respected us all the more for our perseverance.
A few days after our arrival we noticed a great stir at Libby Prison, which was in plain view. A truce-boat had arrived at the place of exchange. Soon a body of prisoners were marched up the street by us, and our four Atlanta companions with them. As they passed by they waved their hands to us in farewell and continued their journey to freedom. They were not disappointed, and, as I have since learned, they were soon with their friends at home. The representations made at Atlanta were true as regarded these four men; the falsehood was in making us believe that we stood on the same footing. We felt glad for their sakes; but the parting, to us, was very painful, and we turned away from the window with something of the gloom that had darkened the first day of our abode in this prison.
One great privilege we had here,—a delightful oasis in the dead sameness that settled over our days. This was found in reading the daily newspapers. We were not now forbidden their perusal, and some one in the large room had always money enough to buy a paper and charity enough to lend it. As soon as we received it, all the party would gather around while it was read aloud. Each item of importance was eagerly discussed. The news was often exciting, as the Union commander, Burnside, had just made an advance, and we breathed hearty prayers that he would be successful in reaching Richmond. Probably our enemies would, in that case, try to remove us farther South; but we had firmly resolved to escape in such a contingency or die in the attempt. We would not allow ourselves again to be moved from one prison to another without risking everything for freedom.
But soon came the sad news of Burnside's bloody repulse at Fredericksburg,—sad to us, but causing the greatest rejoicing among our enemies, who felt that they had escaped a great danger. If Union defeats diffused gloom throughout the whole of the loyal States, there was yet no place where they were so regretfully and bitterly felt as in Southern prisons.
Here I sold the hat I had obtained from Commander Wells in Atlanta, and made an effort to invest the money in books, for which I was more hungry than for bread. But the volumes I wanted were not to be found in Richmond. Chillis, the cross commissary who wished us hung on our first arrival, but who was, nevertheless, the kindest official in the prison, made the effort to obtain them; but when he failed, we took instead some very small cakes, at ten cents each. These were a great addition to our rations for a day or two.
The desire to escape once more became intense. Being in the third story, we could only get out by passing at each door successive relays of guards, all of whom had reserves ready to co-operate with them in case of alarm. Our room was nearest the jailer's office, and on the other side there ran a row of rooms filled with all kinds of prisoners,—some held as spies and others as murderers.
The nearest of these rooms to our own was occupied by Federal soldiers accused of various offences. Captain Webster was one of these. He had on one occasion been sent to capture a notorious guerrilla captain named Simpson, who was then hiding within the Union lines. When he was found, Webster summoned him to surrender. Instead of doing so he fired his pistol and started to run, but Webster also fired and mortally wounded him.
When Webster was afterwards captured by the Confederates, he was charged with the murder of Simpson, and confined in the room next our own. He was finally hanged, but in the official report the offence was changed, in a manner not uncommon with Confederate authorities, for the more plausible one of violating his parole.
At this time Webster was very anxious for an attempt at escape. A plan was soon arranged, and the evening before Christmas selected as the time. The citizen prisoners in the room below were more favorably situated than ourselves for beginning the enterprise. We had opened secret communications with them, and the ramifications of the plot reached every room in the prison. The signal agreed upon was the cry of "fire!" When this alarm—always startling, but doubly so in a crowded prison—was given, we were to rush upon the guards and overpower them. They only numbered about thirty, while we had over a hundred and fifty men in the plot. After capturing the guard, we still had the very serious task of getting out of the guarded and fortified city. It is not probable that a very great number could have succeeded in doing this.
That Christmas-eve was not much like Christmas at home. We made everything ready, and anxiously waited for the thrilling alarm of "fire!" which we would have echoed at the top of our voices, and then burst off the door of our stall and flung ourselves on the guard. I had no doubt that we could thus break open the strongest prison in the Confederacy; but as to any large number escaping to the Union lines I was less confident. The hours rolled on and midnight came,—the hour fixed for the attack. But we waited in vain. No signal was given. The inmates in the room below had failed in courage at the critical moment and resolved to postpone the attempt.
Not yet discouraged, we determined to make another trial the very next night. Captain Webster was appointed leader, as we felt sure that he would not falter. The locks were taken off all the side rooms except ours, which was so near the station of the guard that it could not be removed without great danger of discovery. We cared but little for this. A long board which supported our water-bucket afforded a convenient battering-ram, with which we felt sure of being able to deal with our door.
Some of the inmates did not wish to run the fearful hazard, but were very kind to those of us who did, supplying us with serviceable shoes and taking our worn-out ones in return.
Again we waited for the signal. Four of us held the long board, and felt sure that one blow would dash our door into the middle of the room.
The other small rooms were soon vacated, the movement being concealed from the observation of the guards by the inmates of the large room, into which all the others entered, crowding up around the doors.
For an instant all was silent. We lifted our hearts in mental prayer to God that he would be with us and preserve us through the coming strife, and if consistent with his high will, permit us to regain our liberty.
What can cause the delay? Minute after minute passes, and the dead silence is broken only by the throbbing of our own hearts. We have counted the cost, and are ready for the strife which shall lead us to grapple, with naked arms, the shining bayonets of the guards. Some will certainly fall, but we trust that others will regain the unutterable blessing of liberty.
But now we see our friends creeping back to their rooms! We grind our teeth with rage and chagrin, but soon hear the explanation, which makes us believe that the Lord is indeed watching over us.
Just as the leader was ready to give the signal, a friend pressed to his side and informed him that we were betrayed, and that the enemy were on the watch for us. From a window in the far corner of the room a force of at least eighty men could be seen drawn up before the prison-door. The story continued that orders had been given to shoot down every one who attempted to escape, while another detachment was to close in behind and make an indiscriminate massacre. Had we carried out our plan, the guard would have yielded before our rush until we had been fully drawn into the trap, when they hoped to make such a slaughter as would be a perpetual warning to prison-breakers.
When I first heard this account I thought it the invention of some weak-nerved individual who wished to avoid the danger of our scheme. But it was perfectly true. The next day the newspapers of Richmond contained a full exposé of the whole affair, and Captain Alexander, the tyrant who commanded the prison, threatened to have every one engaged in it tied up and whipped. But he finally changed his mind. A nominal prisoner, who was really a spy in the service of the authorities, had contrived to get into the plot, and had reported it to his employers. This was the last attempt at prison-breaking in which I was concerned.
In Richmond there was a pretence of allowing prisoners to correspond with their friends in the North,—of course, subject to the inspection of the prison officials. From Libby Prison some letters did go safely. We also tried writing, making our expressions very guarded, but, so far as I have ever heard, none of our correspondence was forwarded beyond the lines. I was providentially afforded a better opportunity. Some of the prisoners captured at the battle of Murfreesborough were brought to Richmond for exchange, and were kept overnight in a room in the basement of Castle Thunder. When in the court as usual in the morning, I asked a good-natured Irishman of their number if he would carry a letter and mail it for me after getting to loyal territory. He cheerfully consented, and I pencilled a note to my father on the fly-leaf of a book and, watching an opportunity when unobserved, gave it to him. He concealed it until out of rebel power, and duly committed it to the mail. The sensation may be imagined which it produced among my own friends and those of other members of the party, as nothing had been heard from us since the October escape, and we had long been given over as dead. Though the note was very hastily written, I copy it here without change, as showing the feeling experienced at that time. Something of the hopefulness and lightness of the tone resulted from the wish to cheer those addressed.
"Richmond, Va., January 6, 1863.
"Dear Father,—I take this opportunity of writing by a paroled prisoner to let you know that I am well and doing as well as could be expected. I have seen some rather hard times, but the worst is past. Our lives are now safe, but we will be kept during the war, unless something lucky turns up for us. There are six of our original railroad party here yet. Seven were executed in June, and eight escaped in October.
"I stand the imprisonment pretty well. The worst of it is to hear of our men [this refers to the Union army] getting whipped so often. I hear all the news here: read three or four papers a day. I even know that Bingham was beat in the last election, for which I am very sorry.
"The price of everything here is awful. It costs thirty cents to send a letter. This will account for my not writing to all my friends I Give my sincere love to them, and tell them to write to me.
"You may write by leaving the letter unsealed, putting in nothing that will offend the Secesh, and directing to Castle Thunder, Va. I want to know the private news,—how many of my friends have fallen. Also tell me who has been drafted in our neighborhood, who married, and who like to be. Also, if you have a gold dollar at hand, slip it into the letter,—not more, as it might tempt the Secesh to hook it. I have tried to send word through to you several times, but there is now a better chance of communicating since we came from Atlanta to Richmond.
"No doubt you would all like to see me again, but let us have patience. Many a better man than I am has suffered more, and many parents are mourning for their children without the hope of seeing them again. So keep your courage up, and do not be uneasy about me. Write as soon as you can, and tell all my friends to do the same.
"Ever yours,
"William Pittenger."To Thomas Pittenger,
"New Somerset, Jefferson Co., Ohio."
The belief expressed in the above letter of imprisonment during the war was thought by the writer to be most probable. No word was spoken either of exchange or of court-martial. The prices referred to were in Confederate money, which was now greatly depreciated. The little we had brought from Atlanta rapidly melted away, procuring us very little addition to our meagre fare. We still hoped for great Union victories and a speedy termination of the war. But at the opening of the year 1863 the prospect was dark indeed.
About the 1st of February the range of side rooms in which we were confined was wanted for hospital purposes. The prison hospital had been located in the garret above, but disease increased to such an extent that its accommodations were no longer sufficient. These chill and comfortless rooms had but little adaptation to their new purpose, and hastened the release of many a poor unfortunate by the mercy of death. Disease was now making fearful havoc. The hardships of prison-life and the starvation diet prepared the way for every contagion. Smallpox broke out, and prevailed to such an extent that the whole town was alarmed. The prisoners were vaccinated by the wholesale, but this necessary precaution caused great additional suffering. Men died in every room, and the visiting physician came each morning to remove to the hospitals those who showed marks of the dreaded pestilence. It would scarcely be believed that some prisoners actually counterfeited smallpox in order to be sent to the smallpox hospital, where they would have a better opportunity for escape. But escaping had become a regular mania, and all possible means were employed to effect it.
No one of our party of six took the pestilence, though two suffered very severely from the vaccine virus. But the prevalence of disease did us a good service in securing our removal from the narrow stall to the comparative freedom of the room outside.
This was a great change, and did seem like freedom by contrast. From this time the isolation of our prison-life was at an end. I have spoken of the "room," but the term is scarcely accurate. The partitions had been taken out or never inserted in this upper floor, and the prisoners could go from one end of the building to the other, but with guards stationed at every door and watching every window outside. In a far corner there was a stove,—the first fire we had felt since leaving Libby two months before. It did not suffice to warm half the people around it, and these were very quarrelsome, but it was a great luxury to be occasionally warm.
The amusements of the hundreds who had been gathered into this receptacle of humanity were very striking, if not elegant. When a dense crowd had gathered around the stove, some person outside—usually one of a large group of very mischievous Irish-men—would cry, "Char-rge, me boys!" and a solid column of perhaps fifty men would rush against the group around the stove, knocking men in all directions, endangering limbs, and raising a perfect storm of profanity. Fights were very frequent, and it only needed the addition of intoxicating liquor to make the place a perfect pandemonium. As it was, the interference of the guard was often required to preserve order. Our party, however, always stood together, and were thus able to protect themselves.
The evenings were a compensation for the turmoil and quarrelling of the day. After all who possessed blankets had rolled themselves up and laid down to rest on the floor, some of the worst rowdies, who had been annoying and persecuting their fellow-prisoners all day, would gather around the stove and appear in a new character,—that of story-tellers. Old Irish legends, and some of the finest fairy-tales to which I have ever listened, were brought forth, and the greater part of the night was often passed in such discourse. But the approach of day put an end to the romantic disposition of these rude bards and left them ill ruffians as before.
We soon wearied of this perpetual ferment and excitement, and learning that there was one room in the prison occupied principally by Union men, petitioned to be placed with them. To our surprise this request was granted, and we were taken down to the ground floor, and placed in a large, dingy room on the level of the street. The windows were not only secured by crossing bars, but additionally darkened by fine woven wire. The refuse tobacco-stems—the building was an old tobacco manufactory—had been thrown into this room, and were now gathered into a great heap in one corner, occupying more than a fourth part of the entire apartment. This filthy stuff—for such it was, having been trodden underfoot for years—was not without its uses for the tobacco-lovers of the party.
But this dungeon had ample compensations for its darkness and dinginess. It contained a stove, and was kept quite warm. Thus the terrible suffering from cold was now ended. There was also good society here,—nearly a hundred Union men from different parts of the South,—all intensely patriotic, and many of them possessing great intelligence. The rude, wild element which dominated in the third floor was in complete subordination on the first.
It would be easy to fill a volume with stories told us by the loyal citizens confined in this room. One or two may serve as specimens. I became very intimate with a Scotchman named Miller, from Texas. He told me of the beginning of the reign of terror, which prepared the way for secession. The rumor, in Miller's neighborhood, was first spread of an intended slave insurrection. Weapons, and in some cases poison, were secreted, to be afterwards found at the right time. Some slaves were next whipped until, under the torture, they would confess to the intended insurrection, and implicate the most prominent opponents of secession. This was enough to drive the populace to madness. The fear of servile insurrections has always aroused the worst passions of slaveholding countries. Slaves and white Unionists were now hung up to the same trees, and the work went on until all who opposed the withdrawal of the State from the old Union were treated as criminals. It is not strange that slavery thus furnished the means as well as the occasion of rebellion.
Miller, being an outspoken opponent of secession, was seized, and sent eastward, accused of treason against the Confederacy. Twice he made his escape, and when recaptured told, each time, a different story. At Richmond, when brought up for examination, he merely said, "I told you all about my case before." The examining officer, who was very busy and a little in liquor, took him at his word and ordered him back to prison. At length he was included with many others in a special exchange.
A few Union soldiers, besides ourselves, were in this room. There was a young and adventurous scout from the Potomac army, Charlie Marsh by name, who had been sent a short distance inside the rebel lines to burn an important bridge. While on his way, with a gray coat—the rebel color—thrown over his own uniform, he managed to get some important information regarding the enemy, which he committed to writing. In this perilous position he was captured, and the papers, which he was not able to destroy, determined his character as a spy. A drum-head court-martial convicted him, and he was sent with a strong guard to Richmond for execution. While on the way the sergeant in charge got an opportunity to drink, and soon became very careless. Marsh could not escape; but, watching his chance, slipped from the sergeant's pocket the package containing the report of the trial and sentence, and dropped them, unobserved, into a ditch by the wayside.
When he arrived in Richmond, the sergeant could give the prison authorities no information further than that his prisoner was a Yankee he had been told to bring to them. The drunkard was reprimanded, and the authorities sent back to the army for the missing information. Pending its arrival, Marsh was put into our room, instead of being confined separately and securely, as would have been the case if his sentence had been known. When the evidence against him arrived, the commanding officer entered the room with a guard and called his name. This was Charlie's last chance for life, and shrewdly was it improved! A man had died in the prison the night before, and the body had not yet been removed. Charlie promptly responded, "Oh, that fellow is dead?" pointing to the corpse.
"Died, has he? the rascal! We'd 'a hung him this week and saved him the trouble if he had only held on," growled the officer.
No prisoner felt called upon to expose the deception, and the officer departed and reported accordingly. Marsh continued to answer whenever the dead man's name was called, and was finally exchanged in his place. I once met him since the close of the war. He was then in congenial employment as a government detective.