Sketches in Prison Camps: A Continuation of Sketches of the War

by Charles C. Nott

The Captain carried the leg of mutton in, and hurriedly took down the pea-nuts. We looked sharply at them, but saw nothing unusual. Why eat them all? “If they want us to do so, it must be done!” We proceeded to break the shells. Presently there was a shell—a sound and healthy shell—within which had grown a long, narrow slip of paper, rolled up tightly. It contained a single message, viz., that the covered handle of Mr. Fowler’s basket was in fact a mail-bag. From that time on, the watchful patrols would lift out the plates, and inspect the beef, and scrutinize the dodger, and then carry the mail-bag backward and forward for us.

With the increased number of prisoners, there had been a change in the command of the camp. The company of volunteers were relieved by a battalion of militia. To our surprise, the militia very far surpassed the volunteers, and did their business in a very soldierly way. The battalion was commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel John Sayles, a lawyer of considerable distinction in Texas. The Lieutenant-Colonel was a man of few words, very quiet, very kind, and rarely gave an order that did not effect an improvement.

On the Sunday after he assumed command, Colonel Sayles informed me in his quiet way, that there would be Divine service in the grove, and invited me and all the prisoners to accompany him. There had been a reverend gentleman preaching at Camp Groce the Sunday before I arrived, who had been seeking a chaplaincy, and had assumed what he supposed was a popular train of argument; as for instance, warning his beloved brethren that the chief horror of eternal punishment would be meeting the President of the United States there. I do not care to hear irreverent things said in the pulpit, nor do I think it the part of an officer to listen voluntarily to denunciations of his government, yet I felt assured that Colonel Sayles would not invite me to anything of that kind, and I thought I could best acknowledge his civility by accepting.

When the clergyman who officiated first caught sight of the prisoners, forming one-half of his audience, he evinced a little embarrassment. He alluded to this as he began his sermon, and spoke happily of the breadth of the Christian faith, extending to all conditions of men, and enabling enemies to stand together and worship at one altar. His prayer was chiefly an affecting and beautiful petition on our behalf. He spoke of the tender ties that were severed, and besought consolation for our distant dear ones, who must be now in anxiety watching our fate. He prayed, too, that “we their captors and keepers, may have grace to treat them as becomes Christian soldiers, resisting the evil passions of our hearts and the evil counsels of wicked and cruel men.”

After the services were concluded, we were introduced to the clergyman, Mr. McGown, of Huntsville. He visited us in our quarters, ministered to our sick, and was always one of our most welcome visitors. He had been with Houston in the war of Texan independence, and was one of the heroes of San Jacinto. His acquaintance with the General had been intimate, and he entertained us with many interesting anecdotes of him and tales of the former war.

These anecdotes of General Houston then possessed for us unusual interest. When some of the older prisoners had been sent to the State Prison at Huntsville, they were halted a few minutes on the outskirts of the town. As they waited there, a tall, imposing old man approached and asked, who was the United States officer highest in rank. Captain Dillingham was pointed out to him as the senior naval officer. Walking up to him and extending his hand, he said, in a deep, emphatic voice, “My name is Houston, sir. I have come to say to you, gentlemen, that I do not approve of such treatment for prisoners of war. No prisoner of war shall ever be put in a jail with my consent.”

The death of General Houston occurred just before I reached Texas. Many stories were told of his great personal power, and strange incidents of his wondrously romantic life. The forebodings of his celebrated letter were all realized before he died, for his oldest son was in the ranks—his warmest friends and supporters were scattered and slain, and ruin and desolation brooded over the State which he had established and so long directed and controlled. He was guarded in the expression of his political sentiments, but occasionally addressed the troops, speaking from the Texan point of view. He never took the oath of allegiance to the Confederate Government. A short time before his death travellers were required to have a Provost Marshal’s pass, and to procure a pass they must take the oath. The General had neither taken the oath nor procured a pass. He set out, however, on a journey and proceeded till one of the provost guard halted him and demanded his pass.

“My pass through Texas,” said the old man, in his sternest tone, “is San Jacinto.”

The Texan soldier looked at him for a moment. “I reckon,” he said, “that pass will go as far in Texas as any a Provost Marshal ever wrote. Pass an old San Jacinto.”

Colonel Sayles was soon succeeded by Major James S. Barnes of the same battalion. The Major was a Georgian by birth, an old Texan by residence, and a man of great general information, and so far as we were concerned, in every thought and word and deed a perfect Christian gentleman. He told stories with a graphic simplicity I have never heard excelled, and was so pleasantly reasonable and so enticingly good-natured that even our wayward sailors consented to be led by a landsman, and allowed that he was as good a man as a rebel could be. One day as the Major passed through the barracks chatting with the well and cheering up the sick, he hinted at the uncertainty of exchange and at coming “northers,” and advised us to prepare for the worst by building ourselves chimneys and fire-places. He promised to provide an old negro chimney-builder to engineer the work and teams to haul the material. The dwellers in the shanty quickly availed themselves of the offer. But nothing could induce those in the barracks to go and do likewise. So weak and dispirited were all that the difficulties appeared insurmountable. When the frost came and found them still prisoners, they piled sand on the floor, and making fire upon it sat there and shivered, while the smoke floated over them and found its way out through the holes in the roof.