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

by Charles C. Nott

The corporal of the guard halted his relief, and could be seen observing the opening of the leaning post. There was a little pause, and then a light came down to the suspicious opening. There was a little longer pause—a slight stir through the guards’ quarters, and then a squadron of cavalry rode out, and an officer, with four or five men, went at a gallop down the Tyler road.

The black cloud seemed to be the fugitives’ friend; for at this moment of discovery it poured down a heavy shower. We retired to our cabins, and felt some little relief in the hope that the friendly cloud had washed away the trail. Some time passed—perhaps two hours, and our hope had well-nigh turned into belief; when, from the Tyler road, a low, wailing, ominous cry smote upon our ears. “Did you hear that?” each asked of the other, in startled whispers. “Yes; the bloodhounds!”

The hounds came down to the stockade. They snuffed and moaned for a moment around the opening, and then ran straight up the bank and under the trees. There lay the trail. We listened until their faint baying could be heard no longer. Of all the dismal sounds that mortal senses were ever laden with, none more melancholy than the baying of these hounds was ever heard. We passed the uneasy night in speculating upon the chances of the three parties, and in trying to imagine the feelings of our friends when they should first hear the foreboding wail behind them, and surmise that the bloodhounds were upon their track.

Yet the next morning the prospect appeared brighter. Three showers of rain had fallen during the night; twelve hours had passed since the escape, and we felt confident that the hounds must have lost the scent. The day passed in growing cheerfulness, and at taps no tidings had come. We went to our quarters, sure that all had been successful. About nine o’clock that evening, the door of my “shebang” opened, and Lieutenant-Colonel Leake, of the 20th Iowa, entering, presented, with mock formality, Lieutenant Lyon, of the 176th New York. He and his party had been recaptured.

There were still eleven officers out, who, we knew, were divided into two parties. Twenty-four hours must have passed before the hounds could have taken their trail, and every hour dissipated the scent. The second day passed without news. So did the third evening, and the morning of the third day. Then, about noon, word was passed in from the guard-house that nine more were caught.

In an hour or two, they came, close packed on the bottom of a wagon. We waited with some anxiety the reception they would meet with at head-quarters. Colonel Allen came out, shook hands with one or two, laughed, and manifestly treated the affair as a joke. The wagon started for the gate. Its way lay through the quarters of the guard, who had, of course, turned out to look at the runaway Yanks. We waited in the painful expectation of hearing a Texan yell over the misfortune of our friends. To their honor be it known, the Texan’s showed no ill-mannered exultation. But the instant it was settled that no shout of triumph was to be raised by the victorious rebs, there was a revulsion of feeling in the prison community. As the gate opened, a slight, restless stir ran through the crowd. As the wagon drove in, a loud shout arose (couched in expressive Texan slang) of, “Here’s your mule! Here’s your mule!” The runaways smiled feebly, as men do who are the victims of a joke. The crowd laughed boisterously, and gave excellent imitations of the baying of hounds. About the same time, a little three-year-old, the child of a commissary-sergeant, came out on the bank opposite to us, and in shrill tones piped out, “Yankee ran away! Yankee ran away!” And all the afternoon, the little wretch would come, at short intervals, and re-sing his refrain, “Yankee ran away! Yankee ran away! Yankee ran away!”

When we came to collate the stories of the three parties, and of their captors, we gathered the following account: each party had kept secret its intended movements; yet all had selected substantially the same route. Unluckily for them, their trails crossed, and, still more unluckily, there rode with the Confederates an old western trapper, whom the men called Chillicothe. When the first party was captured, the pursuers merely returned to the crossing of the second trail, and followed it up. In like manner, when they had captured the second party, they only came back to the third trail. At these crossings, the prisoners could see nothing; but to the eyes of Chillicothe and the instinct of the dogs, the two trails were as plain as the crossings of two streets. The trapper told the prisoners where they had been, and nearly everything they had done. He showed them where (unknowingly) they entered a swamp by the same opening, and crossed a stream on the same tree. He pointed out to them the spot where they sat down to rest, and the hill up which one climbed to reconnoitre. He described to them a log where one pulled off his boots, and another lit his pipe. A secret history of their movements seemed to be written upon the ground.

The story of the last party captured was this: they marched rapidly all of the first night, and hid themselves through the first day. At dark, they resumed their march, and continued to travel rapidly through the woods. On the second morning, they selected, as a hiding-place, a narrow gully, roofed over and completely hidden by a fallen tree. The barking of dogs and crowing of cocks told that a plantation was near. In the afternoon, two restless members of the party insisted on going there to buy eggs. Hardly had they gone, when, in the opposite direction, was heard the baying of hounds. Yet there were no fears of being tracked, for forty-four hours had passed since the party left camp. The baying came nearer. Still it was thought that a party of hunters were accidentally coming that way. A number of horsemen rode down to the little brook at the foot of the hill, and paused there to water their steeds. The dogs, at the same time, started, and came directly up the hill. A beautiful dark hound led the pack, and when he reached the tree, he mounted it with his fore-feet, and looked intelligently down on the prisoners. They remained quiet, fearing that some growl or bark might betray them, yet hoping the hounds would pass on. The leader turned, and quietly trotted down the hill. He went, not to his owner, but to the lieutenant who commanded the party; he looked a moment at him, and then turning looked toward the fallen tree. The lieutenant instantly shouted, “Here they are!” All of his men drew their pistols, and spurred their horses up the hill. The tree was surrounded, and the fugitives recaptured.

What became of the two remaining officers was a question with us for many weeks. The unerring hounds had started on their trail, but the lieutenant who commanded, had ordered that they should be called off. He did not know how many prisoners had escaped, and moreover, he had already caught two parties of four each. Therefore, when he found five prisoners in the gully, he naturally concluded that they were all. Several weeks after this, a quotation from a New Orleans paper assured us of their safe arrival within our lines.

The first fact impressed upon us by these adventures was the wonderful power and sagacity of the bloodhounds. During the next three months, a long list of experiences re-taught this lesson. The Confederates possessed in them “pursuing angels,” whose powers exceeded those of men. If you buried yourself in the earth, they dug you out. If you climbed a tree, they came and stood at the foot. If you plunged into trackless wilds, they followed you. If you threw yourself into a stream, and threaded its windings for miles, they passed tirelessly up and down its bank, until they came to the spot where you had left it. As every means that ingenuity could devise failed, and as prisoner after prisoner who tried them was recaptured, there gradually grew up, in our minds, a feeling that to be hunted by these brutes was like being pursued by dreadful phantoms, such as we read of in old stories, which no mortal power could outstrip or elude, if their insatiate chase once began.