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.