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.”