[CHAPTER VI.]
A New Prison—Murder of Lieutenant Bliss—In Irons—Yankee Ingenuity—Rebel Ignorance—Parson Rogers—Faithful Servants—Bold and Successful Escape of Prisoners—Captain Troy—A Blindfold Journey—A Traitor.
We were now conducted to our new quarters in the military prison, a description of which I will attempt. The side walls were of brick, twenty inches in thickness, and thirteen feet high. The ends were closed by massive ironclad wooden gates, extending the whole width of the prison. The room was about two hundred feet long, and forty in width. It was used formerly as a cotton depot. There was on either side a narrow shed-roof, sloping inward, extending two-thirds of the entire length of the building. Beneath this shelter were six hundred soldiers, and about one hundred and fifty political prisoners.
Near this prison, Lieutenant Bliss, of Illinois, one of the noblest and truest men I ever knew, and a minister of the gospel, was murdered. The circumstances of this cruel outrage are as follows: One beautiful morning in May, the Lieutenant, being somewhat indisposed, and desiring to breathe the fresh and fragrant air without our prison walls, asked permission of the Captain of the Guard, to go to an adjacent house and get his canteen filled with fresh milk. With considerable reluctance the privilege was granted, and the Lieutenant and myself were allowed to go on our errand, under a guard of four armed men. Upon our arrival at the house, Bliss handed his canteen through the window, where a lady received it, and in accordance with his request, filled it with milk, and passed it back to him. At this moment, one of the guards muttered some undistinguishable order, which I was unable to understand, although I was nearer the guard than Bliss. The command, whatever it was, of course could not be obeyed; but the guard instantly raised his gun. Bliss saw it, and remarked pleasantly, though a little excited:
“You are not going to shoot me, are you?”
No sooner were his words uttered, than the gun was fired and the bullet pierced the heart of my gallant comrade. His last words were, “Brother, I’m shot!” I stood amazed and dumb with indignation over the bleeding corpse of my faithful companion, the three remaining loaded guns pointed at me. From this scene of murder I was forced back to the prison. I felt it my duty to report this inhuman act to the commandant, and ask redress, by having the reckless guard punished. What was my astonishment and indignation to learn, afterward, that that very guard, for that very act, was granted thirty days’ furlough as a reward. The only apology offered was, that possibly the guard misunderstood his instructions! I ventured to tell the commandant, Captain Troy, my opinion of such conduct, and to his face called the outrage by its proper name, a bloody murder, committed under his guilty authority. As I might have expected, this plain language brought down his vengeful wrath, and he replied:
“I will put you in irons, sir.”
I could but reply, thinking of my dear, lost comrade:
“I am in your power, sir, irons or no irons; but you murdered my sick friend, and are guilty of shedding his blood!”