Indeed, the completeness of our voluntary discipline and the systematic manner in which we employed our time was little less than marvellous. To sleep was always in order, when possible, but the disposal of waking hours was not left to the will of each person. The only game permitted was that of checkers or drafts, and over the rude board carved on the floor eager players bent during all the hours allotted to amusement. Then we had a couple of hours daily for debating, and discussed questions of every kind. No little ingenuity and skill were thus exercised. Often great political questions occupied our attention, and evoked real and strong differences of opinion. Strange as it may seem, there were but two of us—Buffum and myself—who avowed ourselves out and out abolitionists. The name had not yet lost all its reproach, but we held our own in argument, especially when we pointed out the natural result of slavery in making men barbarous and inhuman even to whites, as illustrated in our condition. That argument never failed to give us the advantage!
We also set aside two hours in the forenoon and two in the afternoon for reading. During this time not so much as a whisper was permitted, and few schools have kept better discipline. Any one not wishing to read was permitted to sleep or occupy himself in any quiet manner. Frequently some one was selected to read aloud for a time, but this only took place by general consent, that those who wished to read silently might be undisturbed. The extraordinary character of these exercises will be better appreciated when it is remembered that we had no "light reading," but mainly theological works, with a few volumes of travels, biography, and poetry,—just what the good minister's library could furnish, for we read everything we could get. The Bible was not forgotten. When the supply of books ran short, we resorted to our memories. All the prominent incidents of our lives had been told in our terribly close association, and we next began to repeat for the common benefit the books we had read so far as we could remember them. One night about dark I began to tell something about a weird book I had read a few months previously. A few questions elicited fuller detail, and it was after midnight before the story was finished. Buffum, especially, was so deeply impressed that when released he took the earliest opportunity of getting and reading the volume, but he gave me a great compliment by saying that the original was not half so good as the copy. The changed circumstances, perhaps, made a more natural, if less flattering, explanation of his diminished interest. We also had our regular hours for gymnastic exercise,—wrestling, boxing, acrobatic feats, etc. One of our party, Hawkins, having once been connected with a circus, now trained us in all the exercises that our enfeebled condition and close quarters permitted. Much of the health and vigor that we retained during so long an imprisonment was due to our systematic and diversified employments.
This careful division of time, and endeavor after constant employment, was, doubtless, of great advantage, but it could not change the fact that we were close prisoners in a stifling room, and far from our home. Those summer days, as month after month glided away, were terribly long and oppressive. The tediousness and vain longing for action pressed upon us more and more closely. We fought the dreadful weight with all the strength of our wills, but even will-power grew feebler. The engineer Brown, who was one of the most restless of mortals, all nerve and fire in action, capable of enduring tremendous hardship if it were only of an active character, would pace the floor back and forth like a caged tiger; when this, too, grew unendurable, he would stop at the door, shake its woven iron bars till they rang again, and say in the most piteous tones (of course, meant only for us to hear), "Oh, kind sir, please let me out! I want to go home!" The feeling he expressed was shared by all. Never before could I realize the full value of liberty and the horror of confinement. In previous prisons the novelty of our situation, the frequent removals, the painful excitement of trials, prevented the blank monotony of imprisonment from settling down upon us as it did here, after the first few weeks of our stay in Atlanta rolled by, and no whisper regarding our probable fate reached us. It was like the stillness and death that brood over the Dead Sea!
We would sit at the windows in the sultry noon and look out through the bars at the free birds as they flew past, seemingly so full of joyous life, and foolishly wish that we were birds, that we, too, might fly far away and be free.
At long intervals, two of us at a time would be permitted to go down into the jail-yard to do some washing for ourselves and the party. This great privilege came round to me at last. It was then three months since I had stepped out of that prison room, and the unobscured vision of open air and sky made it seem like another world. I remember looking up at the snowy clouds, my eyes dazzled by the unusual light, and wondering, as I gazed in admiration upon their beautiful and changing forms, whether beyond them lay a world of rest in which there were neither wars nor prisons. Oh, how I longed for freedom! to be where I could look up at the sky every day and go where I wished! Yet with the thought came a great fear. If I was ever removed from the pressure of immediate danger, and allowed to mingle in the interests and cares of the thronging world, might I not forget my prison-made vows and lose my claim to the world beyond the clouds and stars? Such a sense of weakness and helplessness came over me that I felt greatly relieved when, my task being done, I was conducted back to the dark and narrow prison room, where the contrast between freedom and bondage was less palpable!
All this time we hardly permitted ourselves to indulge a hope of getting home again. The friends we had known in happier days were separated from us by an impassable gulf; and when fancy called round us the loved scenes and friends at home, it was like treading upon forbidden ground. But when the long day had dragged its hours away, when we were weary with fighting against weariness, the night removed every restraint, and for a few golden hours love and freedom were ours again.
Often in dreams have I seen the streets and buildings of my own town rise before me, and have felt a thrilling pleasure in contemplating each feature of the landscape around as I wended my way in fancy towards the old log cabin forever consecrated by affection. But the waking from such dreams of earthly paradise was sad beyond measure. The evening hour, when the burning heat had abated, and when we were settling to rest,—though it was on the bare floor, and without even a stone like that upon which Jacob pillowed his head,—was our happiest time. Then prayer and song and more cheerful conversation prepared us for rest and often for happy dreams. But the morning hours, when we wakened, hungry, sore, unrefreshed, with no food but our miserable bit of vile bread and spoiled meat, and a long day to look forward to,—these were always dreary. After prayers, and our apology for a breakfast, we grew more cheerful, and again took up the task of living.
An anecdote here will fitly illustrate the affection and exaggerated reverence felt for what we, to the great annoyance of the guards and citizens, persisted in calling "God's country." I had been reading aloud a sermon of Bishop Bascom's, from a book loaned us by our friend, the minister. The topic was "The Joys of Heaven." All listened with delight to his magnificent descriptions, but when the reading closed, engineer Brown, who was of a matter-of-fact disposition, asked, "Now, candidly, boys, would you rather be in heaven, safe from all harm, if it is as good as the preacher says, or be in Cincinnati?" This roused a very animated discussion, but at its conclusion, when we took a vote on the subject, the majority decided, honestly, no doubt, that they would rather be in Cincinnati,—for a while, at least!
The expedients to which the tobacco-chewers of our party were driven to obtain a supply of "the weed" were at once amusing and pathetic. They were even more eager for it than for their food. They begged from the negroes, jailer, guards, visitors,—anybody who could supply the valued article. The little they got was husbanded with the utmost care. One chewing was not sufficient. No "quids" were thrown away, but carefully laid up, dried, and again used. When no more narcotic could be so extracted, they were once more dried and smoked in cob pipes!
When Andrews broke out of the Chattanooga jail, he gave Hawkins a large, fine coat, which was too heavy to be carried. This was now sold to the jailer, and the proceeds furnished quite a treat of provisions.