IN AND OUT
OF
REBEL PRISONS,

BY

LIEUT. A. COOPER,

12th N. Y. CAVALRY.

ILLUSTRATED.

OSWEGO, N. Y.:
R. J. OLIPHANT, JOB PRINTER, BOOKBINDER AND STATIONER.
1888.

Copyrighted 1888,
BY A. COOPER.
All Rights Reserved.

To CAPTAIN ROBERT B. HOCK,
THE GALLANT AND LOYAL COMRADE IN THE FIELD,
THE FAITHFUL AND CONSTANT FRIEND DURING THE DARK
DAYS OF MY PRISON LIFE,
The Daring Companion of my Escape
AND THREE HUNDRED MILE TRAMP THROUGH THE CONFEDERACY,
WHO, WHEN I BECAME TOO FEEBLE TO GO FARTHER, SO
GENEROUSLY TOOK OUT HIS PURSE AND GAVE ME THE LARGEST HALF OF ITS CONTENTS,
THIS BOOK IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED
BY THE AUTHOR.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE.

Many books have been written upon prison life in the South, but should every survivor of Andersonville, Macon, Savannah, Charleston, Florence, Salisbury, Danville, Libby and Belle Island write their personal experiences in those rebel slaughter houses, it would still require the testimony of the sixty-five thousand whose bones are covered with Southern soil to complete the tale.

Being an officer, I suffered but little in comparison with what was endured by the rank and file, our numbers being less, our quarters were more endurable and our facilities for cleanliness much greater. Besides, we were more apt to have money and valuables, which would, in some degree, provide for our most urgent needs.

In giving my own personal experiences, I shall endeavor to write of the prison pens in which were confined only officers, just as I found them—“Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice.”

Being blessed with the happy faculty of looking upon the bright side of life, and possessing a hopeful disposition, unaccustomed to give way to despondency, I also write upon the bright side of my subject. The reader who expects to find in this book a volume of sickening details of the horrors of starvation and suffering endured by those whose misfortune it was to be confined in Andersonville, under that inhuman monster Wirz—the mention of whose name causes a shudder—will be disappointed. Having kept a complete diary of events during my ten months’ imprisonment, I am able to give a reliable account of what came under my personal observation. I have often heard it said, even here in the North, that our men who were prisoners, were cared for as well as the limited means of the Confederacy would admit; but the falsity of this is seen when you remember that Andersonville is situated in a densely wooded country, and that much of the suffering endured was for the want of fuel with which to cook their scanty rations, and for the want of shelter, which they would have cheerfully constructed had the opportunity been afforded them. The evidence all goes to show that instead of trying to save the lives or alleviate the sufferings of those whom the fortunes of war had thrown into their hands, they practiced a systematic course of starvation and cruelty, that in this nineteenth century, seems scarcely believable. In this scheme, the arch traitor, Jeff. Davis, was most heartily assisted by the infamous Winder and his cowardly assistants, Wirz, Dick Turner, Tabb and others, whose timid hearts unfitted them for service in the field, but just qualified them for acts of atrocity and cruelty, such as were inflicted upon the loyal sons of the North who were in their power. Prison life, at best, to one who has been educated beneath the flag of freedom, is a trial hard to be endured; but when accompanied with indignities, insults and tortures, such as were inflicted upon the occupants of those prison hells of the South, it becomes simply unbearable.

A. COOPER.

CHAPTER I.

Description of Plymouth, N. C.

Plymouth, in 1863-4, was a small town, situate on the Roanoke river, about six miles from where the waters of that stream enters the Albermarle Sound.

The river at Plymouth is nearly a quarter of a mile wide, and with a sufficient depth of water to float the largest draught gunboats. The shore next the town was supplied with a wharf for landing steamers that navigate the river; but the gunboats, of which there were quite a number stationed there, were usually anchored in the middle of the stream. The town was enclosed with earthworks, with the exception of about two hundred yards on the left next the river which was rather low and marshy, and covered with quite a thick growth of alders and other bushes. On the extreme right, on the bank of the river, was Battery Worth; a small earthwork, just large enough to work a two hundred pound Parrot gun, with which it was supplied, and accommodate twenty or thirty men to handle and support it. This was surrounded with a deep ditch; but on the side next the town it was protected only with a low breastwork with a wooden slat door, and a person could jump across the ditch and step over into the redoubt.

Extending south from this small earthwork ran a line of breastworks to the south-west corner of the town, when it turned at right angles, making a continuous line of works nearly two miles in length, completely surrounding the place, with the exception of the short space next the river on our extreme left, as before stated.

In the south center stood Fort Williams, a strong work; and some distance from the line of works on the right center was Fort Wessels, a small redoubt.

On the left of Fort Williams on the works facing east, were Comphor and Coneby redoubts, one each side of what was called the Columbia road. On each side of Fort Williams, which faced south, were sally ports, on what was called the Washington road and the middle road.

In our front, to the south, was an open field for a thousand or twelve hundred yards, the farther part of which was partially covered with the brush and stumps of the newly cleared field, and beyond this was woods. About a mile up the river, on what was called War Neck, as a protection to our extreme right, was Fort Gray, a work of considerable strength, garrisoned by the 96th New York.

Such is a brief description of Plymouth as it appeared in April, 1864.

Brig. Gen. W. H. Wessels was in command of the post, and Lieut. Commander Flusser was in command of the fleet of gun-boats, which consisted of the Miama, a large wooden double-ender, the Southfield, an old New York ferryboat under command of Capt. French, the Whitehead, Capt. Barrett, the Bombshell, and a small supply boat called the Dolly, with one or two other boats whose names I do not now remember.

These were all wooden boats, but were supplied with a good armament of heavy metal, and their commander, W. H. Flusser, was as gallant an officer as ever trod the quarter deck, and thoroughly determined to sink the rebel ram Albemarle, which had been built near Richmond, and was daily expected to come down the river, and attempt the destruction of our fleet, or sink every boat under his command. Being very intimately acquainted with Lieut. Commander Flusser, and knowing his plans, having been instrumental with the detachment of cavalry stationed there, in getting much valuable information in regard to the progress of the building and intentions of this ram, I can speak by card of his preparations for its destruction, when it should make its appearance.

Gen. Wessel’s brigade consisted of two companies of the 12th N. Y. Cavalry, A and F, 85 men; two companies, H and G, of the 2d Massachusetts H. A., garrisoning the fort and redoubts; the 16th Connecticut, the 101st and 103d Pennsylvania, the 85th New York Infantry, and the 24th New York Independent Battery, Capt. Cady. There was also a company of North Carolina colored troops, Capt. Eastmond, and two companies of loyal North Carolinians, making in all about two thousand troops.

CHAPTER II.

the battle of plymouth—the cavalry pickets driven in—hoke appears in our front with eight thousand men—a magnificent artillery duel—four days hard fighting—sinking of the southfield and defeat of the fleet by the ram albemarle.

On Sunday morning, April 17th, 1864, the consolidated morning report showed eighteen hundred and fifty men for duty. The day was warm and bright, and the men were scattered about the town with no thought of approaching danger. The cavalry had scouted the day before, a distance of twelve or fifteen miles, and found no signs of the enemy, but about 4 p. m., the cavalry pickets on the Washington road were driven in, and the Corporal, named Geo. Wilcox, came tearing through the company quarters of the 85th New York down to cavalry headquarters, with the nose bag still on his horse, which he had not had time to exchange for his bridle, swinging his hat and shouting: “The Rebs are coming! the Rebs are coming!”

By the absence of Capt. Roach, of Company A, and the sickness of Capt. Hock, of Company F, I was in command of the detachment of cavalry, and at once ordered a bugler who happened to be standing near, to sound boots and saddles; sent Lieutenant Russel, who was mounted, having just rode up, to headquarters, to notify General Wessels that our pickets had been driven in and ask for orders for the cavalry. He returned just as I had formed the two companies into line with orders to make a reconnoissance on the Washington road, and, without getting into a fight, ascertain, as near as I could, the strength of the enemy in our front.

I ascertained by a careful reconnoissance that Maj. Gen. Hoke was in front with about eight thousand troops. In this reconnoissance I lost one man, “Amos Fancher,” killed, and one, “Lieut. Russell,” severely wounded. Hoke formed his line and threw out his skirmishers, but made no further demonstrations that night, a few shells from Fort Williams having the effect of checking any further movement.

At 11 o’clock that night, Gen. Wessels sent the steamer Massasoit, carrying the women and other non-combatants, and the wounded, to Newbern. Among the women were Mrs. George H. Hastings, Mrs. Dr. Frick, Mrs. Capt. Hock, Mrs. Bell, Mrs. and Miss Freeman and Mrs. A. Cooper (who had been with me from the 7th of February), and others. Preparations were made for a stout resistance by Gen. Wessels, who was a gallant officer. He established a strong skirmish line nearly two miles in length along our entire front and had everything in readiness to repel any attack that might be made; but the night passed without any further demonstration.

Early on the morning of the 18th there was slight skirmishing commenced along our entire front, and a bombardment was commenced upon Fort Gray, which was our extreme right and about one and one-half miles up the river.

In this bombardment the gunboat Bombshell, which had been sent to the assistance of the fort, was so crippled that she sank immediately upon reaching the wharf.

The attack on Fort Gray was repulsed, and our skirmish line in front maintained its position all day. At 5:30 p. m. I received orders to take the two companies of cavalry, dismounted, up to the breastworks near Fort Williams.

Fortunately I was mounted at the time, and rode up to the front, where, sitting on my horse, I had a splendid view of the battle that ensued.

We had just arrived at the breastworks when the skirmishing became brisk, our boys pushing the enemy’s skirmishers back some distance, when suddenly, as if by magic, a line of battle over a mile in length seemed to spring up out of the ground and charged our skirmish line, driving them back towards the works. As they fell back, firing as they retired, Fort Williams opened with her entire armament, which, in a moment, was joined in by Comphor and Coneby redoubts, Fort Wessels, Cady’s Independent Battery and the entire fleet of gunboats in the river.

Hoke opened on the town with forty-two pieces of artillery; Wessels replied with just about the same number of pieces, but of heavier calibre. From 6 until 8.30 p. m. was kept up a most terrific cannonade, which presented a spectacle awfully grand and magnificent. The gunboats, which were supplied with an armament of very heavy guns, sending immense shell shrieking and bursting over our heads as they were hurled into the lines of the enemy, the forts on our right and left keeping up an incessant roar, a stream of fire belching from the hot throats of Hoke’s forty-two pieces in our front, the comet-like trail of fire from his shells as they hurried on their mission of death towards us, the rattle of grape and cannister as they were hurled against the wooden buildings in our rear, or the woodwork of the forts and earthworks along the line, the loud bray of an immense number of mules, with which Hoke’s artillery was supplied, the groans and shrieks of the wounded, combined to give me such a picture of “grim visaged war” as I had never before beheld.

Several assaults were made on our works, which were repulsed with heavy loss to the enemy. The heaviest fighting occurred on our right centre, where were stationed the 85th New York; but to quote from the gallant Phil. Kearny—“There was illegant fighting all along the line.” A fearful assault was made on Fort Wessels, which was isolated from the line of works, and was a quarter of a mile distant on our right. This small fort or redoubt was defended by Lieut. H. Lee Clark, with part of a company of the 2d Massachusetts Heavy Artillery. It was protected by a deep ditch, twelve feet wide, with an abattis of pine limbs outside, with a draw bridge, which, when raised, formed a door to the entrance. It mounted four or five guns and was well supplied with hand grenades from one-half to two pounds. A number of determined assaults were made upon this work, and in one about sixty of the enemy got inside the abattis and surrounded the ditches; but Lieut. Clark used the hand grenades so effectually, the boys tossing them over with such precision, and at the same time keeping up such a succession of explosions at the sallyport, that they all surrendered, laid down their arms and were taken inside. Thus Lieut. Clark had twice the number of prisoners he had men under his command.

The small garrison of this fort were finally overcome by vastly superior numbers, but not until the enemy had lost in killed over triple the number of its brave defenders. The capture of this small redoubt was all they had gained in two day’s persistent fighting, and then only after a fearful loss in killed and wounded. At 8.30 in the evening Hoke withdrew, having been defeated at every point with the exception of the capture of this small redoubt. Our loss was insignificant, as we were behind good works. During the engagement I was struck on the leg by a bullet out of a spherical case shot, but as my pants and drawers were inside of a heavy cavalry boot leg, and owing to the fact that the force of the ball was nearly spent, it only made a black and blue spot on the side of my leg. We lay at the breastworks all night, but no further demonstrations were made in our front that night. Before daylight the next morning, however, we were aroused by a shot from the two hundred pound Parrot gun in Battery Worth, and soon the gunboats opened their batteries and a terrific canonading on the river apprised us of the fact that the long expected ram Albemarle had come down and encountered our fleet. Within twenty minutes all was again still, and we anxiously awaited the dawn to learn what had been the result. When the dawn finally came we were both mortified and surprised to find that there was no fleet in sight and that the powerful iron-clad ram Albemarle had full possession of the river, cutting off both our retreat and re-inforcements.

CHAPTER III.

a description of the battle between the albemarle and our gun boats—death of captain flusser—captain french cuts loose from the sinking southfield and runs away.

With the reader’s permission I will stop here to narrate the struggle between our gun boats and this ram, as it was detailed to me while a prisoner, by one of the crew of the Southfield, which, if correct, shows how the death of one brave officer and the cowardice and incompetency of another, served to make prisoners of two thousand brave men, and by the fall of Plymouth supply the Confederacy with an immense amount of artillery, ammunition and supplies of all kinds, of which they stood greatly in need.

Lieut. Commander Flusser, as I have said, was one of the most gallant and efficient Commanders in the U. S. naval service, and was fully resolved to either sink that ram or sink every gunboat under his command. As I have before stated, the Miama was a large double-ender, and she was also a very high boat, being a double-decker as well. This was Flusser’s flagship, and she and the Southfield, which as I said, was an old New York ferry boat, with wales reaching ten or twelve feet over the water, were fastened together fore and aft with heavy cables, and lay out in the channel with steam up and lights out, intending to let the ram drop in between them and then push her ashore, or sink her. It was three a. m., when the ram passed battery Worth, where a two hundred pound Parrot gun, all shotted and waiting her appearance, was located. But when the ram passed battery Worth, she was so low in the water and came down so still, and the night was so very dark, that the lookout at battery Worth failed to see her until she had passed the work, although the gunboat Whitehead, Capt. Barret, dropped down just ahead of her, having been stationed up the river on picket, and notified Lieutenant Hoppins, who was in command of battery Worth, of the approach of the ram. Only one shot was fired at her, and this after she had passed the redoubt, but as she had got by, the aim of the gun was inaccurate, so she passed on uninjured.

She ran between the Miama and Southfield, striking the latter with her horn on the forward quarter, just at the water line. The bow of the ram had passed under the forward cable and her horn was, of course, under the wide spreading wales of the Southfield. This boat was now rapidly sinking, while both she and the Miama were all the time sending solid shot in quick succession against her iron-clad deck and sides. The ram was trying to disengage her horn from the fast settling Southfield, which was drawing her down with her as she settled, making it every minute more difficult for her to extricate herself. The water was pouring into the forward ports of the iron monster, when unfortunately Capt. Flusser was struck in the breast by a piece of a shell, that had by some mistake been placed in one of his guns, and exploded as it struck the ram at short range, killing him instantly.

As soon as Capt. French, who was in command of the Southfield, learned of his death, he jumped aboard the Miama, calling his crew to follow him, but they bravely staid by their ship. He then ordered the cables cut loose and steamed away down into the Sound, thus leaving the ram in a position to extricate herself from the Southfield, as she could not do while held down by the cable. If French had, instead of cutting the cables, just put on steam, he could have run the ram on the shore stern foremost, as Flusser had intended to do, and for which purpose he had the boats lashed together. Extricating herself from the Southfield, from whose guns she was continually receiving solid shot, she opened her batteries upon her and soon sent her to the bottom, picking up and making prisoners of the crew. These were very bitter in their denunciation of Capt. French, whose cowardice alone, they said, saved the ram from being run ashore and captured, as it would have been had Flusser lived.

CHAPTER IV.

our retreat cut off—a perilous reconnoissance by the cavalry—cavalry sent to capture a boat’s crew—fleeing north carolinians—walking back into prison rather than to skulk a fight—firing the two hundred pounder at the ram—squelching a rebel sharp-shooter—a furious attack and fearful slaughter—a prisoner of war.

Being now in possession of the river, the Albemarle took her station about a mile below the town, just opposite our left, which, as I have said, was unprotected by works. This was the only weak point in our defence, and while our own fleet was in the river, they could effectually protect this; but now that they were replaced by the Albemarle, Hoke would have no trouble in getting through and gaining our rear. The greatest obstacle now to be overcome by the enemy, was the passage of a deep, wide creek and swamp, half a mile from the river, which was commanded by Comphor and Coneby redoubts.

At daylight of this, the 19th, we also discovered that the enemy had gained possession of Fort Wessels, the small works mentioned as being over a quarter of a mile on our right, and on a line with Fort Williams. This, taken with the fact that our retreat was cut off, made us feel a good deal as though we were prisoners.

At 6 a. m. Capt. Hodges, brigade-quartermaster on Gen. Wessel’s staff, came to me and said the General had assigned me to a very delicate and dangerous duty, which was to take thirty picked men of my command, and pass between Hoke’s right and the ram, and proceed to Stewart’s Hill, which was on the river about one and a half miles below the ram, where he thought a boat’s crew from the ram would land and attempt to communicate with Hoke. My duty was to capture this boat’s crew, if possible. For a fourth of a mile we were compelled to ride in water up to our stirrups, and within eight hundred yards of the ram, which was in full sight. Any one who has ever seen a troop of cavalry ford a stream, knows what a roar they make in the water, a noise that can be heard for nearly a mile. We could not expect to reach this place without attracting the attention of those on board the ram, and as we could not go faster than a walk, we would make a fine target for their shell, and we were in momentary expectation of having them exploding about our heads.

For some reason that I never could explain, we were allowed to reach our destination without being disturbed. Stewart’s Hill, as it was called, was only a little pine knoll, containing about three acres, and is not over five feet higher than the river. After placing my men where they would not be seen, and cautioning a number of North Carolinians who had congregated there for safety, to keep out of sight, I took my station on the bank to watch for the boat.

I soon saw a boat crew put off the ram and start down the river, but they kept the north shore, which was a quarter of a mile away, and passed on down below me. Having thus failed to accomplish my mission, and knowing that marching back to Plymouth was equivalent to going into prison, I will say candidly that the temptation was great to patch up an old leaky boat I found there, or build a raft, and try to reach our gun boats in the Sound, only a little over five miles distant. But if I did, I would most likely be accused of sneaking out of a fight; for although I had no orders to return, I knew I was expected to do so, and we therefore mounted and retraced our steps back to Plymouth.

I found on my return, that Capt. Hodges had taken some men and attempted to get down the creek, but the boat was capsized and the Captain being unable to swim, was drowned. When I reported to General Wessels, he ordered me to take my men into battery Worth, which I did, spending the balance of the day and night in piling up bags of sand to strengthen our little redoubt; firing an occasional shot with our two hundred pound Parrot at the ram, which we struck many times during the day, but we could see by the aid of our field glasses, the immense projectiles glance off her heavily armored sides, like peas thrown against the round surface of a stove pipe. The projectiles were of such immense size that we could easily watch their course from the time they were twenty rods from the gun, without the aid of our glasses, and could trace their course the whole distance.

THE CAVALRY SENT TO CAPTURE A BOAT’S CREW.

While we were busy as beavers, packing up sand bags, I noticed two or three times the zip of a minie ball past my ears, and watching the window of an old house about five hundred yards to our right, I discovered the cause. Taking a carbine from one of our men, I raised the sight for that distance, and placed it between two sand bags, and when a form appeared at the window again, took a good aim, and had the satisfaction of seeing the form suddenly disappear, and I think he received a detail for some other duty, for he did not return again to annoy us.

We worked during the whole night, expecting an attack on the right that night or the next morning, as the enemy were busy all day, throwing up an earthwork from Fort Wessels, which they had taken the night previous, running it parallel with our right towards the river. Instead of this, a furious attack was made early the next morning on our left, Hoke having, during the night thrown a pontoon across the deep, wide creek, in spite of Cady’s light battery which was stationed there. Furious assaults were made on Comphor and Coneby redoubts, which were supported by the 16th Connecticut, and after two or three unsuccessful assaults, these works were carried, and the 16th Connecticut fell back towards Fort Williams, stubbornly contesting every foot of the ground; once or twice charging the advancing enemy, and driving them back, but overpowered by greatly superior numbers, they were driven under the protection of the fort, where rifle pits were hastily thrown up.

At the same time another column charged up along the river to Battery Worth, where I was stationed with thirty men of the 12th New York Cavalry, the ditches being filled with loyal North Carolinians. The ditches were so deep, however, that they were of no use, for the heads of the troops were at least three feet below the surface of the ground.

Cady fell back with his light battery as the enemy advanced, losing two pieces within two hundred yards of there doubt. These pieces were immediately turned upon our redoubt, which, as I have said, was unprotected on that side, this battery having been built solely for the use of the two hundred pound Parrot placed there for the destruction of the ram. These guns were trained on the slat door, and on the opposite side was the door of the magazine, which was well supplied with hand grenades, shell, and a large supply of powder. Should a shell come through the door and explode inside this magazine, it would blow us all into eternity.

The boys were using their carbines with terrible effect upon those serving the pieces; and although there were but thirty or forty of us, so rapid and accurate were the discharges, that for some time the enemy were prevented from using them upon us; but the heavy column of Confederates that had poured in on our left and gained the rear of our entire works, were closing in upon us along the river bank, which served them excellently as a protection; while they were within a few feet of the unprotected portion of our redoubt, so near were they, that after a council of the officers, a white flag was raised on a bayonet as a token of surrender, and it had scarcely appeared above the low earthwork, which was only about breast high, when half a dozen rebs stood upon it peering down curiously at us, whom they were surprised to find so few in number, having supposed from the rapidity and effectiveness of our firing, that there were at least a hundred of us.

When I found that a surrender was inevitable, I seized my pistol by the muzzle (a weapon that had been presented me before leaving home) and threw it far out into the river, rather than have it fall into the hands of the enemy. At the same time the Sergeant in charge of the big gun spiked it, by driving in a rat-tail file with a hammer and breaking it off close to the piece. We were at once asked to lay down our arms, and were marched under guard down to the left, receiving, as we went, a furious discharge of grape from Fort Williams, under the supposition that we were Confederates, Hoke’s main column following along the line of works, taking them in detail until Fort Williams alone remained to Gen. Wessels; and this was completely surrounded, and hemmed in on all sides, while the sharpshooters of the enemy were stationed in the houses, where they could effectually prevent the men from serving the guns. Bravely did Wessels defend his stronghold, repelling all assaults until nearly noon, when he met Hoke under a flag of truce, to agree upon terms of the surrender, Wessels asking that he be allowed to march out with his colors, the officers retaining their side arms. This Hoke refused to grant, though complimenting Gen. Wessels on the gallant manner in which he had defended his works. He said that any further show of resistance would only result in an unnecessary sacrifice of life, and if Wessels still persisted in holding the works, and he was obliged to carry them by assault, he (Hoke) would not be responsible for what followed. This Gen. Wessels construed as a threat of a repetition of the Fort Pillow massacre, and saying, “You may go back and open fire,” haughtily turned on his heel and returned to the fort. The men were well protected by heavy bomb-proofs, and only those who were serving the guns were exposed to the fire of the rebel sharpshooters, who occupied every available place on all sides, and were making fearful havoc among them.

Twice was the flag staff shot away and replaced, and so effectual was the fire of these sharpshooters, that it was almost certain death for any one to approach a gun; when, after his nephew and aide-de-camp, Lieut. Foot, had received a very severe wound while trying to rally the men to the guns, the gallant old General reluctantly hauled down his flag, and Plymouth was once more in the hands of the enemy.

Hoke had won a victory after four days of hard fighting, but at what a fearful price. With eight thousand and veteran troops, and the assistance of the huge iron-clad ram Albemarle, he had made prisoners of nearly two thousand Union troops, after a loss of nearly or quite two thousand men in killed and wounded. In fact the Petersburg papers of the 27th acknowledged a loss of seventeen hundred in this battle.

CHAPTER V.

marched off over the battlefield a prisoner—among the enemies dead and wounded—evidences of our deadly work—the rebs go a gunning for “niggers”—the johnnies appropriating my wardrobe—massacre of the colored troops—they are drawn up in line and shot down like dogs by order of general hoke—caring for our wounded and burying our dead.

This attack commenced at half-past four, and at half-past six a. m. of April 20th, I was a prisoner. As we marched past Comphor redoubt to the Johnson farm, a mile to the south, we had an opportunity to witness the terrible slaughter the victory had cost the enemy.

Dead bodies of men and animals were strewn in every direction. Broken caissons and disabled cannon in front of these two redoubts showed plainly what a terrific struggle had been gone through with in their front.

The piteous cries for help of the suffering, the groans of the wounded that had not yet been removed (the ambulance corps not having yet been able to reach them) the roar of artillery and the rattle of musketry where the battle was still going on, the riding back and forth of mounted orderlies hurrying up re-inforcements, all served to make up a picture that I am unable to adequately describe.

The Johnsons, who were wealthy planters, had taken the oath of allegiance and claimed to be Union men, and were somewhat embarrassed at having us, with whom they had been on such friendly terms, brought to their farm as prisoners. They seemed to feel a sympathy for us, and one of them said to me, privately, that they were really in sympathy with the Union cause, but were obliged to be very careful of their conduct toward us while the Confederate troops were there, for their property, and even their lives, were at stake. I now believe they were honest. I do not wish to confound these Johnsons with one of the same name, who lived on the Washington road, near our vidette post. He pretended to be loyal, but we did not take any stock in him, and found after our capture that he was an open and exultant Secesh. While at the Johnson farm we could hear the crack, crack, crack of muskets, down in the swamp where the negroes had fled to escape capture, and were being hunted like squirrels or rabbits, I can think of no better comparison, and the Johnnies themselves laughingly said (when questioned about where they had been after their return), “They’d been out gunning for niggers.”

After the surrender of Fort Williams we were marched back into Plymouth, where I received permission, on the pretext of getting some linen bandages for a wounded Confederate, to go into my quarters. I found half a dozen Johnnies in there hauling over my wardrobe and appropriating what they took a fancy to. I picked up my blanket, a cavalry jacket, a pair of new shoes and a satchel containing my papers, and tried hard to get a fellow to give up my dressing gown that I had received as a Christmas present a few months before, but he was so well suited with the bright colors and fit of the garment, that he could not be persuaded to give it up. Taking what I could carry, I went and delivered the linen bandages and fell into line with the rest, when we were all marched out on the Washington road, where we were joined by those who had been taken at Fort Gray and Fort Wessels. All the inhabitants of the town, with the exception of those who were known to be Secesh, were sent out to join us, men, women and children, white and black.

The negro soldiers who had surrendered, were drawn up in line at the breastwork, and shot down as they stood.

This I plainly saw from where we were held under guard, not over five hundred yards distance. There were but few who saw this piece of atrocity, but my attention was attracted to it and I watched the whole brutal transaction. When the company of rebs fired, every negro dropped at once, as one man.

General Hoke had the reputation of being a brave soldier, and with the exception of this cowardly murder, so far as I had the chance to observe him, seemed to be a gentleman. We were certainly treated by himself and those under him, with marked courtesy. Our gallant defence of Plymouth seemed to inspire them with a respect for us, and they accorded to us every privilege consistent with our position. For instance, we were drawn up in line—I mean the officers—and were told that they did not wish to subject us to the indignity of being searched for arms, but would ask us to give our word as gentlemen, to surrender everything that was contraband of war, and upon our so pledging ourselves, we were allowed to pass over what arms we had without further question. I was also allowed to send two of my sergeants who were wounded, Gleason Wellington and Sergt. Fisher, to the hospital. As I was near the spot where I lost a man in the commencement of the battle, I was allowed to take a squad to find his body and bring it into the camp and bury it, which I did, Chaplain Dixon, of the 16th Connecticut, holding the service. This was Private Amos Fancher, the first man killed in the battle.

CHAPTER VI.

on the march—an eighteen mile march—treated to a drink of our own commissary at the end of the first days march—uniform good treatment by our captors—an attempt to escape frustrated—march to williamstown—the band at foster’s mills treats us to “dixie”—kind hearted mrs. piffin gives us all the provisions she had cooked for dinner—hopes some one will do as much for her son (who is in the confederate army)—a ride in filthy cattle cars through charleston, savannah and macon—arrival at andersonville.

The next day, April 21, we left camp at 12 m., having been issued rations of some of the hard tack and coffee they had captured, and guarded by the 35th North Carolina, Colonel Jones, were marched about eighteen miles. We were well treated by officers and men, and so far as my own observation went, no insults or indignities were suffered by any. I marched all day at the head of the column, which I preferred to do, as it is much easier to march at the head than the rear, in dusty roads. As a specimen of Colonel Jones’ treatment to me, I will state that at the end of the first days march, when we were halted to go into camp, he rode up to me and handing me a pint flask filled with captured commissary, told me to take a drink and pass it down the line as far as it would go, which I don’t think was very far if all took as big a drink as I did. Being a cavalry officer and unused to marching, I was very tired with the long tramp and the last few days of hard service, and imagined I could see a look of envy on the faces of some of those farther down the line, as I held my breath on that bottle.

As we were making camp, Capt. Hock and myself went into the woods, on the opposite side of the road, ostensibly to gather some dry limbs with which to cook our coffee, but really in the hope of getting outside of the guard and sneaking off. We walked along, picking up sticks, and had as we supposed, got beyond the line, and were just discussing our chances, when we were ordered back into camp by one of the Johnnies who was still outside of us, so we took our wood and went into camp, cooked our coffee, rolled ourselves up in our blankets and slept as only tired soldiers can sleep.

Among those whom I had learned to rely upon as truly loyal and counted as my friends, were Captain Wynn, who lived near our vidette picket post, and a lawyer named Jones, who frequently visited me in my quarters. I also had a guide named Wynn, a relative of the captain, who had been with me on a good many expeditions, and another named Modlin, who had done me much service in giving information from outside our lines, and who had finally moved his family inside the lines for better protection. These two guides I furnished with our cavalry uniform and passed them as part of our detachment.

On our third day’s march however, they were spotted as “Buffalos” by some of their North Carolina friends and concluded that the only way to save their necks was to escape, which they both did and reached our lines at Newburn.

The next day, April 22, we broke camp at 6 a. m., and marched to Williamstown, passing through Foster’s Mills, which was surrounded with entrenchments and garrisoned with some North Carolina troops that we had often encountered in our frequent reconnoissances, their band treating us to “Dixie” as we passed. The next day we reached Hamilton, N. C., where we remained until ten o’clock Sunday morning. Col. Jones, who had thus far been in command, and who had treated us with marked kindness, often dismounting to give some weary Yankee a ride on his horse, here took his leave and turned us over to Lt. Col. Crowley, of the Holcomb Legion, who started us for Tarboro. It gives me great pleasure here to relate another instance of hospitality which I enjoyed, for up to this time we had received more acts of kindness than of rudeness.

We were out of rations and stopped for a few moment’s rest in front of the plantation of Mrs. Piffin, and I received permission to go to the house and buy some provisions. This lady had just boiled a ham and baked some biscuit for the dinner, and upon learning of our not having had anything to eat that day, freely gave us all she had. I offered to remunerate her, but she would not take any pay, saying she had a son in the Confederate army and she was only doing by me, as she hoped some one would do by him should they see him in like circumstances. I sought out this lady after my return to Tarboro in 1865, and had the pleasure of a visit with that son, who was then home suffering from a wound, when I had the satisfaction of, in a measure, repaying her for her kindness to the Yankee stranger.

When we reached Tarboro we were a hungry and tired crowd. We camped on the east bank of Tar river opposite the town, where I prevailed upon the Sergeant to send a guard with me into the town to buy some provisions. I went to the hotel and bought nine sandwiches for ten dollars. The hotel was crowded with people from the surrounding country, who had come to town to see the Yankee prisoners, and I seemed an object of a good deal of curiosity dressed in the full uniform of a cavalry officer.

All were talking about the great victory that Hoke had gained in the capture of Plymouth. He had taken Plymouth and made prisoners of the garrison, but at what a fearful loss. A few more such victories would ruin the Confederacy! We remained at Tarboro until ten o’clock the next day, 26th, when we were crowded into cattle cars of the most filthy description, forty of us being placed in each car, besides two guards at each of the side doors. These cars had been used for the transportation of beef cattle and had not been cleansed in the least since thus used. It was, therefore, like lying in a cow stable. We now began to realize what short rations, or no rations, meant. I bought a pie when we arrived at Goldsboro, for which I paid five dollars. At this rate a millionaire could not long remain outside the poor house. At 5 a. m. on the 27th, we arrived at Wilmington, where we disembarked and crossed the river on the ferry. Rations of soft bread and spoiled bacon were here distributed, and we were again put on board the cars, which were even more filthy than those we had just left. We arrived at Florence at midnight, where we were allowed to disembark and remain until the morning of the 28th. Here our guard was again changed and the 19th Georgia took charge of us.

We passed through Charleston in the night, and reached Savannah at 3 p. m. the 29th. While we stopped at Savannah, a large crowd congregated to see the live Yankees. They all seemed pleased to see us, and some of our great political aspirants would feel proud of such an ovation as we received here, ladies waving their handkerchiefs and the men cheering us lustily, hurrahing and swinging their hats. One lady actually threw a kiss at me on the sly, and I believe she was in favor of the union—no pun. The next morning, April 30th, we passed through Macon, making a stop of two hours, then we started again, and at 4 o’clock we arrived at Andersonville.

CHAPTER VII.

andersonville—separated from the enlisted men—an interview with the inhuman monster “wirz”—placed in a church—divine service sunday morning—sent back to macon—drawing rations—a blind-folded man divides them—ladies visit our camp and show their sympathy—union girls forever—bouquets and notes sent us—a drunken riot—reckless shooting of the guards—prices of provisions in macon.

Andersonville, one year before, had never been heard of a hundred miles away, but is now a place whose name is associated with all that is revolting, a place whose name is synonymous with suffering, hunger, starvation, despair and death. A place the recollection of which recalls, with a chill of horror, the most terrible scenes of anguish that were ever suffered or beheld. A place whose history can never be fully written. For were all the survivors of that Confederate Hell, presided over by that incarnate fiend, Wirz, capable of portraying the horrors they had endured there, it would still remain for the fifteen thousands, whose emaciated forms passed through its gates to their final rest, to write up the history of the torments through which they passed during so many days of agony and wretchedness, of suffering, despair and death, before the history would be complete and the “finis” affixed. Thank God I was not doomed to be a resident of this charnal house, where out of eighty-five of my brave comrades who belonged to our detachment of cavalry, and who were destined to suffer its blood-curdling horrors, only eighteen ever lived to relate the tales of fiendish cruelty to which they were obliged to submit.

On the plateau in front of the pen the officers and enlisted men were separated, as no officers were held in Andersonville, except a few who commanded colored troops, whose rank would not be recognized by such gentlemen (?) as Wirz and his aids. Though I had heard much of the hardships of Andersonville, I then had no idea what the real horrors were, and after being separated I called Sergeant Cunningham towards me, was talking to him about caring for them, and endeavoring to maintain discipline as far as he could, when a Dutchman, mounted on a white horse, rode up with a cocked revolver in his hand and ordered him, with a terrible oath, to “Git back dere in de ranks, and if you come oud again I blow your tam head off.”

Having up to this time been treated with the respect supposed to be due an officer, I must say that I was not quite prepared for such a bombastic display of authority. The ludicrous gestures and evident bravado of the man (for I believed then, and do now, that he was a craven coward) only caused me to laugh as I told him that the place for men who were fond of shooting was at the front; that I called my Sergeant out of the ranks and was alone to blame for his leaving his place in the line. Knowing Sergeant Cosgrove (or Cunningham, as his right name was, he having, as he told me on leaving the service, enlisted under an assumed name), and having been with him in places that tried what kind of stuff men were made of, I could understand the look of contempt with which he quietly took his place again in the line.

After the enlisted men had been sent to the pen, the officers were conducted to a small church, or rather chapel, on the opposite side of the road, where we remained over night. We were not very closely guarded, and if there had been a probability of getting through I could have got away, for I went some distance alone to a house and bought some milk, and had a supper of hard tack and milk. The next morning I again went out and bought some beefsteak and milk for breakfast. This being Sunday, Chaplain Dixon held divine service in the little church, preaching from the text, “I have been young and now am old, yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken nor his seed begging bread.” The service was held immediately after breakfast, and at ten o’clock we were on board the cars, again headed for Macon, where we arrived at 4 p. m. We were placed in Camp Oglethorp, a fair ground, and were furnished with shelter tents, no stockade having then been built there, and were furnished with rations of salt pork and corn bread. Here for the first time our rations were furnished in bulk, and we divided them ourselves. It was here that I first witnessed the amusing spectacle of a blindfolded man dividing rations.

The manner was this: The bacon would be cut into as many pieces as there were men in the mess, and as nearly equal as possible, then a man was blindfolded, and as the officer of the mess touched a piece of meat he would say, “Who shall have this?” and the blindfolded man would name one of the mess, and so on until all were served.

I was now out of money, but I had brought along an extra pair of shoes and quite a supply of extra clothing, so I sold my shoes to Captain Freeman for ten dollars Confederate money and two dollars in greenbacks, which was about as much more. I bought with this money six radishes for one dollar, a pound of rye coffee for three dollars, and a pound of sugar for ten dollars, so that all I had for my shoes was these three articles, which could be had to-day for ten cents, and six dollars of Confederate money which amounted to about one dollar in greenbacks.

Many ladies visited our camp, some coming out of mere curiosity and to see what the Yankee officers looked like, for in Macon, at this time, Yankee soldiers were not as common as they were when the war closed. The march through Georgia had then not been made and “Sherman’s bummers” were not yet known.

Some seemed to openly sympathize with us, and brought us books and bouquets of beautiful flowers. One young lady—Maggie Langley—handed me a bouquet, in the centre of which I found concealed a note giving her address, and saying that if I should make my escape, to come to their house and they would conceal me until I could get away. Lieut. Fish, of the 2d Massachusetts Heavy Artillery, received a book from a couple of ladies named Richardson bearing a similar note on one of the fly leaves. Thus early we found that although we were held as prisoners by a hostile enemy, we were still in the midst of sympathizing friends.

Having so recently come from Plymouth, where we had been in garrison, we were dressed in our best uniforms, and being all officers, we, of course, presented a very creditable appearance. The Misses Richardson spoken of, said they were natives of New York State, and were heartily in sympathy with the North.

There was a stream that ran through the camp grounds, in which it was my daily habit to bathe. In fact, during all my prison life, I never neglected an opportunity to take a bath whenever I could get a chance to do so. To this I attribute, more than anything else, the good health I enjoyed during nearly all the time spent in Southern prisons.

I do not mean to say by this, that bathing would have saved the lives of all, or any great proportion of those who died in prison, but I do say that when the facilities of cleanliness were afforded us, there was a notable decrease in the mortality.

Hence the difference in the mortality of the officers’ prisons and those of the enlisted men, where bathing was impossible. Had our men in Andersonville been placed in good, roomy, clean quarters, through which flowed a good stream of pure running water, thousands who now sleep in that densely populated city of the Union dead, would now be here to relate the sufferings and privations they endured. It was not altogether the insufficiency of food that killed off those true-hearted patriots, but the need of wholesome quarters, and the facilities for cleanliness as well. There is nothing so invigorating to the system as a daily bath in pure, cold water, and on the other hand there is nothing more debilitating, or conducive to disease and death, than crowded and filthy quarters, without the necessary sanitary conveniences to permit the enjoyment of this invigorating luxury.

On the 7th a fire broke out, and nearly all of the guards who were on duty at the time, went to town; when they returned they were drunk, and for a time it looked as though we would have to turn out and assist in their arrest. Guns and pistols were used, and the bullets came whizzing over our heads in the most reckless manner. This, of course, was very interesting for us, who were obliged to lie in our tents, surrounded with armed men, and take all the chances of a fight without being able to participate in it. The melee finally ended by four of the guards who were crazy drunk, being bucked and gagged to keep them quiet.

On the third day of May, twenty-nine officers were brought into camp, who had been taken at Chattanooga. This gave us some news from our western army, and for a day seemed to divert our minds. I see by a diary kept by me in prison, that on that day I paid ten dollars for a coffee pot, and three dollars for a cup, and on the 5th of May I bought one quart of strawberries for three dollars, and four dozen eggs for ten dollars. This was for our mess, which consisted of Captain R. B. Hock, 12th New York Cavalry, Captain Cady, 24th New York Independent Battery, and myself. I make this statement for fear some one who had kept track of my receipts and expenses, would think I was buying too much with the money received from the sale of that pair of shoes, and I will say here, although it may seem paradoxical, that although I had when I arrived at Macon, only one dollar in Greenbacks and a ten dollar North Carolina bill, still I spent while in prison, over ten thousand dollars in Confederate money, and got it all honestly too. And I wish to say here, that I had enough to eat nearly all the time I was a prisoner. We were always pleased to welcome new arrivals, for then we could get news from our armies that we could rely upon, and were cheered to hear by every fresh fish that came, that our bully boy Grant was pushing Lee back on to Richmond, and that Petersburgh was beseiged. New arrivals were almost daily coming in, and we always crowded about them to hear the latest news from the front. It was noticeable that every one gave us something that was cheerful. Never while I was a prisoner did I hear any doubt expressed as to the ultimate result, either by those Union prisoners or the new arrivals. Naturally of a hopeful and cheerful disposition, and always looking upon the bright side of every question, I (to use a slang phrase) soon “tumbled to the situation,” and tried to accommodate myself to the circumstances that surrounded me.

I found that in prison, as at home, there were some who were fitted for one thing and some for another. The same adaptability for different pursuits were found there as are found in our home every day life. There were mechanics, tradesmen, artists and laborers. Some could take beef bones and out of them fashion all manner of beautiful trinkets, such as napkin rings, bibles, crochet needles, etc., others could make pencil sketches of the different scenes that were daily witnessed, portraits of prisoners, sketches of the different portions of the stockade and quarters. Others were better adapted to buying and selling, and still others could repair or make shoes. I remember seeing one pair of shoes made that I must describe. The sole was shaped out of a piece of pine board or plank, and the uppers were made out of an old pair of boot legs; a groove was made entirely around the sole, and the leather pegged on, so that the sole came out about half an inch each side, making a really artistic pair of shoes, and durable too, fastened together with wooden pegs whittled out by hand. I had a pair of slippers made out of the cape of my overcoat that were not only comfortable, but serviceable as well, and not at all bad looking. In this prison every trade was represented and nearly all were plied to some extent, sometimes for the purpose of gaining a living and sometimes to keep the mind occupied, and to make their quarters more comfortable.

As for myself, having up to the time of entering the service been a salesman, I found this to be my most profitable vocation. I sold on commission; I see by referring to a diary kept by me during my imprisonment, that on the 11th of May I sold a pair of gauntlets for one officer for twenty dollars and another pair for twenty-five dollars; also a hat for Lieutenant Hastings, 24th New York Independent Battery, for twenty dollars. By thus selling for others who could not sell such articles, or buying of them and selling to the Johnnies, I could make enough, with an occasional sale of some of my own surplus stock, to buy enough provisions to add to my drawn rations to make myself quite comfortable most of the time. I was always fond of a good meal, and I fear when I give a list of what I bought and the price I paid, the reader will think I had rather extravagant notions in this respect. For instance, one day I paid fifteen dollars for a beef shank and fifty-six dollars for a smoked ham, five dollars for a dozen eggs, and three seventy-five for a cabbage, and was offered peas in the pod at one dollar a quart, but I thought this would be rather too rich for my blood and postponed the purchase, hoping for a decline in the market. Now do not think that I ate all of this myself. There were three of us in the mess, and I did the buying and cooking for the party. The above purchase was only one of many, but will serve to show how much it cost us to live. When it is considered that five dollars in Confederate money was only equal to one dollar in greenbacks, and that a dollar greenback was only about forty cents in gold, it will be conceded that the price paid after all was not so very high, especially when it is remembered the scarcity of provisions at that time, May, 1864; for instance, the ham, for which I paid fifty-six dollars was only four dollars and fifty cents.

CHAPTER VIII.

moving into the stockade—skirmishing—mr. cashmeyer’s sutler wagon—captain irsh bucked and gagged by order of tabb—captain tabb relieved—how we passed the time—the meetings—gambling houses—social and singing circles.

On the 17th of May the stockade was completed and we were moved inside, where we were joined by eight hundred other officers, who had been confined in Richmond, among whom were Brigadier Generals Wessels and Scammon. Twenty-one others, who had been confined in jail in the city of Macon, were also added to our number. Most of the Richmond prisoners had been there a long time and were out of money and nearly destitute of clothing. We had up to this time been comparatively free from vermin, having thus far been in an open field with only a guard around us and with some facilities for cleanliness. But contact with these old “salt cod,” as they were called (we being designated as fresh fish), soon brought us to the daily skirmish line, and we thereafter found plenty to do to keep the graybacks in any kind of subjection. At first it was with a good deal of embarrassment and attempted concealment that this necessary duty was performed.

I shall never forget my first efforts in this new duty. All day I had been annoyed by something tickling my leg at a certain spot, and had tried all sorts of ways to rid myself of the annoyance, but though for a moment relieved, it would every time return to pester me. I more than half suspected the cause, but did not dare to let my companions see that there was anything the matter, lest they should drive me out of the tent and refuse to associate with me. I finally managed to be left alone in the tent, and quickly taking off my pants and drawers proceeded to investigate the affair. I was nervous and excited, fearing while I was prosecuting the investigation one or both of them might return and discover what I was doing. I felt like a culprit and blushed like a school girl at the sound of approaching footsteps. A sense of guiltiness took possession of me, and I felt as though I was committing some terrible crime. I know I should have fled most ignominiously had either of them come back, while I was thus employed, for such a thing had not been thought of as possible to us, and it would forever disgrace me to be the one who should bring such a filthy plague into our hitherto tidy and carefully-kept tent. It did not take long to solve the mystery, and to say that I was thoroughly disgusted and overcome to find my worst fears realized, in discovering two good, fat, healthy-looking graybacks under the seams of my drawers, would but faintly express the sensations I experienced.

SKIRMISHING AT MACON, GA.

After assuring myself that there were no more I hastily resumed my apparel, and tried to look as though nothing had occurred when my comrades again returned. But that guilty feeling would not forsake me, and I was really ashamed to look them in the face, and though I tried hard to appear natural, I thought they looked at me suspiciously.

“Conscience makes cowards of us all.”

I know I was gloomy and dejected all the balance of the evening. This was noticed by my tent mates, but was attributed to a far different cause. They thought I was homesick, while the discovery had only made me sick at the stomach. It was not many weeks, however, before I could set down with my pipe in my mouth, in company with half a dozen others, and go through the same operations with the nonchalance that the same number of old ladies would gossip over their knitting work.

Before our prison life was over, it was no uncommon occurrence to receive a morning call from some old comrade, who would do as these old ladies used to do when they went a visiting, bring his k—nitting work along, and in passing one another’s quarters such dialogues as this would frequently be heard: “Hello, Johnny! on the skirmish line, what luck?” “Oh I ain’t doing much this morning, kind er drivin’ in the pickets, git a stray shot now and then, but I keep annoying them so they don’t get a chance to form.”

It is astonishing how quickly we became accustomed to things of this sort. The Brigadier General, who in garrison or field seemed so reserved and dignified, was here on the level with the Lieutenant in the company. And while rank in prison, as in the field, was respected, and genius was honored, on the skirmish line all met on an equality. In other words rank was waived in the presence of a common enemy—and the officer who neglected to daily inspect his clothing, was unmindful both of his own comfort, and the respect of his comrades. Our facilities for washing and boiling our clothing was very limited, and nothing but boiling them would have any effect in exterminating these troublesome pests; soap was a scarce commodity, and kettles for heating water were difficult to obtain, so the only way to rid ourselves of vermin, was to strip off our woolen shirt, (white shirts were seldom seen in prison) set down and carefully scrutinize the seams, where they would be found hid away; for it is a singular fact, that although while the shirt was on we could feel them roaming around all over the body, no sooner was it doffed than with a celerity that is perfectly unaccountable, they would all be found securely hid away under the seams of the garment, where they would leave an innumerable number of eggs, which were soon to be hatched out and become almost full, grown by the next morning. Having thoroughly exterminated the living, and destroyed as many of the still inanimate as possible, we would resume our shirt, and removing our pants and drawers, repeat the operation on these garments, and would then be comfortable the balance of the day.

This duty was usually performed just after breakfast, while we were enjoying our pipes, and talking over plans for the day, and would occupy about an hour. After coming off of duty on the skirmish line, it would be about time to fall in for roll call, or more properly speaking, for count. We were made up into squads of ninety each, and one of our comrades chosen as commandant, who would, at a signal, fall in his squad in two ranks, when each squad would be counted to make sure that none had escaped. This counting was always done by a reb sergeant, who would be accompanied by an armed guard of twenty-five or thirty soldiers. When the count was completed, we would break ranks and separate, to pass the day as best suited each individual. Usually the first thing to be thought of was the purchases for the day, or as we would call it here at home, marketing. These purchases were generally made of a reb sutler named Cashmeyer, who was allowed to come into the enclosure, accompanied by a guard and attended by a negro, driving a mule hitched to a cart. The cart would be loaded with beef, bacon, potatoes, onions, cabbage, tobacco, cigars, soap, etc., which had been ordered the day previous. We also had two or three sutlers of our own number, who bought of the reb sutler in large quantities, and then retailed it out at a small profit, say about two hundred per cent, to those whose means were too limited to buy at wholesale.

Our mess, consisting of Capt. R. B. Hock, 12th New York Cavalry, Capt. Cady, 24th New York Independent Battery, and myself, was probably as well supplied with funds as any in the camp; and as I was caterer and cook, and unrestricted in my expenditures by Capt. Hock, who supplied most of the funds, our table was usually as well supplied as the scanty market would allow. I would send out by this reb sutler for fifty or seventy-five dollars’ worth of provisions at a time, and by thus buying in large quantities, get the lowest rates. I have spoken about buying our provisions in large quantities—I mean by this a half peck of potatoes, a dozen eggs, a couple of loaves of soft bread, a whole ham which down there would weigh, perhaps, ten or twelve pounds, a quart of onions, etc. Now a small quantity as sold by our sutler inside would mean a couple of potatoes, an onion, a pint of corn meal, and half a pound of meat of some kind. This, in addition to the rations we drew, would suffice for a day very well. We drew three or four days’ rations at a time. These rations consisted of two ounces of bacon, half a pint of rice, a pint of corn meal, and a teaspoonful of salt a day per man; but when Capt. W. Kemp Tabb took command of the prison camp he at once cut these down one-third. Capt. Tabb took command the 18th of May, relieving Major Turner (not Dick Turner), who was a gentleman and a soldier, and who seemed to try to make our imprisonment as endurable as possible. On the other hand, Tabb was a cowardly rascal, who seemed to delight in nothing so much as in adding to our discomfort and annoyance.

CAPT. IRSH BUCKED AND GAGGED BY CAPT. TABB, AT MACON, GA.

He did not hesitate to plunder or rob the prisoners under his charge, and if any one reposed confidence enough in him, to let him have anything of value to sell for them, they were just out that amount. Captain Francis Irsh, of the 45th New York, let Tabb take his watch and chain to see if he could sell it to some jeweler for $400, and after having been put off on one excuse and another for several days, threatened to report Tabb for swindling him, when he was bucked and gagged for three hours, setting in the hot sun, as a punishment for his offence. His watch and chain was subsequently returned, Tabb being afraid that keeping it would get him into trouble. The next day, he having heard that I had a good field glass, tried by soft talk about buying it, to get it into his possession, but learning from one of my comrades that he was aware that I owned one, and was trying to buy it, I took it apart and divided it up among half a dozen of my friends, and when he came I told him I had disposed of it, which was true, for I had done so most effectually. He succeeded, however, by pretending to wish to buy, in inducing Doctor McPherson to show his, and when he got it into his possession, claimed it as a contraband article, and confiscated it to himself. I find in my diary of the same day (June second), this note: Captain Tabb was relieved to-day by Captain Gibb, and started for Richmond. May he get shot.

He was well known to all to be an unprincipled coward, and on two different occasions at least, he was most effectually snubbed. On one occasion it was by Chaplain White, of the 5th Rhode Island H. A., who was an earnest christian, and in connection with Chaplain Dixon, 16th Connecticut, regularly held divine service every Sunday, and prayer meetings once or twice during the week. In these services it was his custom to pray for the President of the United States.

One Sunday morning Tabb came in at roll call, and notified the Chaplain that he would not hereafter be allowed to offer prayer for the President. Chaplain White told him that while he retained his power of speech, his prayers should be dictated only by his conscience and his sense of duty. Chaplain Dixon opened the service that morning and made in his prayer an eloquent appeal, not only for the President of the United States, but for the success of our army, and for every Union soldier, whether in hospital, in prison, or in the field, and was not interrupted or interfered with by Tabb, who could hear every word from his quarters.

On another occasion he told Col. Lagrange, who was in command of number nine squad, to which I belonged, that he should hold him responsible for any tunnelling, or attempted escape of the men in his squad, who haughtily replied that he was not placed there as a spy or detective, and that he should not betray the secrets of his comrades, but would, to the utmost of his ability, render them any assistance they needed. This speech was cheered by the squad in the most hearty manner.

We always found that our treatment was fair whenever we were guarded by old soldiers who had seen service at the front; but when the new issue, who were a cowardly lot of home guards, were placed over us, there was no extremity of cruelty and meanness that they would not resort to, to render our condition more miserable and unbearable, even to shooting an officer who was quietly attending to his own business. A case of this kind occurred on the 11th of June, when Lieut. Gerson of the 45th New York Volunteers, who was returning from the sink about 8 o’clock in the evening, was shot and killed by one of the guards named Belger, of the 27th Georgia Battalion (Co. E). This was a brutal and deliberate murder, as the officer was not within ten feet of the dead line and was coming from it towards his quarters, besides the full moon was shining brightly, and the sentry could not have thought he was trying to escape. The truth is, he had told his girl when he left home, that he would shoot a Yankee before he returned, and was too cowardly to attempt to kill one who was armed. This fellow was promoted to a Sergeant and given thirty days’ leave for his cowardly act. Of course, in a prison like Macon, where none but officers were confined, the indignities and abuses were less frequent and severe than in Andersonville, where the enlisted men were held. Officers of intelligence were less liable to submit tamely to these indignities than were the men, who had been schooled to obey orders, and could and did, command more respect; besides, there were less of us, and our prison was more roomy and better kept.

A certain number were detailed every morning from each squad, to thoroughly police the quarters, and keep them in a good, clean, healthy condition. Then, officers were usually possessed of more money and valuables than the enlisted men, and were better prepared to subsist themselves, when rations were cut down to starvation points. The wonder is not with me, that so many of our boys died in prison, but that any of them got out alive. When I saw officers reduced to skeletons, and driven to insanity by the treatment they received, and then think of the poor fellows whose sufferings were a thousand fold greater, the only wonder is that human nature could endure it all. But I started to tell how we passed the time.

After doing our marketing, which, by the way, was happily illustrated by a reb, who said he used to go to market with his money in his vest pocket, and carry a basket on his arm to bring home his purchases in; but now, he was obliged to take his money in the basket, and could almost carry home his purchases in his vest pocket.

CAPTAIN ALBAN ON POLICE DUTY.

We amused ourselves by reading, playing cards, chess, checkers, and other games, while those wishing exercise played cricket or practiced the sabre exercise or fencing, to keep our muscles up, and perfect ourselves in the use of arms. Sabres and foils were whittled out of pine or ash sticks, with which we supplied ourselves. One German whose name I failed to take down, gave daily lessons in fencing, and he was not only an excellent teacher, but an expert swordsman. I have seen him allow three of his most advanced pupils come at him at once, and tell them to go at him as though they meant to kill him, and he would successfully defend himself against them all. One thing I distinctly remember was that he could not speak very plain English, and when he would give the order, “On guard en carte,” in his quick way of speaking it, a person who did not know what he intended to say, thought he said “Cut-a-gut,” and he was known in prison as “Old Cut-a-Gut” always after.

After we had exercised sufficiently we would lay down in the shade and read or sleep during the hottest portion of the day. A number of us formed a literary association, each subscribing toward the purchase of a library that a citizen of Macon had to sell. He said he had a library of about one hundred books, that he would sell for $500, as he was destitute and was obliged to part with them to buy provisions for his family. So twenty of us chipped in $25 apiece around and started a circulating library, appointed one of our number librarian, and in this way we were well supplied with reading matter for a long time.

I do not remember all, or any considerable number of the titles of these books, but what interested me most were some old Harper’s magazines, in the reading of which I found days and weeks of profitable enjoyment. I do not think I ever fully appreciated until then, how much real comfort it was possible to extract from those old literary productions. Our reading was usually done during the hottest part of the day while lying in our quarters, when out of door exercise was too uncomfortable, and when we got tired of reading we would take a nap or go visiting to some of our friends in other portions of the camp, and there sit and talk over affairs, discussing the prospects of exchange, spinning yarns, cracking jokes, or singing old war songs to cheer each other up and pass away the time. Others would resort to the gambling tent, where there was always a game of cards going on; sometimes it was three card loo and sometimes poker; but they would sit there from early morning until dark and play for money, and, as is always the case, some would come away happy and some broke. But somehow or other the same gang would be there the next day, anxious to retrieve their broken fortunes of the previous day, or add to their gains. Men would there as here, sell the last button off their coat to raise money to continue the game, with a hope that luck would come their way. Thus, some who came into prison with enough to subsist them for quite a long time, would soon be obliged to live on the rations they drew, while others, who were nearly destitute when they came in, would live like fighting cocks. I could rehearse incidents of this kind that came under my personal observation, but as I could not do so without giving names, as the boys say, I won’t give it away.

All sorts of games were played, some for money, and some for pastime. Cribbage, back gammon, euchre, seven up, and sometimes we would play poker for the beans we drew for our rations. When the bean ration was given out, each man would have perhaps a good tablespoonful, then five or six would sit down and play until one would have the whole, which would make him quite a respectable dinner, and the rest would have to go without. Thus it will be seen that our prison camp was a village, where all kinds of business was carried on, and all sorts of characters were to be found. We had our church, our prayer meetings, our social circles, our singing, our visiting, and our gambling houses, all in a space of four or five acres of ground.

We had some excellent singers, and were frequently entertained during the long evenings with solos, quartettes, and choruses, patriotic, sentimental and pathetic.

Among the patriotic songs oftenest heard, were “The Star Spangled Banner,” “The Red, White and Blue,” “The Sword of Bunker Hill,” and “Rally ’Round the Flag;” but the one that touched a tender chord in every prisoner’s heart, and that even the rebs used to call for, was this which I quote entire:

In the prison pen I sit, thinking mother most of you,
And the bright and happy home so far away,
While the tears they fill my eyes, spite of all that I can do,
Though I try to cheer my comrades and be gay.
Chorus.—Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching,
Cheer up, comrades, they will come,
And beneath the starry flag, we shall breathe the air again,
Of the freeland, in our own beloved home.
In the battle front we stood, when their fiercest charge was made,
And they swept us off, a hundred men or more,
But before we reached their lines, they were driven back dismayed,
And we heard the shout of victory o’er and o’er.
Chorus.—Tramp, tramp, etc.
So within the prison pen, we are waiting for the day,
That shall come and open wide the iron door,
And the hollow eye grows bright, and the poor heart almost gay,
As we think of seeing friends and home once more.

Then there was another, the chorus of which I can only remember, that the boys used to sing. The chorus was this:

Hurrah, boys, hurrah! Shout glory and sing;
For the rebels look sad and forsaken.
Our glorious old eagle is still on the wing,
And Vicksburg is taken, boys, taken.

Among the beautiful singers who were in the habit of entertaining us, I distinctly remember Capt. Palmer, who had a good voice, and to whose singing I was delighted to listen. I do not know to what regiment he belonged, but I do know that he afforded me a great amount of pleasure by his sweet songs.

Not being much of a singer myself, I nevertheless enjoy listening to others, and as I once heard a noted preacher say, it depends as much on a good listener as a good talker to have an enjoyable meeting, I thought that I contributed as much as any one towards the entertainments.

Whenever there was any singing going on, there was always a good audience of appreciative listeners, and among eighteen hundred officers, I need not say there was plenty of talent to select from, and these evening entertainments were a source of great enjoyment to all, even though the same songs were sung over and over again by the same persons.

CHAPTER IX.

fresh fish—arrival of col. miller—death of lieut. wood, 82nd indiana—more fresh fish.

Upon the arrival of new prisoners at the gate of the stockade, there would be a cry raised throughout the camp, commencing near the entrance, and spreading rapidly to the farthest extremity of the enclosure, of “fresh fish! fresh fish!!” It was like the alarm of fire in a city, and quickly collected a crowd, and as the numbers increased, the din became more deafening, and to the new comer who did not know what it meant, perfectly appalling.

I have seen prisoners come in who looked perfectly bewildered as they gazed upon the mob of ragged, shoeless, hatless, unshaven, long-haired, howling beings who confronted them, looking more like escaped lunatics than officers; when some one back in the crowd would sing out, give the gentleman air, don’t take his haversack, keep your hands out of his pocket, don’t put that louse on him, why don’t some of you fellows take the gentleman’s baggage, and show him to his room, Johnny show the gentleman up to No. 13. I remember especially, the look of perfect bewilderment on the face of Col. Frank C. Miller, of the 147th New York, as he stood at the entrance of the enclosure, and the look of joyful relief as I called out, hello Frank, come over here, and he recognized an old and intimate friend. And he told me afterwards, that he never in his life was so pleased to see any one as he was to see me just at that moment, for, said he, I thought they were putting me into a lunatic asylum.

FRESH FISH.

A stinging rebuke was given by, I think it was Gen. Schaler, who said to his escort, loud enough to be heard by all: “I thought I was going to be put in an officer’s prison.” This practice was mostly confined to the old Libby prisoners, who had, some of them, been confined for more than a year, and had, in a measure, become demoralized; for I do not believe there can be anything more demoralizing than the sufferings, privations, and hardships endured by our prisoners; and I wish to say right here, that to Chaplain Dixon, of the 16th Connecticut, and Chaplain White of the 5th R. I. Heavy Artillery, the officers owe a debt of gratitude for the faithfulness with which they performed their christian duties. They were both earnest christian workers, zealous in the cause of the Master, anxious for the eternal welfare of the souls of those who were placed in their keeping, and fearless in the discharge of the duties devolving upon them as embassadors for Christ. While all did not profit by their earnest exhortations, there were few who were not benefitted by their presence and faithful counsels, and all held them in high respect and admiration for their christian qualities. Speaking of Col. Miller’s entrance into Macon, as soon as the crowd saw that he had found an old friend, they gave way and I escorted him to our quarters, where I went to work, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing him happy in the enjoyment of a good breakfast. I cooked a couple of eggs, with a small piece of bacon, and fried a few sliced potatoes, which, with a biscuit, made what we called an elegant meal. The Colonel was busy talking and eating when, looking up, he said, as he helped himself to the last egg and biscuit, “By George, Lon, they give you good rations here, don’t they?”

“Good rations!” said I, “good rations! why, Frank how much do you think this breakfast cost?”

“Why, I don’t know, I supposed you drew this for rations.”

“Well,” said I, “this meal cost just about eleven dollars. All the rations you draw for two days, wouldn’t make such a meal as this.”

Colonel Miller, who had been a near neighbor and associate of mine long before the war broke out, received a severe wound in the chest by a minnie ball, at the Battle of the Wilderness, and was reported dead and was mourned as such by his family for a long time, but was rescued from the flames that broke out, after the battle, and taken a prisoner to Salisbury, and placed in the hospital there, whence he was removed when convalescent, to Macon. He soon found the Adjutant of his regiment, Lieutenant H. H. Lyman, who gave him a place in his quarters, and they afterwards remained together.

On the 23d of May, Lieutenant Wood, 82nd Indiana, died in the hospital, just outside the stockade, and was buried the next day at 1.30 p. m. Chaplain White being allowed to hold the funeral service, a number of us offered to give our parole to attend the funeral, but our request was denied. On the same day one hundred and eleven fresh fish were brought in, among whom were Brigadier Generals Seymour and Schaler. That night about ten o’clock a tremendous storm came up, which drowned out all who had not built themselves sheds, and the main building, where were quartered the general officers, etc., was crowded with those driven from their quarters by the drenching rain. This main building as it was called, was a large hall, that had been built for the display of goods during the fair, which had heretofore been held on these grounds, and was the only building in the stockade that was clapboarded and shingled, and with the exception of an old tumble down affair on the opposite side, east, was the only building in the enclosure when we took possession.

Having built myself a shelter on the first day I entered the stockade, I was all right; but those who had burrowed for shelter were driven out like rats from a flooded cellar, and were obliged to seek shelter in the large hall from the pitiless storm. There was not room for all, and those who could not crowd in there had to rough it out as best they could. On the 25th of May, I first met Adjutant H. H. Lyman, of the 147th New York, from whom I learned that Col. Miller was wounded and a prisoner.

About this time, they brought us in lumber, pine poles and nails, to build ourselves some sheds, and all went to work on the construction. I belonged to No. 9 squad, and on the 27th of May, our lumber and other materials were furnished, and we all went to work, and by night had our shed so nearly completed that we moved in, though it took us several days to get our bunks finished and everything comfortably arranged. It was amusing to see a squad of ninety men go to work to erect one of these sheds.

Out of the ninety, about thirty would do the work, and the rest would stand around and make suggestions. Among so many who should be equally interested, it was astonishing how many bosses there would be, who could tell how it ought to be done, but seemed indisposed to do it. Nothing was done to suit these Superintendents, but when their grumblings became too loud and boisterous, some one who was tugging away at the big end of one of these fifty feet pine poles, would rest it on his knees long enough to shout “Louder, old pudden head.” This was a favorite epithet, used to quiet any one in camp who got too excited or eloquent on any subject, and I remember one Tennessee officer, Captain Hayes, who so objected to it that he was ready to fight any one who called him “old pudden head”—and I have seen him furiously searching for the man who had yelled this, while he was loudly proclaiming his sentiments on some subject, but it only caused him to be annoyed the more, for when it was seen how sensitive he was on this point, there were plenty to be found to thus pester him, while they dexterously avoided the blows, aimed at their heads with a stick he hurled after them. He was a large, powerful man, with a voice that could be heard from one end of the camp to the other, very excitable when talking, and could never understand a joke, but took everything in earnest, and nothing afforded the boys more pleasure than to get him boiling mad.

CHAPTER X.

manner of tunnelling.

The manner of digging a tunnel was this: The place selected to commence a tunnel would usually be in some shed nearest the stockade. In these sheds we had built ourselves bunks, ten or twelve inches from the ground, which would usually be movable, and, after the camp had become quiet, one of these bunks would be removed and a well sunk five or six feet, first taking the precaution to carefully lay aside the dirt that was just shoveled off, because that would be dark and look old. Then a guard would be stationed to prevent any one from seeing what was going on. Pickets would be thrown out, who, if any one approached, would enter into conversation with them, in a tone loud enough to be heard by the tunnellers, and caution them to suspend operations until the danger was over, when the work would be resumed.

TUNNELLING AT MACON, GA.

In a camp of eighteen hundred, with always some sick, there would be no time in the night when some were not going to or returning from the sinks; so that seeing anyone moving about camp in the night attracted no particular notice. One would dig and fill haversacks or bags, and another, with an overcoat on, would carry it concealed beneath that garment to some place that had been selected as a dumping ground and deposit it, returning to the shed by a roundabout way so as not to attract attention. After a well had been sunk about five feet, the tunnel proper would be started horizontally, in the direction desired, always keeping as accurate a measure of the distance tunnelled as possible. When it came time to suspend operations for the night, boards that had been previously prepared, would be fitted in the well, two feet below the surface, and covered over with some of the earth that had been removed, always being careful to put the old dirt that had been preserved on top, thus giving the surface the same appearance as the rest of the ground; all would then be carefully swept over, and all traces of new or fresh earth removed. The bunk would then be replaced and everything resume the careless appearance of everyday life.

So cautiously would this work be carried on that officers sleeping only a few feet away would not be disturbed, and never suspect that anything unusual had been going on. Thus, night after night, would the work be prosecuted, the men spelling each other in digging and doing sentry duty, until, by careful measurement, it was ascertained that the tunnel had reached a sufficient distance beyond the stockade to insure an escape. No one in the prison, except those engaged in the work, would be let into the secret until the work was completed and the tunnel was to be opened. This secrecy was necessary to prevent a curious crowd from hanging around, which would attract the attention of the rebs, who, in blissful ignorance of any plot, would sing out: “Post number fo, twelve o’clock, and a-l-l’s w-e-l-l. Post number six, twelve o’clock, and a-l-l’s w-e-l-l!” When, perhaps, some wakeful wag of a Yankee prisoner would answer: “Post number fo, twelve o’clock, and the Confederacy has gone to h—l,” in the same sing-song way the reb guard had just given it. Sometimes the Johnnies would take all of this good-naturedly, and at others would call out: “Here, you Yanks, if youens don’t keep still I’ll shoot in thar,” which would have the effect of quieting them for a time.

On the 17th of May, we were moved into the stockade, and it was not long before we commenced prospecting to find an opening for an escape.

A tunnel was commenced almost immediately, but after working ten nights upon it, it was discovered and filled up. This did not discourage them, however; they must have something to occupy their time; and although we were busy all day building sheds, this did not prevent us from trying nights to find a way out of our confinement. When the first tunnel was discovered, that had just been started, all hands were fell into line, and a general search was made for tunnels, but none were discovered. On the next day, however, Captain Tabb succeeded in discovering another, and in an altercation with Maj. Pasco, of the 16th Connecticut, who was claiming that he had a right to escape whenever he could, slapped the Major in the face for asserting his rights. This was a cowardly act, for Tabb was not only armed, but surrounded by a guard, while, of course, Major Pasco was an unarmed prisoner. It made a fellow’s blood boil to witness and suffer such indignities; but what could we do under such circumstances? To resist was certain death, while to submit was a mortification and humiliation that it was hard for a proud-spirited officer to submit to, in the presence of his comrades. All we could do was to hoot and hiss him from a safe distance, and chaff and exasperate him by sneering, deriding and laughing at him; so that although he was the king, and we the subjects, we managed to insert in the crown he wore, more thorns than laurels. On the second day after the discovery of this second tunnel, Tabb had a platform built on the northwest corner of the stockade, and another on the opposite side, upon each of which he mounted a twelve-pounder brass-piece.

Here was a good chance to have some fun, and as we watched the progress of the erection of the platforms and mounting of the guns, we indulged in all sorts of comments and criticisms. Some one would sing out, “Say, Captain, get a good, strong force behind that gun when you fire it, to catch it when it goes over;” “Say, Johnny, that gun is like the Irishman’s musket, there’ll be more danger behind it than in front;” “Tabb, when you fire that gun, just stand plumb behind it, and we’ll be satisfied;” “I’ll let you shoot that gun at me for a dollar a shot, and take Confederate money, if you will pull the laniard yourself.” “How is it that Lee never found you out, and placed you in command of his engineer corps or artillery, instead of keeping such a genius here, guarding Yankee prisoners, with no chance of immortalizing yourself?” “Barnum would make a fortune out of you. Why, he paid five thousand dollars once for a fellow that wasn’t half as big a humbug, and done well out of the speculation.” “Oh! go soak your head.” “Don’t shoot, Tabb; we won’t tunnel any more.” “We don’t want to get away; we just dig a little once in a while for exercise.” “You can’t drive us out of the Confederacy with that gun; we have come to stay.”

Such exasperating expressions were kept up from morning till night, for the two days they were at work erecting these guns on the frail platforms, to prevent tunnelling. But these precautions did not for a moment interfere with our tunnelling, and while we were thus pestering Tabb, others were busy preparing other avenues of escape. Two tunnels were started simultaneously, one commencing in an old building on the east side of the camp, and the other in what was called No. 7 Squad, which was on the opposite side of the stockade. The one on the east side was already to open, and the one on the west nearly ready, when they were both discovered and filled up. There was strong evidence of treachery in the discovery of these tunnels, as Captain Tabb went directly to both of them, and seemed to know just where to find them.

There was at this time in the prison, one Hartswell Silver, who claimed to be a Captain in the 16th Illinois Cavalry, but who was generally believed to be a spy, placed in there to detect our efforts at escape, and to him was attributed the disclosure of our plot. Had these two tunnels been completed, at least half of the officers would have escaped, and as the force guarding us was small at that time, there is no doubt but that the majority of us would have succeeded in getting away. In fact the evening before, two or three officers escaped, by crawling under the stockade, where the branch or stream entered the camp. They were fired upon by the guard, and one was brought back. The long roll was sounded and the whole force turned out in expectation of a general break. All officers were notified that any one leaving their quarters, even to go to the sink, would be fired upon by the guard. A great excitement prevailed among the rebs all night, which was aggravated by those in their bunks calling out every little while—“Corporal of the guard post number fo.” “Dry up there will you.” “Oh! give us a rest.” “Louder old pudden head.” “What’s the matter with you.” “Put him out.” “Shoot him.” “Lie down.” “Tabb try your big gun on this fellow,” and like expressions, making a perfect uproar in camp all night long. After a moment’s silence, some fellow would imitate the plaintive caterwaling of a cat, another barking like a hound, and another would answer from away off with the deep bark of the mastiff, another would crow like a cock. Sleep was out of the question, you might as well try to quiet a barroom full of drunken politicians who had elected their favorite candidate as to keep those fellows still. Once in a while the guard would call out, “keep still there you Yanks or I’ll shoot in there,” when some one at a safe distance would sing out “Put him in the guard house.” “Buck and gag him.” “Stone the loafer,” etc., and so it kept on during the whole night.

The next morning Tabb had two more field pieces planted in the woods to the south of our camp, and horsemen appeared with hounds to track and capture the fugitives, but for some reason they could not get on the right trail and only succeeded in treeing a coon. There were several other escapes about this time. One by Lieut. H. Lee Clark, 2d Massachusetts H. A., who sought out Miss Frankie Richardson, who made arrangements to help him out of the city, but this same Hartswell Silver, who was boarding there, betrayed him and he was brought back again. This Silver was paroled the day the tunnels were discovered and was never in camp afterwards, and it is just as well for him that he was not, for, as the boys said, Silver was at that time at a premium, and would have been higher, if he had put in an appearance. Lieut. Frost, 85th New York, also escaped in a reb uniform, as did several others, and Lieutenant Wilson of the regulars was sent out in the sutler’s vegetable box. This Lieutenant Wilson was an Englishman, and I think belonged to the regular army.

MR. CASHMEYER’S SUTLER WAGON, MACON, GA.

Mr. Cashmeyer came in one afternoon, as was his daily custom, with his cart, driven by a negro. Upon the cart was a dry goods box, filled with potatoes, onions, cabbage, turnips, bacon, beef, eggs, &c., which he usually disposed of to the Yankee sutler and others whose means justified them in purchasing, in what we call large quantities. He stopped as usual, at the shanty of the camp sutler, and there sold out his load. While he was in the shanty settling up, the crowd as usual gathered around his cart, and this Lieut. Wilson clambered into the box on the cart, while the crowd stood about the door of the shanty, the negro driver all the time maintaining that stolid look of innocence, so peculiar to the race, as he (the Lieutenant) was covered with empty sacks, that had contained the vegetables. And when Mr. Cashmeyer mounted the seat beside the driver, and left the camp, he was as innocent of helping a Yankee to escape, as the innocent looking negro seemed to be. The negro drove directly to the barn and unharnessed the mule, and as it was nearly dark, went to his quarters. The Lieutenant finding himself alone clambered out of the box and started off. Taking the railroad, he walked about five miles, when, as he said, he met a man who looked very fierce and who asked him where he came from, and where he was going. And after giving an equivocal answer the man asked him if he was not a Yankee officer, which he was too scrupulous to deny, and gave himself up, and allowed himself to be brought back, although the man who brought him back was like himself unarmed. But as he said on his return, the man spoke so gruff like, and looked so stern, that he thought there was no use of remonstrating. We nicknamed him George Washington, and tried to find a little hatchet for him, as an emblem of his innocence and truthfulness. As he remained in prison for a long time thereafter however, I think he may have regretted before he was exchanged, the conscientious scruples that would not allow him to tell a lie, even for the sake of freeing himself from the jeers of his comrades, and the tortures of prison life, which he had to endure afterwards.

It was a long time before he heard the last about that daring attempt to escape and the heroic defence he made against that unarmed reb who had recaptured and brought him back, and the desperate and successful resistance he had made against the temptation to tell a lie.

There is not an officer living who witnessed it, but will remember the celebration we held on the 4th of July. I will here quote what I that day briefly wrote in my diary of this celebration.

The day dawned bright and beautiful. I was up before the sun and prepared breakfast for Captains Hock, Cady and myself, which consisted of corn bread and butter, fried eggs, fried potatoes and coffee.

Our thoughts, now more than ever, turned towards the loved ones at home, who we see in imagination, with cheerful faces and bright smiles, hailing another anniversary of the day upon which our glorious republic was born, and methinks I can sometimes detect a shade of sadness flitting over the joyous features of kind friends, as the memory of the loved and absent is briefly recalled.

As we were being fell in for roll call, an officer displayed a miniature flag bearing the stars and stripes, which was greeted with cheer after cheer, by eighteen hundred prisoners. All gathered around that little emblem of liberty, and while every heart seemed bursting with patriotic enthusiasm, a thousand voices joined in singing that old song, which never fails to fire the patriotic heart—The Star Spangled Banner. After roll call, the officers by a common impulse assembled in and about the main building, in the center of the camp, and the services were opened by singing “Rally ’Round the Flag,” by the entire audience, after which Chaplain Dixon was called upon for prayer. He appealed in eloquent terms in behalf of our beloved but distracted country, for the success of our cause, for the President of the United States and all in authority, for universal freedom all over our land and the world, and for the speedy return of peace, when we could beat our swords into plow shares, and our spears into pruning hooks.

At the conclusion of the prayer, the entire congregation joined in singing “My Country ’Tis of Thee.” Captain Henry Ives was then called for, and mounting the platform gave us a very eloquent and stirring address. He was followed by Lieut. Ogden, 1st Wisconsin Cavalry, Lieutenant Leigh, 132nd New York, Captain E. N. Lee, 5th Michigan Cavalry, Captain Kellog, Chaplain Whitney, Chaplain Dixon and Lieut. Col. Thorp, 1st New York dragoons. I have during my life participated in a great many Fourth of July celebrations, but I never before—and I believe every officer at that time in Macon will say the same for himself—really and truly appreciated what a genuine celebration of the day meant.

If a stranger had come into camp Oglethorp at 3 o’clock that afternoon, he would have thought every man in prison was drunk, so intense was the enthusiasm, and yet there had not been a drop of anything of an intoxicating nature, to be had at any price for two months. Officers were drunk with excitement. The sight of that little flag that had been presented to Captain Todd by his sweetheart and smuggled into prison, sewed up in the lining of his vest, when shown in the morning, had created a degree of patriotic excitement that could not be kept down, and when some one said that Gibbs was coming in with a guard to take that flag, and suggested that it be secreted, a thousand voices shouted—stand by the flag boys—no traitor’s hand shall touch that flag—keep her swinging—there’s not rebs enough in Macon to take that flag to-day, &c.,—and I really and firmly believe that a terrible and bloody struggle would have ensued, had there been any attempt on the part of the authorities, to interfere with it or take it from us. I never saw men wrought up to such a pitch of excitement, and the rebs were afraid all day, that an attempt would be made to assault the stockade and break out. From nine o’clock in the morning until three in the afternoon, the celebration was kept up, with speaking and singing, when finally the rebel commandant sent in his officer of the day, who said we had been permitted to have a good celebration, and now he wished us to quietly adjourn which we did; giving three hearty cheers for the flag, three for Lincoln, and three for the cause. No officer who participated in this celebration can ever forget it while reason holds its sway.

Lieutenant Col. Thorp who had made a ringing speech, full of patriotic fire and enthusiastic confidence in the justice of our cause, and the ability of the Northern soldiers to maintain our national unity, restore the glorious old flag, with the stains of treason cleansed from its shining folds by the blood of loyal hearts, with not a star missing from its azure field, urged with the most impassioned eloquence, every officer in that prison pen to consecrate himself anew on this sacred day, to the cause of universal liberty, and the perpetuity of our national institutions, and pledge himself anew beneath that beautiful little emblem of freedom, to never sheathe his sword, until every traitor in all this broad land had kneeled beneath its tattered and blood-stained folds, and humbly craved the pardon of an outraged people, for their dastardly attempt to trail it in the filthy slough of Secession. I cannot pretend to give his words, and cannot fitly portray the fierce impetuosity, with which his scathing sentences were hurled like red hot shot into the ranks of treason. It was one of the most masterly efforts of patriotic eloquence I ever listened to, and when he had finished his address, which had been heartily applauded throughout, his hearers were wrought up to such a pitch of patriotic frenzy, that I really believe that had he at its close, called upon that unarmed crowd to follow him in an assault against the wooden stockade that surrounded us, that few would have been found to lag behind. He was at that time senior officer in the camp, and as such had been assigned by Col. Gibbs, the rebel commandant, to the command of the prison inside.

But shortly after this speech, a notice was posted on the side of the large building where this meeting had been held, removing him from the position, for making an inflammatory speech, and appointing another officer to the place. Col. Thorpe seemed to feel almost as much pride in this recognition of his effort at a Fourth of July speech, as in the applause he had received from his prison companions, or as he would had he been complimented on the field by his superior for a dashing cavalry charge, and the compliment was all the more appreciated because it had been paid to him so unconsciously by Col. Gibbs.

The stockade at Macon was built of inch pine boards, twelve feet long, put up endwise and made as tight as possible. On the outside of this fence, and about four feet from the top, was a platform for the sentry to walk on, where they could keep a lookout over the camp to see that we were not trying to escape. Upon this platform were posted sentinels at intervals of about thirty yards, with instructions to shoot any prisoner who touched or attempted to pass the dead line, which was a row of stakes, or sometimes a fence of light slats, such as a farmer would build to keep his chickens or ducks from roaming, and was about twenty-five feet from the stockade. The original object in establishing the dead line was a precaution against a sudden raid on the stockade, but it often afforded an excuse for some cowardly guard to shoot a Yankee prisoner, who inadvertantly came near enough to place his hand against it. We were not allowed to hang our clothes on this fence to dry, and on no account could a prisoner pass it with impunity.

CHAPTER XI.

receiving and sending off the mail—attempts to smuggle through forbidden matter—samples of letters sent home—boxes of letters received—my feelings at not receiving any.

We were allowed to write home, and by putting on a Confederate postage stamp costing 10 cents each, were promised that our letters would be forwarded to our friends, provided there was nothing objectionable in them.

We were obliged to leave them unsealed, so they could be examined by the postoffice department, and in order to ensure an examination they must be limited to fifty words. I wrote home a number of times, and my letters, as a general thing, came through all right. I wrote some that I did not expect they would forward, and was much surprised when I reached home to find they had been received all right, and in some cases published in the daily papers. I will give you a sample of one or two. The first was written to my cousin, H. M. Cooper, and read as follows:

C. S. MILITARY PRISON,
Macon, Ga., July 6, 1864.

My Dear Hal:—

Nearly four months have now elapsed since I took up my abode in this land of bacon and corn dodgers, and like the prodigal son, I often think of my father’s house, where there is bread enough and to spare. I dream nightly of fatted calves, but awake daily to the sad reality that my veal cutlets have all been transformed into salt bacon, my wheaten loaves into corn dodgers, and my wine into bran coffee.

I had purposed to visit the North during the summer months, but the many friends I have found here are so anxious to have me remain, that I find it impossible to tear myself away. But I expect the General[1] will soon be here, when I shall be obliged to say farewell to my Southern friends and with much reluctance leave their sunny clime for my cold, chilly, Northern home.

But their kindness and hospitality will ever be green in my memory and I shall improve every opportunity to show them the gratitude I feel for the hospitality they have actually forced me to accept.

This letter, as I have said, was sent through all right, whether it was because they did not read it or because they failed to discover the satire—perhaps it should like Nasby’s have been labelled a joke—I never knew. The next was written in the same vein, after I had escaped and been recaptured. Both had been published in the daily papers here, at the time, but the last one I have thus far failed to find. It was written after my escape and recapture, and detailed how, rather than risk the scene that would be sure to ensue, should I announce my intention of departing to my friend, the Confederate Colonel, and fearing I might be overcome by such an affecting leavetaking, that I concluded to start at three o’clock in the morning, while he was still sleeping, and thus spare not only him, but myself, an interview that would certainly be embarrassing to one or both of us.

But that, after I had traveled three hundred miles, his couriers overtook me, and were so urgent in their appeals for me to return, that I could not deny them, and had concluded to stay and see a little more of this beautiful Southern country before my return. But just as soon as I could persuade my friends to consent to my departure, I should surely return, and would try and make my friends in the North a good long visit, at least, before making another journey.

My letters were generally received by my friends in due time, but although they were promptly answered I never received a line to tell me whether my wife, who left for Newbern on the night of the first day’s fight, had got home or not, and when I was finally released, after nearly a year’s confinement, I did not know whether she was living or dead until I telegraphed from Annapolis and received an answer. We resorted to all sorts of devices to get letters through to our friends in the North, that contained matter that we were aware the Confederate authorities would not permit. I once wrote a short note in ink on a page of foolscap, and then filled up the sheet with a long letter, written with soda, which would be invisible until heated. My short note was an acrostic, and taking the first word of each line and reading it down formed this sentence: “I write with soda.”

But this letter never reached its destination. The reb authorities soon got onto these dodges, and were very careful in their examination of all correspondence of prisoners, and everything that looked at all suspicious was destroyed.

I only received one letter while I was in prison, and that was from Col. James W. Savage, of my regiment, which, for brevity and news, I think I never saw equalled. I have the letter yet, soiled, faded and worn, but quote it entire:

HEADQUARTERS 12TH N. Y. VOL. CAVALRY,
Camp Palmer, July 31st, 1864.

Dear Cooper:—

Russell is in a Northern hospital, nearly well; Maj. Clarkson is assistant inspector; Rocha temporarily in command of “I;” Ellison and Mahon have resigned; Maj. Gasper also, though his resignation has not been accepted. We have lost a few men in skirmishes since you were taken. Prewster and Rice, of D, and June, of G, are dead. You and Hock are constantly remembered by us all.

Signed, J. W. Savage, Col. 12th N. Y. V. Cavalry.

My regards. J. A. Judson, Capt. and A. A. Gen’l.

On the 14th of June the first box of letters were received in camp, and as the adjutant mounted a table and called off the names, eager hands were held out to receive a missive from home; and to show my feelings I quote from my diary of that date:

“I listened with bated breath to hear my name called, but the last letter was called off, and I was obliged to turn away disappointed, as were a good many others. It seems too bad that even this comfort must be denied me. I feel as though I was dead to the outer world, and only for hope, of which I always possessed a good share, I believe I should die.

“If I could only get a letter from home, and know that my wife had arrived safely and knew of my safety, I could better bear this imprisonment; but this uncertainty and suspense is enough to drive one mad.”

I quote this to show how blue it made us feel, after having waited so long, hoping that a mail would come, and then find that it contained nothing for us; it made us envious of those who had been more fortunate.

Not getting any letters, made us doubt whether the ones we had written home, had ever reached their destination. Here is a modest order I had sent in my last. Please send me two pounds of dried peaches, five of coffee, five of corn starch, ten of sugar, two of tea, one bar of castile soap, four cans condensed milk, one codfish, five of dried beef, one of cheese, two cotton shirts, two pair drawers, thread, etc. Oh, what visions of good living were mine, while I waited for the arrival of the box containing all of these good things, but that box never came. I was not starving, far from it, I had plenty to eat such as it was, and in this respect was much better off than the most of my comrades, but I so longed for something from home, something to remind me that I was remembered. It was the subject of my thoughts through the day, and of my dreams at night; and I used to have such vivid dreams of home, that after I had been paroled and returned, I have stood and looked around and pinched myself, to be sure that I was really out of prison, and not merely dreaming again, fearful lest I should wake up, as I so frequently had, to find myself still a prisoner.

I had so frequently had such vivid dreams of home, and as frequently awoke with such a feeling of despair and anguish, when I found I was still a prisoner, that even in my dreams, I would doubt the truth of what seemed so evident to me, and would look about for some familiar object, and say as I saw something I recognized, I know now that this cannot be a dream. The first place I would make for when I arrived at Oswego, in my dreams, was the old Fitzhugh House, which at that time was the first class house of the city, and order a dinner, determined to have a good square meal the first thing, even before visiting my family. These dreams had become so frequent, and seemed so real, and the reaction so great when I awoke to the consciousness that it was only a dream, that I could scarcely suppress a wail of despair, as the truth was forced upon me, that I was still in that rebel pen, surrounded by an armed guard, with no prospect of release, and little chance of escape, I can scarcely command language to fitly describe my feelings at such times.

On the 10th of June the following officers were called out, it was understood, to be sent to Charleston, to be placed under fire of our batteries on Morris Island: Generals Wessels, Seymour, Shaler, Scammon and Hickman; Colonels Grove, Hawkins, Harrison, Lehman, LaGrange, Lee, White, Bollinger, Brown, Dana, Fordella; Lieutenant Colonels Burnham, Baldwin, Bartholomew, Cook, Dickinson, Fellows, Fairbanks, Glenn, Hays, Hunter, Higginbotham, Joslyn, Mackin, Mills, Maxwell, Mahew, Moffit, Alcott, Postley, Rodgers, Hepford, Stuart, Swift, Taylor, Lascella, and Majors Beers, Baker, Bates, Clark, Carpenter, Crandall, Grant, Hall and Johnson. We were quite in hopes that these officers were to be exchanged. I again quote from my diary of this date: “Exchange stock in this market has been very dull, but is advancing a little to-day. I do not take any stock yet.”

In a few days, forty-four fresh fish came in from Grant’s army, which gave us nearly our full number again, and as every few days brought us fresh additions, we soon had considerable more than when they were sent away. These officers all brought us cheering news from the seat of war, and strengthened our confidence in the ultimate triumph of our cause, but could give us but little encouragement in regard to exchange. In fact those in the field seemed to be too actively engaged in breaking up the Confederacy, to give much thought to their comrades in prison, or what provisions were being made for their release.

CHAPTER XII.

the first division leaves camp oglethorp—plans for escape—their destination, charleston—thirty union officers and four of the “reb” guard are missing on their arrival at charleston—the story of the lieutenant in charge of the train as told to maj. lyman—departure of the second division—stopped at savannah, thus foiling our plans for escape.

At roll call on the 27th of July, the first division was notified to be ready to move to Charleston that evening. The prison camp presented a lively appearance all that day, baking, washing, packing up and getting ready to move.

About six p. m. we bid them good bye, and went back to our now half deserted quarters, to await our turn.

Plans of escape between Savannah and Charleston were freely discussed, and an organized break was agreed upon, when they came to the point nearest our forces.

This organized plot fell through in some way, but not being aboard of this train, I only know what I learned afterwards about the failure. About thirty officers did escape, by sawing through the floor of the cars, and were not missed until the train arrived at Charleston.

The following account of the affair, told by Lieut. Rogers, of the Confederate army to Maj. H. H. Lyman, this summer, however, throws a little light on the subject.

Lieut. Rogers said: “I was very young at the time, though a Lieutenant in the Confederate service, and was detailed to transport the Yankee prisoners from Macon to Charleston. I was very particular to instruct my men to be very vigilant, as the prisoners they were guarding were no ordinary fellows, but were a shrewd, sharp lot of Yankee officers, and would need a heap of watching; for if there was any chance to escape, they would improve it, and they must be constantly on the alert to prevent any of them getting away. Savannah was passed without any trouble, the Yankees seeming to enjoy themselves, singing, laughing and joking, and they and the guard seemed to be on the best of terms. Charleston was reached, and I proceeded to turn over my prisoners and turn them into the jail yard. I had been congratulating myself upon the successful accomplishment of my mission, when, upon counting them into the jail yard, what was my horror to ascertain, that I was thirty-four Yankee officers, and four guards short.

Instead of going to headquarters and reporting the situation, I sat down upon the curbstone in front of the jail to collect my thoughts, and consider what I should do.

While I was sitting there brooding over the affair, and feeling about as blue as though I was myself a prisoner, a Captain rode up and inquired if I was Lieut. Rogers and was in command of the guard, that brought the Yankee prisoners from Macon. I told him I was, and he told me I was ordered to report to the General’s headquarters under arrest. I went up to headquarters, not knowing whether I was to be shot or sent to prison, but concluded to make a clean breast of it, and tell all there was about it.

The General listened to my story, and after keeping me in suspense for what seemed to me to be a long time, released me from arrest, and told me to go back to Macon with the balance of my men, and be careful that I didn’t lose any on my way back.

The Lieutenant continued, I never afterwards heard from either the prisoners or my men. I didn’t care so much about the Yankee prisoners getting away, but would like to have got my guard back.

He did not know whether they were killed by the Yankee prisoners or had been induced by them to desert, the latter however, is the most probable, but as I have never heard from any of them since, I am equally in the dark concerning the affair, and, like the Lieutenant, can only guess at what took place.

The next day we were notified to be ready that evening, and that night we were counted out and placed on board the cars. Instead of taking us to Charleston, as we had been told they would, we were stopped at Savannah, and placed in the United States marine hospital yard, around which a stockade had been built, thus spoiling our plans of escape. “The best laid plans of mice and men aft gang aglee.” This was a yard of about two acres, quite well shaded with live oak trees, some of which grew to enormous dimensions, one on the south side, spreading over nearly or quite a hundred feet of ground. Here we drew rations of fresh beef, the first in many months, and our rations were generally better than we had heretofore received. We were strictly guarded, but, with few exceptions, were well treated. Colonel Wayne, of the 1st Georgia Regulars, was in command, who designated Colonel F. C. Miller, 147th New York, as senior officer of the camp, and all communications were forwarded through him.

Of course almost the first thing to do when we had got fairly settled in a new prison, was to commence a tunnel. Two were started, and had progressed nearly to completion, when as in Macon, these were both discovered and filled up. Another was soon started in a different direction, and was already to open, which would have given egress to half the camp, when, by a most unfortunate accident, it was discovered on the morning preceding the night we were to make the break. We had reached within a few inches of the surface, and ten minutes’ work would complete the opening, but it was so near daylight we thought we would be already that night, and get a good early start the next.

That morning, however, as the sentry was watching a cow cropping the grass just outside the camp, what was his surprise to see her suddenly break through and nearly disappear. Of course an investigation showed what had been done, and again had our toil been in vain—no, not in vain, for it had kept us employed, and diverted our minds from the misery of our situation.

While in Savannah, we built ourselves what is known as the old fashioned Dutch oven, in which we could bake our pomes. To the younger readers a description of this oven may be interesting. A flat stone was secured about two feet square, for the bottom, and around and over this stone was erected an oven of stone, brick and mortar, capable of holding about four good sized pomes. Wood was then split up fine, and a good rousing fire built, and kept up until the oven was thoroughly heated, when it would be filled to its capacity with pomes, the different messes taking turns to do their baking, and in half an hour after closing the oven up tight, they would be taken out nicely baked, and when properly made, afforded a very palatable meal. In order to have them light, we would mix up a quart or so of corn meal in cold water, and set in the sun to sour. The pome was then mixed in the same way, stirring in a little of this sour rising and adding a little soda. This sour meal was kept on hand, so as to have enough for three or four days ahead.

A corn dodger was made in the same way, but was made the size of a large biscuit, and was baked in a skillet with an iron cover, a fire being built both over and under the skillet, and when not made light by the use of this sour rising and soda, would make a dangerous missile to throw at a man or dog.

Having now served an apprenticeship of about four months as cook for the mess, I flattered myself that I was qualified to take charge of any first class restaurant as chief cook and bottle washer, and I would bring my corn pome on the table, with all the pride with which a young wife, would present her best efforts at cooking to a tea party. And when I had wheat flour, I would be just a little put out, if my biscuit did not receive the fulsome praise I thought they were entitled to. Our rations in Savannah, were more liberal than they had been during our captivity, and by buying such things as were not issued to us, we always had a little ahead.

Colonel Wayne issued an order after the discovery of this first tunnel, that in order to give a better chance for inspection, tents must be raised three and a half feet from the ground. This order was usually complied with, but some claiming that they had no lumber, neglected to do as directed, and the result was that a detail was sent in, and removed sixteen tents that had not yet been raised, causing much inconvienence and suffering to those former occupants, as that night a severe storm came up, and being without shelter, many were drenched to the skin. These tents were returned in a day or two however, by recommendation of the surgeon in charge. Platforms were built at different points, upon which were built fires at night, to better enable the guard to see what was going on inside. Around these fires we would gather and sing old army songs, which served to put a little spirit into us.

WASHING CLOTHES AT SAVANNAH, GA.

These fires, while they were not built for our comfort or convenience, really were both to us. They drove away the musquitoes and purified and warmed the chill, night air, thus making it more comfortable sleeping than it would otherwise have been. On the 2d of August an order came for our two Chaplains and seven surgeons to be ready to leave for parole. It was a day both of joy and gloom. We had learned to love those two earnest christian soldiers, who had been so faithful to us, and were sorry to part with them, though we rejoiced at their good fortune and fondly hoped that it might be our turn soon. Most of them took with them only what they were sure to need, and freely gave to their most intimate comrades all else that could be of any value to them. But to show the difference in the dispositions of people, I wish to refer to two cases as illustrations of distinct sides of human nature. Dr. Robert Rae had a fine case of surgical instruments, which, although valuable to him, even after he was free, he gave to Adjutant H. H. Lyman, 147th New York, telling him they could be sold for money enough to subsist him for some time.

The other case is that of Dr. Brets, who had a mattress and some other camp property, that would be of no earthly use to him and which he could not take with him, so he magnanimously consented to sell them to the highest bidder, which happened to be Captain Hock of my mess. This mattress was quite a comfort to us and we were glad to get it, even at the exorbitant price we were obliged to pay. We did not begrudge the generous Doctor the greenbacks we paid him, and hope he is still living to enjoy them, for to such a generous soul, a few dollars, more or less, must be a great source of comfort. If I could find out his address, I would donate him a copy of this volume, just to show my gratitude. Before leaving, the Chaplains had a rousing farewell meeting, and each delivered a brief but eloquent address, and amid hearty hand-shakings and fervent God bless you’s, they took their way out of the camp. Only one officer escaped while we were at Savannah—Captain Sampson, 2d Mass. H. A., and he was soon recaptured and brought back.

He escaped by crawling out through a hole under the high board fence and tried to reach the fort on the coast about six miles away, but the swamps were simply impassible, and after wandering about through water and mud nearly knee deep for two or three days, was obliged to abandon the attempt to reach the coast, and was arrested by a patrol, who accidentally run upon him while he was trying to extricate himself from the impassible swamp.

He said that at one time he was in sight of the fort, but the water deepened so fast as he approached the shore, that he was obliged to retrace his steps.

It was a source of some little comfort to us to be once more within hearing of the morning and evening guns of a Union fort, but surrounded as we were by the guard of a hostile enemy, how long a distance that six miles seemed.

While at Savannah we were also furnished kettles, in which to heat water for washing our clothes; and as we had no extra changes of clothing, some ludicrous scenes were witnessed while the washing and drying was going on.

Lieut. Abbot, while boiling his clothing, tied a blanket around his waist until they were dry enough to wear again, making him look like an old woman, and while thus employed was sketched by an artist named Dahl, and presented with his own picture.

On the 13th of September we were placed on board the cars and arrived at Charleston the same evening, where we were placed in the jail yard, to be knocked out by General Gilmore’s batteries on Morris Island. This was without exception the most filthy, lousy, dirty place I ever saw. There were only fifty A tents for six hundred prisoners, and scarcely any wood with which to cook our rations. At Charleston occurred the first death by starvation that I had witnessed, the deceased being a member of my company.

Soon after we entered the jail yard Capt. Hock and myself were greeted by two skeletons, whom we never would have recognized had they not made themselves known to us. They were reduced to mere skin and bone, and neither could walk, being on the very verge of death from starvation. As soon as possible I made them some gruel and tried to nurse them back to life. We fed them sparingly through the evening and then left them a pot of food to eat during the night, being particular to caution them not to eat too much, Sergeant Sweet, who was the stronger of the two, promising to be careful of his comrade, who could not be depended upon to control his craving for food. In the night this poor fellow crawled near enough to reach the pot of food while the Sergeant was asleep and ate it all.

It was his last meal on earth, for his poor starved stomach was too weak to endure so much, and the next morning he was dead. The guard carried him outside the dead line, where he lay all day, festering in the sun, and would not let me approach near enough to spread a blanket over his dead form, to hide the sight from our gaze.

There were a number of negroes belonging to some Massachusetts regiment, confined in jail, but were not allowed to come down into the yard. They were beautiful singers, and entertained us almost every evening while we remained there. This, with one exception, was the only sound that gave us any pleasure.

We could hear the boom of Gilmore’s guns on Morris Island, and watch the course of the shell he was every fifteen minutes tossing into the doomed city. Two or three times pieces of shell fell inside the yard, one piece cutting off a limb of the locust tree that was at the time affording me shade, while I was reading one of those old Harper’s that I brought along.

The only escape made from the jail yard was by Lieut. H. Lee Clark, 2nd Mass. H. A., who bought a reb lieutenant’s uniform, and walked out without a question. He was subsequently brought back, however. Upon his return to the jail yard he gave the following narrative of his escape:

As he passed out of the gate, the sentry seeing his uniform and insignia of rank, faced and came to a present arms, which he answered by a salute, and passed on. Being now free from the prison, he started off, but being a stranger in the city, he did not exactly know what direction to take.

He had wandered about for some time, trying to think of some plan to reach our lines, when his attention was attracted by two ladies who seemed to be watching his movements, from the stoop of a house that looked as though it was occupied by people in moderate circumstances. After passing and repassing the house two or three times, he concluded to try to get something to eat there, and for this purpose approached the ladies. They asked him into the house and set a lunch before him, and thinking he would be safer here than in the street, he concluded to stay as long as possible. He found the conversation of the ladies entertaining, and by cautiously drawing them out in conversation, he found them to be strongly tinctured with union sentiments. Finally after satisfying himself that it would be safe to do so, he told them who and what he was, and appealed to them for shelter and protection, until he could devise some plan for leaving the city.