Monthly Featured Article

LIBBY AND HOW WE GOT OUT OF IT
(Part I)
(submitted by SDCWRT member Curtis Dryer – family papers )
BY
ALBERT WILLIAM BACHELER
Dartmouth 1871, First Lieutenant, Twelfth Regiment New Hampshire
Volunteers, in the War which kept the Union whole, a
Hero at Gettysburg, and of a daring escape from
Libby Prison, Soldier, Scholar, Teacher,
Friend – - – in everything modest – - In all things brave

We were on the lines between the James and Appomattox. Had been “bottled up” there with Butler early in ’64. At the time of which I write it is hard to tell which was getting the better of it — the “Johnnies” in trying to keep us and the cork in, or Butler in trying to get us and the cork out. Disinterested parties would doubtless have voted for the “Johnnies”. However, we and the rebs were making the best of situation, and daily, on the picket-lines between the hostile earthworks, you might have seen us making the usual exchange of coffee and salt for “terbac” or swapping “New York Tribune” and “Baltimore Americans” of yesterday for the “Richmond” morning sheets damp from the press.

Not a few of us struck passable sort of friendships in our stolen interviews with the rebs, if that could be called friendship, in which the interested parties stood ready to blaze away at each other on the slightest provocation. For all that, I never could see that euchre or whist, with “Johnnies” for “pardners” those pleasant autumn months, was any the less a game. It fact, it was about all the excitement we had. There is nothing a soldier dreads more than the monotony of camp-life. We were so long about it. We were all of us complaining of the humdrum of the “bottle” when the incidents of my story occurred. All the veteran regiments, except our own, the Twelfth New Hampshire, had been withdrawn from the Port Walthall front to reinforce Grant before Petersburg, and there places supplied by the greenest of all green troops, Pennsylvania regiments high up in the two hundreds. “Johnny reb” knew of the change almost as soon as ourselves, and very soon thereafter arranged the tea party of which I write.

The night of November 17, 1864 came still and moonlit. Pickets had been relieved at dusk, and the fresh guard had just settled ourselves for another of the quiet nights we had enjoyed so long, when at ten in the evening, with a preliminary volley that seemed to wake the dead, the rebs charged on the new troops on either flank of the Twelfth boys. They were off like sheep, and the “Johnnies” closing in our rear coolly began to blaze away at us at point-blank range. The game was up, there was no dodging that, for they out-numbered us ten to one, and before we knew it forty-six of us were “gobbled” without waiting to hear any objections on our part. Over the rebel breastworks we were hustled and there disarmed; all overcoats and good hats or boot being especially contraband. By a sheltered path we reached a wood near the Richmond & Petersburg Railroad, where we were told to cut wood and start a fire if we wished. Minus the warm overcoats and blankets of “Uncle Sam”, none of us objected to the moderate exercise necessary for a night’s supply of fuel, nor to the diversion that was afforded by the labor to our somewhat unsettled thoughts. No amount of vigorous swinging of the axe nor cracking of stale jokes seemed to put a very cherry glow over the outlook, and it was amusing to notice the sickliness that pervaded every attempt at a smile. Morning came, and after a breakfast of pea soup we were crowded aboard a freight car, and in a short hour found ourselves in Richmond. A rabble of boys and hoodlums followed us on our march through the city of a mile or more. The tramp was enlivened with jeers and greetings of the crowd, and off-hand insinuations at the dejected figures we presented. I recall, at this distance, only those whose intimate relations to the subject of rations caused them to make the profoundest impression on our minds. Here is a specimen: “Say, Yank, gib yer you choice, Libby House or Carstle Thunder, both right smart hotels, I reckon, fare high, ‘ropean plan, sah;” or, “Hey Yank, beant yer hungery? Jis you waint, sah, bes uf fodder comin’, sah”. These and other kindly touches compelled us, despite our forlorn circumstances, to put on sickly grins that in their chilliness betoken no small lack of genuineness.

We soon reached our destination, a large two-story brick structure, with the ominous sign at one corner, Libby & Sons, Ship Chandlers and Grocers. In the lower room, popularly known as the “reception room” by our boys, we were left for that day and the succeeding night without food, and with only such opportunities for sleep as were afforded by the damp brick floor. Next morning we were ordered to “fall in”, strip ourselves, place our clothing on the floor before our feet, and wait our turn at being searched. Money, watches, and pocketknives were especially contraband, as being possible aids to an attempted escape through bribery of their own soldiers.

It would hardly be respectful to the gentle reader to relate the extremities to which we were put in concealing these obnoxious articles; it is enough to remind him that though Yankee ingenuity was taxed to its utmost, it was, in most cases, equal to the occasion, despite some temporary inconvenience at one or another part of the body caused by unwonted burdens. Our next move was to the second story of the building, to which we were conducted by a tall, gaunt Virginian named Pryor. This man in ante-bellum times had been a note “whip” amount the plantation slave-drivers “down ther in Henraker” and in that apprenticeship had been well trained for the duties of prison keeper.

Never shall I forget the sight that met our gaze as we entered. Several hundred haggard countenances, in every degree of emaciation, were upturned in answering stare. In the universal filth and squalor it was hard to recognize in the creatures before us comrades once as well fed and cleanly clad as ourselves. The telltale blue, that here and there appeared through the dirt, was a silent though convincing witness. Instantly we were surrounded by eager inquiries, —our regiment, how we were captured, what Grant was at over there by Petersburg, had we heard any talk about an exchange of prisoners, did we bring a spare hardtack; those and hundreds more were the questions we tried to answer. Meanwhile a drum had called us into line for breakfast. The meal was served at ten each morning and always consisted of a standard dish — the refuse of Richmond markets —bones, bits of beef, pork, and mutton, indiscriminately mixed, were first boiled in large kettles, cut into bits of three or four ounces each, and served with corn-meal bread, the regulation cut being four inches square and two inches thick. This bread was simply meal and water, without salt, and not unfrequently was sour on being served. My first piece of meat was a choice morsel of pork-rind, apparently fresh from the sty, and as I was not yet starved to such fodder, I threw it with some spite on the filth of the floor. “Never you dun mind”, said Pryor, “you’ll jes thank me fur its like, for yer out er thes yer.” The scrap was kick about and trampled for some time unobserved until a drummer boy of sixteen or so, captured by Moseby is the valley the summer before, caught sight of it, and before I could protest had devoured it will all its filth in evident relish. At four in the afternoon the drum called us to the same fare with this variation, that to the water in which the morning’s meat had been cooked, were added a few black beans, and more black bugs, and after cooking, a pint of the mixture was doled out to each prisoner. The ration of nutritious elements I this soup can best be estimated by the formula current among us Yanks for its manufacture. “Two beans and seven gallons of water if too rich add water seasoned with skippers!!”

With the soup the bread ration, like that of the morning, was served, and this without any variation constituted our supply of food. The day was cheerless enough in our crowded and filthy quarters, but the night was even worse, and would come upon us all too soon. There was small comfort in lying on the hard floor, crawling with vermin, while the searching December winds blew unchecked through the casements where once there was windows. With scanty clothing and no blankets there was nothing for it but to spend half the night in promenading the floor, or lying close packed, “spoon fashion”, to utilize what heat we might through contact with our neighbors. It is amusing; event at this late day, to recall the methods in use for relieving our stiffened muscles and aching joints. After a troubled sleep of two hours, someone, whose aches had passed the point of endurance, would sing out “Yanks, attention! Company right turn! March!” Woe to the unlucky dreamer who was tardy in his motion! Worse woe if, in the bewilderment of this first waking, he mistook the direction of his turn! No apologies were accepted, and he was at once compelled to sleep by himself until voted into the ranks again by the unanimous consent of all. So we passed the weary days, and still more wearing nights. We watched each other grow thinner, and paler, and more haggard. We saw the finer instincts of kindliness and good will die out into the universal selfishness that asserted itself under the guise of self-preservation. We saw, in not a few cases, reason dethroned. We saw some of these madmen, true to he one mastering instinct for food, gather the very vermin that had fastened on their emaciated bodies, and with these eke out their scanty fare. We saw despair with its black midnight taking possession of face after face. We saw the dead, day after day, carted off to unnamed graves. The only ray of sunshine was when the boys with the husky voices sang some of the old camp songs, and “Tenting Tonight”, or “John Brown’s Body”, or “Star Spangled Banner” rang out though the dingy halls. Once when we had reached the verse of “John Brown”, a council of war was held to settle the question of completing the song, and hanging “Jeff Davis to the sour apple tree”. It was decided to venture by a unanimous vote, and we were well on our way through the lines, when old Pryor burst into the room with an oath, and cried out, “Now jes be dun with tha’ cher, and no mo’ of it,” and at the same instant the guards would “blaze away” at the open windows with the evident design of reminding us where we were. No one was hit, however, and we were careful afterwards to omit all references to the obnoxious verse.
(to be continued next month)