Feature Article
Libby And How We Got Out Of It
(submitted by SDCWRT member
Curtis Dryer – family papers )
BY
ALBERT WILLIAM BACHELER
Part III
Trusting to the innate sense of justice in the slave, we did not hesitate to confide to hem our secret. The story seemed to hasten their endeavors to make us comfortable. The family was soon astir, and the matron quickly mixed cornmeal into a hoe-cake, raked the hot ashes aside, patted the cake into passable shape, and tossing it among the embers soon had it ready for us. “Good Lor’ massa, af yer’s only tols dis yer when yer fuss come, mabbe yer’d don gon and had dis hoe-cake eat up to now,” said the kind creature, half apologizing for her tardiness in preparing the meal. Never before was food so sweet; for though a little of Pryor’s bread still remained, we had found small opportunity to eat, compared with the comfort of this humble home. The meal over, we talked of shelter near by, and the man of the family, a brawny Negro, a plantation hand of the best type, offered to stow us away on a loft of loose boards over the fireplace. We slept out the entire day in comparative comfort. On coming down the ladder at nightfall, the good fellow told us that his mistress had spoken of soldiers who had called at the house to inquire for prisoners that were said to have escaped two nights before from Libby. So we knew we were missed and that no stone would be left unturned to retake us.
“Endu’ in de wah sah, we’s cullored fo’ks cum right soon,” said our host as we bade his good-by. We now pushed for the Chickahominy, and crossed it near midnight a few miles west of Mechanicsville, where we leaped the stream without difficulty, it being hardly more than a brook. Once over, we turned southward determined to use the stream as a guide, as we knew it would finally bring us to the James, where we were sure of finding Union troops. As the night wore away we again sought the help of Negroes at a plantation cabin. This time, after getting warmed and clothing dried, we were conducted to an open shed, fifty rods or more from the house, where the man of the family stowed us away deep under the cornstalks that filled the shed. Giving us a large hot stone for our feet and piling above us many an armful of the fodder, he bade us keep quiet, and promised to come for us after nightfall.
About four in the afternoon the sound of voices roused us and we heard a car approaching the corn-rick. “Ise dun gwine ter gib did yer mule no o; co’n, case he’s jus fass getting good fer nuffin,” said the voice of our friend, the boss hand on the place. A gruff answer we could not make out was made to his remark, and then we heard the cart back up to the stalks, and the two of them began to load. Their voices grew more and more distinct as the pile over our heads grew thinner. “Wha fur yer gwine ter kill dat ar mule?” complained the slave. “Cart’s dun loaded nuff and mo’.” But the master bade him keep on; he even took the fork himself and eased the slave for a moment. Again and again the two men walked over us, and once the fork tines passed through Thompson’s trousers, but luckily missed wounding him.
At last the expostulations of the slave in the mule’s behalf had their effect, and the cart drove off. We breathed freer for the moment, but would cart and master return? Ben pulled his jack-knife from his pocket, and opening it scanned the only weapon of defense we possessed. Then, shaking his head, said, “It’s no use. Back we’re going as sure as thunder and we’ll be gobbled.” We saw there was nothing for it but to be out and off, so gathering our traps, and seeing a piece of woods nearby, we ran for it, and seemed to have escaped observation. Though it still lacked two hours of dark, we concluded to continue our tramp. A light snow had fallen during the day, and half melting not only quickly soaked our army brogans, but also made it almost impossible for us to halt for rest with any degree of comfort. We had marched an hour perhaps, when skirting a piece of woods, we suddenly came to a junction of three roads, and saw before us a mill on the bank of a small stream. The ruins of a much larger mill were near at hand, and we soon learned that this was Gaine’s Mill that had figured so prominently in the seven days’ fight before Richmond. Some men were at work on the mill, and a squad of Confederate cavalry was cooking at a fire nearby. So sudden had been our approach that almost before we knew it we were in plain view of the group, and not ten rods away. I would have sold my chances cheap, and Ben afterwards told me that he saw Castle Thunder for an instant as plainly as it he were in it. “Come on,” whispered he, “It’s no use running, but remember to let me do the talking.” I gladly notice that the boldness of our maneuvers had completely thrown them off their guard. We asked each other in turn the natural questions at such a meeting. Ben told them that we were officers of the Eleventh Virginia Infantry, and had volunteered to go as spies into the Yankee lines to find out the progress Dutch Gap canal was making.
Our dress of Union blue seemed to confirm our story, and in fact Thompson volunteered the information that we had secured the clothing the better to escape observation. “Do you know Captain Polk of the Eleventh?” said the officer in charge of the picket. “Well, I reckon,” replied Thompson, “he belongs to my mess. I left him only a day or two ago. Fine fellow, cap.” A part of this was literally true, for in exchanging the courtesies of the picket line at Port Walthall; we had met the officer referred to. Questions over, we were invited to share the supper of the party, and regaled ourselves with bacon roasted on a stick over the fire, and corn bread cooked at a neighboring farmhouse. With many wishes for the success of our venture, and a promise on our part to call on them on our way back and relate our adventures among the Yanks, we parted the best of friends. “Take care of yourselves, boys, them Yanks are mighty sharp,” wee the last words that followed us. Moving down the road so long as the light of their campfire was in sight, as soon as possible we struck for the woods and after getting under cover took up the double-quick for a mile or more without a halt. By that time the excitement of our adventure had subsided enough to allow us to speak, and Ben turning to me said, “Bach, another one like that’ll be too much for me.”
Early that night, the third since our escape, and only a couple of miles from Gaine’s Mills, we found ourselves tumbling about among the entrenchment’s and bomb-proofs of Cold Harbor battle-field. A field where, on the 3rd of June preceding, our regiment at the head of Humphrey’s Division, had made the fatal charge that cost us more than half our men in the short space of five minutes. No Twelfth New Hampshire boy hears the name Cold Harbor without a shudder to this day.
Traces of the savage fight were lying about everywhere. Canteens, cartridge boxes, shattered muskets, and here and there the bleaching bones of comrades looked up into our faces, white and distinct in the darkness. Damp and chilly as it was we could have enjoyed a short nap, even in that place, had I not, in groping about for a smooth spot, struck something hard and round, and upon carrying it to the light, seen the grinning features of a skull looking at me with it s sightless eyes. We could endure fatigue better than sleep with such companionship, and resumed again our weary tramp. It was a hideous night; blackness all about, but light enough for us to distinguish the scattered bones of the dead which now and then caused us to stumble, and wonder what the poor owners of seven months before would have said to this rude intrusion on their long sleep. At 2 o’clock that night a light ahead gave warning of a dwelling. It proved to be a Negro cabin. Within, father, mother, and three adult daughters were at work at their task of shelling corn, a task, which they assured us, must be finished before they could receive their rations of food for the next day. Despite their own dire necessities, they begged us to remain the day at their cabin and offered to share with us their scanty fare. With some hesitation we concluded to stay, worn out we were, that, though family continued their usual occupation, neither Ben nor myself knew what was occurring. Early the succeeding night, after thanking our host, and promising to free them from their bondage when we had conquered the rebs, we were on our journey; and getting bolder with our increasing distance from Richmond, we determined to take the roads instead of avoiding them as we had hitherto done. By 10 o’clock we had reached Barker’s Mill, the scene of another flight of the Peninsular Campaign, and an hour later were passing the ruins of Tyler’s House. The two roads leading to Sumner’s grapevine bridge over the Chickahominy River were left to our right. We had learned that these bridges were no longer passable and hurrying on our way we crossed the Richmond & York Railroad and struck the highway leading to Bottom’s Bridge. There we had determined to recross the stream and strike for camps of our troops that we knew to be on the north bank of the James, and some twelve miles distant. About 3 in the morning we approached the bridge, and much to our surprise found a bright campfire at the center of the road and about four rods from the father end of the bridge. Horses were picketed near by; their saddles on, betokening readiness for prompt movement. A sentry stood dreamily looking into the fire at his feet, his carbine at “secure”. Thompson and I hastily retreated into the thicket by the roadside. We discussed the situation in whispers. There are two alternatives open to us; a tramp of seventy miles down the peninsula to Fortress Monroe with all the risks of capture such as we had already experienced, or an equally hazardous attempt at crossing the bridge in the face of an armed guard, with almost the dead certainly of bringing us to Richmond. Pros and cons are carefully weighed. So evenly balanced seem the chances that we cannot make a choice. “Lie still, Ben,” said I, “while I go out and look them over again.” Leaving him n the woods I crept along on my hands and knees to the end of the bridge nearest us. The road is an embankment as it approaches the bridge, and high above the level. The river, a black, ugly stream flows sluggishly by. It is fifty feet or more in breadth. Any one attempting to cross must move the entire distance in the face of that picket standing there by his fire, and nearing him at every step. There are six men, at least, under their blankets near the fire. If there were but one we might dash upon him and overpower him. I return to my companion and report. “There is one chance in a thousand,” I said, “and that is the best I can make it.” Ben suggests lots; agreed. He cuts two twigs, — “Long one means the long road: short one, the bridge.” He fixes them; I draw. It is the long stick! Off we start down the long pike, trying to think we have done the best n choosing as we have. We can hardly drag one foot after the other. Our feet are parboiled with their constant soaking; every motion of the body is torture; the terrible strain of the last five days has begun to tell, not only on our physical endurance but on our will power as well. “Ben.” I say at last, “this is slow murder. I’d as soon starve in Libby as walk myself into the grave. What do you say to trying the bridge?” “I’m agreed,” said he, and back we tramp over the half-mile we have just come. We agree that I shall lead, and Ben keep close behind; if the guard challenges us we are to rush for the woods, and run the chances of his missing us when he fires. Once on the bridge we drop on hands and knees cat-like across. Every inch brings us nearer the picket; he stands like a statue. He seems to nod once, but as I wait for another look he stoops down and tosses some brands into the fire. We move on; each thinks the other makes twice the noise he needs to. We are at the end of the bridge. My eyes are almost bursting from their sockets as I watch that man at the fire. A yard more and we are safe! It is the longest yard I have ever traveled; it ends at last, and I creep down the embankment at the roadside farthest from the guard. Ben sticks close behind, and is the last to be out of danger. We steel away through the bushes and take the first long breath, and as we do so, the sentry for some reason, we never knew what, rouses his sleeping companions and they stand to arms. A mile away under the shelter of some pines we stretch out on the pine needles and are fast asleep in a twinkling.
The sun was high before either of us awoke. We concluded it was best to lay off for the day and not run the chance of meeting scouting parties of the rebs. As soon as darkness permitted we were again on the road, and happy in the thought that it was our last night out. At the first farmhouse we reached, we very incautiously walked up to the door and knocked. A white woman appeared, evidently the mistress of the house. I asked for food, she answered by asking who we were and why we were there in that plight. Ben interposed with the same story he had used at Gaine’s Mills with such good effect. It was all to no purpose. “You ‘uns ar jes Yanks, you don’t talk like we’uns down here’n Henraker,” was all the answer we got in reply to our request for food. “We’ve caught a Tartar,” I whispered to Thompson, and without pressing our claims o the woman’s larder, we bade here good night and hurried off through the fields towards the James. Directly we reached some Negro quarters belonging to the same plantation, and making our way in asked for hoecakes. The women began to prepare it and while we made ourselves comfortable at the fire a Negro lad ran in, out of breath, and told his mother that his mistress, as soon as we were out of the house, had dispatched a son to some neighbors a mile away to rouse the lads to be after some Yanks that had been there. An older son was home on furlough from the Petersburg lines and had gone to a dance at a neighbor’s. “It’s time we were out of this,” said Ben, and without waiting for the hoe-cakes, now about half done, we made good time over the fields and through the woods for a couple of miles until the rough jungle forces us to take to the road again. We tramped along for half an hour, perhaps, neither of us speaking meanwhile, when an overpowering desire came over me to rest. I declared to Ben that I would go no further till I had rested. He urged our keeping on; we are nearly through, said he; only seven miles and we should reach Harrison’s and then we could rest for good; but I am stubborn. Ben was as determined as I. “Then I am going on alone,” he said, and started ahead. I walked into the open field by the roadside, fifty feet or so, and stretched out on my canvas. Thompson after moving on a little changed his mind, came back where I was, and lay down by my side.
We were lying there quietly, with the moon looking us in the face, it being now between ten and eleven, when the rumble of a wagon fell on our ears. Nearer and nearer it drew to us, coming from the direction in which we were bound. We should have met it had we kept on. As the team reached up we saw it was a countryman, whether black or white we could not distinguish, which a load of wood. His mules stopped to breath in front of us, and almost it the same instant a cavalryman coming from our rear drew rein in front of the team. He was mounted on a gray horse, and heavily armed. “Have yer seen a couple of fellows on the road as yer come along?” said he, addressing the teamster. The man answered that he had not. The soldier then went on to say that two chaps that looked like escaped prisoners had stopped at his mother’s an hour before to ask for food, and not being granted it had hurried off through the field. “One of them’, said he, evidently describing Ben, “was a stout fellow with a Yank’s cap and heavy moustache, and the other shore and slim like, and with a slouched hat. They both had Yank’s uniforms,” he added, “and carried some sore of blankets over their shoulders.” To the two fugitives who were being thus accurately described, this conversation was becoming decidedly interesting. It is needless to say that I never hugged any five feet of ground closer in my life. Neither of us stirred. There we lay in the open field in bright moonlight, and took in every word. One glance of the rider towards us and he must have seen us. To our infinite relief he said at last, “I reckon as how the rascals must have turned off on Long Bridge road,” and then turning his horse he kept the mule team company on the road to our rear. We listened to their voices as they died away in the distance, and congratulating ourselves on this last narrow escape, kept on our way, Thompson ahead and looking out for dangers in advance, and I behind with an occasional backwards glance to warn of trouble from the rear.
Faint streaks of dawn were appearing in the east when Ben caught sight of a mounted horseman standing statue-like in the road in advance. Fearful of making a mistake, we reconnoitered for some time before venturing to make ourselves known. Negros had told us that a colored regiment with gray horses were doing picket duty at the Landing. Ben finally sang out, “Hello there, don’t shoot, we’re friends, we want to come in.” “Corporal of the guard!” answered the picket without noticing us directly. In a moment the corporal and three men charged down on us at a gallop with carbines ready for instant service. However, we had no difficulty in proving who we were to their satisfaction, and in a few minutes we were made welcome by the Eight United States Colored Cavalry. Once back with the picket reserve we were furnished hot coffee and extra blankets, and turned in for sleep —and such sleeping as we did that morning! On waking, someone passed us a mirror: neither Ben nor I could recognize ourselves, and no wonder. My own weight had fallen off; as I afterwards learned, from one hundred and forty-five to ninety-six pounds, and Ben’s in like proportion. Our complexions has sallowed, and the vile stench of the prison hung about us for weeks despite new uniforms and frequent baths.
To tell how we took the boat the next day to Chapin’s Farm where our corps was then stationed; how the boys turned out as we drew near the camp, and boasted us on their shoulders and rode us into quarters perched high in the air; how the officers made us welcome to their mess; how General Weitzel ordered us a thirty days’ furlough; how, while at home, we received commissions as officers; how when we took Richmond the following April, I paid old Pryor a visit and relieved him of some of the arms he used to flourish in our faces —all these are things not germane to my story, which amounts to this, that next to the wear and tear of life in Libby and all that that implies, is the wear and tear of getting out of Libby and all that that includes.
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