Monthly Featured Article

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 3^rd 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.

Feature Article

(submitted by SDCWRT member

Curtis Dryer – family papers )

BY

ALBERT WILLIAM BACHELER

Part II

Libby Prison, Richmond VA

It would be quite unlikely that men in circumstances like these should fail to discuss, in subdued tones but ever deepening interest, the chances of escape and the means for accomplishing it.  One of the men captured with me was Ben Thompson, a native of Wolfeborough, NH.  He was one of the best specimens of the traditional Yankee, —shrewd as a lawyer, keen at trade as a Jew, full of resources, and plucky.  He lacked all reverence for dignity or rank, and would always succeed in worming his way into the confidence of officers with appearing intrusive.

         The following story told at Ben’s expense, just before our capture, illustrates his character better than any words of mine.  Ben had been detailed for picket duty one day, and scenting a chance to turn a honest shekel, he filled his haversack with commissary coffee, and watching his opportunity traded it off during the day with the “Johnnies” for tobacco and papers.  Next day Ben was sick, “unfit for service”, so the surgeon said, and was missing from sight for some hours.  Everybody supposed he was asleep in his tent.  Nothing of the sort.  With his surgeon’s release from duty in his pocket, and his haversack on his shoulder, Ben struck for the James, hired a darkly to row him across in his dugout, and turned up late in the forenoon at Dutch Gap canal, then two thirds dug across the narrow tongue of land where Butler was cutting off a seven mile reach of the river.  For two hours Ben drove a thriving trade, and found the troops at work in the canal, hungry for both news and weed.  He was nearly done with this traffic, and had begun to congratulate himself on the generous pile of greenbacks in his possession, when General Butler, with an orderly or two at his heels, made his way on foot into the “big ditch”.  Thompson failed to see the General until he was close upon him, and knowing that he had been driving a contraband trade, he naturally feared a confiscation of his gains.  However, drawing a bunch of choice Havana’s from the depth of his haversack, a reserve fund apparently provided for an emergency, he ran up to the General with, “Good morning, General, I’ve been trying to find you for a week, for I did want you to try some of my fresh cigars, and I hope you’ll do me the honor to accept them with my complements”.  Before the General could refuse or accept the proffer, a ten-inch bomb from one of their mortars was dropped by the “Johnnies” in somewhat anxious proximity to the group.  Exploding as it buried itself in the ground, it did not further damage than to cover the General and his escort with mud.  But Ben, taking advantage of the exciting moment, cried out, “Good God, General, if that’s the manners you show a kindly disposed person like myself, the sooner I’m out of this, the better!” and with the words he ran like mad out of the canal, and was soon lost to view around a bend of the river.  

Seeing Ben in a brown study one day, a fortnight after we reached Libby, I inquired what he was thinking about.  Instead of any direct reply, he asked if I knew anything about shoemaking, and on my reply in the affirmative, he told me of a chance turnkey Pryor had offered him to make shoes for the Confederacy.  “And who knows,” said he, “but there’ll be a chance for us to skedaddle out of this, if once we get into the shop.”  Next morning thirty of us were detailed as shoemakers, and found ourselves in a building adjoining the main prison hard at work on shoes for the rebel army.  There was a partial division of labor among the gangs that brought the stitching to me and the fitting of the soles to Thompson.  Early in our work I noticed Ben went through a curious process of cutting deeply across the outer sole of every shoe, on the reverse die at the front, where hank and heal meet.  Of course it ruined the shoe, which would do well if it served the wearer while he was walking away from the quartermaster’s.  “That’s my mark,” said Ben, at my inquiry.  “Escape valve, you know, for the guilty conscience of a fellow at work aiding and abetting the enemies of his country.”  Neither of us ever met a “Johnnie” afterwards, but we ached to ask him if he had ever worn any of the patent brands manufactured by the Yanks at Libby.

Across Water Street from our shop was a large warehouse used for any overflow of prisoners, but empty at the time we were there, on the second floor of which, is a small room, old Pryor kept a variety store.  It was a sort of perquisite to his office as prison keeper, and aided in eking out a scanty salary.  Pryor was accustomed almost daily to conduct squads of half dozen prisoners to this store, and sell them bread, apples, and other eatables.  His prices were outrageous, fifty cents for an apple, one dollar a loaf for bread, two dollars for apple-pie baked in an ordinary saucer.  This process of sale was thought altogether safe, as the warehouse was within prison enclosure and always surrounded by the line of sentries.  When Ben and I had studied the situation and formed our plans for escape, we broached the matter to our fellow-shoemakers and endeavored to induce some of them to join us.  But the danger of recapture and the terrors of Castle Thunder proved stronger than our arguments.  It was fortunate for us that they were so, for we learned by experience that the smaller the number in an escaping parties the less likely were the rebs to pursue and retake them.  However, nearly the entire shop wrote anonymous letters to their friends, and these we agreed to deliver to the mails within a reasonable time, Ben remarking that if anything happened to that particular penny-post he should bring suit in the court of claims against the Southern Confederacy.

December 12, the day we had chosen for out attempt, was dark and stormy.  Holding off as late in the afternoon as we dared, we informed Pryor that we needed something to eat, and with four other comrades who were in our secret were taken over the street to the store.  Thompson and I made our purchase first, and then stepping aside, our companions engaged the keeper’s attention while we noiselessly crept up a second flight of stairs to the third story.  There we were fortunate enough to find an immense pile of condemned tent-cloth, much of it with the stamp of the United States upon it.  Working our way deep into the pile, we anxiously waited for any sounds that would indicate we had been missed.  Comrades have since told me that Pryor at once inquired for us, but on being assured that we had returned to the shop seemed satisfied and returned the remainder without further questions.  Six hours of weary waiting followed, for we had agreed to wait for midnight, as the safest hour for our attempt.  Nothing broke the dull monotony of the time save the sleepy “Post No. 1, all’s well!” of the drowsy sentinels, carried in turn around the prison by each succeeding sentry.  Soon after twelve we were astir.  Cutting the tent-cloth into long strips we braided a triple strand into a passably strong rope of some thirty feet I length.  Fastening one end to a table we had found near by, we dropped the other end from a window.  It was short by ten feet, but we had no difficulty in dropping that height.  Thomson slid down first and I followed.  Once at the bottom we found ourselves inside a board fence fifteen feet high, with the smooth side next the prison.  Luckily, however, there were lying about the remains of the boards and timbers of which the fence had been built, and having piled these up cob-house fashion, I mounted the pile, and Ben mounted my shoulders.  He could just reach the fence top, and being muscular he was over in a twinkling, and had dropped me apiece of the tent-cloth and pulled me to the top.  We found ourselves in the back yard of a private dwelling, and working our way toward the street were attacked by a ferocious bull-dog, whose howling alarmed us even more than his bite.  The cur quickly yielded to Ben’s suavity and caresses and left us for his mat on the doorstep.  In glancing over the front fence we were startled to see a sentry standing with his piece at order arms only a few feet away on the brick sidewalk!  There was nothing for it but to put a bold face on the matter and leap the fence.  Hastily agreeing to meet at a neighboring street light, Thompson was first and coolly walked away whistling.  In ten minutes I followed without the whistle, and shortly rejoined Ben at the appointed place.  Just why that “Johnny” failed to challenge us we never knew, but the probability in that overcome by drowsiness he was stealing a nap over his gun.  As neither of us had more than a general knowledge of the streets, such as we could gain by our first march through them, or by our study from the prison windows, we tramped on with only the vague notion of reaching the suburbs and concealing ourselves until the succeeding night.  Now and then we passed a watchman or some belated traveler, but the pieces of tent-cloth we had brought along so completely disguised us that no one asked any questions.  As hour’s hard tramping found us bewildered, and once more in the heart of the city.  Affairs took a serious turn.

We dared not inquire of those we me, nor at the houses, but hurrying on at our best pace found ourselves in another hour climbing the parapets of the third or inner line of works surrounding the city of the north.  We saw no troops, as most of the rebels were with Lee guarding the Petersburg front.  The ditch in front of the works was deep and half-filled with water, but creeping along in the darkness we soon reached a log laid over the chasm for the use of their troops.  Over this we were threading our dizzy way, when Ben, who was ahead, slipped and tumbled in.  He disappeared for a moment, but soon came up puffing to the surface.  I ran along the bank and dropping him my canvas soon fished him out to terra firma.  Every rag of clothing on him was saturated, and the bread in his pockets converted into mush.  Faint streaks of dawn now showing themselves admonished us to be pushing on, and despite Ben’s condition we hurried away for something that looked like woods in the distance.  We found the woods a swamp, thick grown with trees and underbrush.  Exhausted and faint, we found a spot somewhat more solid that the rest, where we lay down in the shelter of a large cottonwood tree.  After an hour’s sleep we both woke shivering and chilled to the very marrow.  Ben was the worse off; the result of his morning’s dunking.  To add to our discomfort a drizzling rain set in, and I was soon as badly off as my companion.  We dared not light a fire even if we had the means; the most we could venture on was to rise occasionally to our feet, stretch our benumbed and aching limbs, and return quietly to our drenched beds on the ground.  Soon after noon the sky cleared somewhat, and sounds of voices began to be heard; these indicated the presence of a camp on the opposite side of the swamp.  Not long after, the men seemed to start a hunt, and some dogs had evidently treed an animal.  Soon we heard the clip of axes, the tree was felled, and then dogs and men pushed on for the interior of the swamp.  Nearer and nearer they drew to our hiding place, and in a moment I saw the gray squirrel they were after dart into a hollow oak not three rods from us.  Three dogs and fifteen or twenty men were close behind.  We fugitives instinctively hug the sod beneath us.  Foiled in the chase, the men gather sticks and dry grass or bark and started a fire in the hollow but.  The smoke soon force the squirrel from his retreat, and with a leap he took to the nearest trees; the dogs rushed over in hot chase, but failed to molest us; the men taking a shorter cut avoided us altogether, and in a few moments we knew by their shouts that they had bagged their game and were on there way to camp.  In was a narrow chance, and Ben remarked, as we began to recover breath, that if that was a specimen of what we were to encounter the probabilities of our escape were slim.  Darkness, or best friend, came at last, and we crept out of our hiding place as fast as our chilled and stiffened limbs allowed.  With the pole star as guide we steered northward, in order if possible to cross the Chickahominy and put that stream between us and any pursuers that might be on our track.  Carefully avoiding the roads, except when it was necessary to cross them, we tramped on through the weary hours of the night, startled now and then by the snapping of a twig or the movement of some animal more frightened than ourselves.  At times we were up to the knees in mud and water, and again were climbing steep banks, or working our painful way through thickets and underbrush where we suffered severely from the thorns and briers.  Near dawn we crossed a second and less pretentious line of parapets and were rejoiced to find these, like the last, unoccupied by troops.  Soon after, we crept up to the Negro quarters of a Virginia plantation and stealthily pushing in the door we entered.  At one end of the room was a large fireplace, and stretched on the floor of unbaked clay, in a half-circle, were the dusky forms of half a dozen slaves, with heads turned toward the fire that was smoldering low on the hearth.  After some vigorous shaking we succeeded in rousing the sleepers, and begged for a chance to dry and warm ourselves.  

(continued next month)

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)