Sline Archive

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)

Letters to the Editor

Subj: View Our New Battlefield Preservation Opportunities

From: cwpt@civilwar.org

3 Great New Battlefield Preservation Opportunities

As the nation’s leading Civil War battlefield preservation organization we have remained busy looking for new opportunities to save our historic battlefields throughout the country.

We are excited to announce that we have, not one, but three new opportunities for you to consider:

• Save Tupelo
  
• Save Natural Bridge
  
• Save Parker’s Cross Roads

Parker’s Cross Roads, Tennessee

On December 31, 1862, Nathan Bedford Forrest, after surrounding a smaller Union force near Parker’s Cross Roads is suddenly confronted with a new threat to his rear. “General Forrest, what shall we do? “Charge ‘em both ways!”  Help us add another 4.5 acres to this historic Tennessee battlefield  $2 to $1 match on all donations

Tupelo, Mississippi

At the Tupelo, Mississippi, 14,000 marauding Yankees would face repeated assaults by Forrest’s cavalrymen and Stephen D. Lee’s infantry. With great ferocity each assault was beaten back with heavy casualties… one of them being Nathan Bedford Forrest himself.  Help us save 12 acres of the Second Day battlefield     $2 to $1 match on all donations

Natural Bridge, Florida

March 6, 1865: In a day-long engagement, the Confederates under Major General Samuel Jones repulsed three major attacks by USCT troops near the crossing at Natural Bridge and forced the Union expedition to return to its fleet. Thus, the state capital of Tallahassee was kept out of Union hands. Help us save 55 acres at this Florida Civil War battlefield   Every donated dollar is matched $170 to $1 (that’s no typo)

As always, we are grateful for every dollar you can donate in these difficult times.  More Than 25,000 Acres Save

CIVIL WAR PRESERVATION TRUST,  1331 H Street N.W., Suite 1001, Washington D.C. 2005 | phone (202) 367-1861, www.civilwar.org | Change newsletter preferences/unsubscribe

Book Review -A book review by Diane and David Clark

“We thrashed our way out of the thicket atop a promontory many rods short of the cow path.  From there, we could see a mass of our men, pushed by advancing fire to the very brow of the bluff. They hesitated there, and then, of a sudden, seemed to move as one, like a herd of beasts stampeded. Men rolled, leaped, stumbled over the edge. The drop is steep: some ninety feet of staggered scarps plunging to the river…. I crawled to the edge of the promontory and dangled from my hands before dropping hard onto a narrow ledge all covered with black walnuts.” –Mr. March’s description of Ball’s Bluff, October 21, 1861.

If you’ve read or even seen a film version of the much beloved classic American novel Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, you know that it is, among other things, the story of the impact of the Civil War on a tight-knit New England family. You may have wondered what the literary family’s high-minded father was doing when “Marmee” is unexpectedly called away to Washington DC with news of her husband’s grave illness. Well, wonder no more, Geraldine Brooks has answered that question in her brilliant novel, entitled March, the name of the father of the famous “little women”.

March is the story of a New England abolitionist, vegetarian and chaplain, who on October 21, 1861 finds himself barely surviving the horrendous defeat at Ball’s Bluff, when the Union troops are forced off the cliffs and into the cold swift currents of the Potomac by the Confederates. As Ms Brooks says, “I choose to put Mr. March in the battle of Ball’s Bluff simply because the terrain of that small but terrible engagement lies just a few miles from my Virginia home, and because many soldiers from Massachusetts first ‘saw the elephant’ there.”

The character of Mr. March is based on Louisa May Alcott’s father, the transcendentalist philosopher, A. Bronson Alcott.  As Louisa May Alcott modeled the March girls on herself (she, of course is Jo), so Geraldine Brooks employed the journals, letters and biographies of Alcott’s father Bronson as a basis for the main character in her novel. In flashbacks there are scenes from before the War, with Thoreau, Emerson and the New England Underground Railroad. The March house and Marmee are the driving force in one of the stops on the way to Canada and freedom for escaped slaves. This activity was against the law and a very dangerous game to play, with armed bounty hunters coming north to reclaim their “property.”

Bronson Alcott was a radical, even by the yardstick of nineteenth century New England, which was a hotbed of new ideas, from reappraising the nature of God to the dietary benefits of graham crackers.  Our Mr. March is a stubborn idealist and radical who often finds himself in opposition to the Union soldiers to whom he is chaplain.

One of the most striking sections of the book takes place at Oak Landing, a historical experiment in privately leased cotton plantations that employed former slaves, “contrabands”, to raise cotton in the Deep South. This portion of the book is based on Thomas W. Knox’s Camp-Fire and Cotton Field, with its tragic ending of a raid and destruction by outlaw Confederate raiders.

Well researched, March is a fascinating read and the author has used many primary sources to present a realistic and compelling novel of the Civil War. Geraldine Brooks became interested in the Civil War while exploring battlefields large and small with her husband, Tony Horowitz. Horowitz is the author of the well-known memoir Confederates in the Attic, and an extreme Civil War buff.

How Do I Pronounce this word

(Source: Civil War Spoken Here by Robert D. Quigley)

Finis -( FIE-nis ) as in Jefferson Finis Davis, President of the Confederate States of America. 

Jefferson Davis was born in Kentucky in June 1808, the tenth child of Samuel and Jane Davis. The oldest child, Joseph, was already in college when Jefferson Davis was born. Jane Davis was forty-seven years old at the time of the birth, and it was perhaps a combination of whimsy and resolve that prompted Samuel to give the child the middle name “Finis.” Finis in Latin means “the end,” “the conclusion.” Samuel chose Jefferson for the boy’s first name, in honor of Thomas Jefferson, who was then serving in the White House.

Many people upon seeing this peculiar middle name pronounce it FEE-NEE. This is probably because they’ve seen a few foreign films made in France. When a French motion picture finally concludes (quite often with the enthusiastic support of its American audience) the word “finis” appears on the screen, or at least it used to. “Finis” in French means the same thing it does in Latin, the language they borrowed it from. However, the French pronounce it their own inimitable way. Since we are much more exposed to French, a language still in wide use, than to spoken Latin (even the Catholic Church dropped it), we automatically assume the “finis” is pronounced with a silent’s.’ Had we all been exposed to motion pictures with a Latin soundtrack this problem would not exist! But even a Latin soundtrack would not help with Jefferson Davis’ middle name. In Latin the name Finis would be pronounced FEE-nis. The traditional Southern pronunciation of the name, however, makes it part of a language all its own.

Coming Attractions SDCWRT

Classified Ads

Bill Hanchett has a number of issues of Civil War Times Illustrated and other magazines….Please contact Dave Tooley if interested. 

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Daughters of Union Veterans of the Civil War, 1861-1865 – Nancy Hanks Lincoln Tent No. 5. Congressionally Chartered. Direct lineal descendent of a union veteran required. Age 8 and up. Contact Pres. Louise Jefferis at 858/274-3790, ajefferis@compuserve.com or Marilyn Steber at 619/222-6493, marilynsteber@yahoo.com.

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Sons of Union Veterans of the Civil War (SUVCW) – Sgt. William Pittenger Camp 21. Direct or collateral descent from a Union veteran. Associate members welcome. Contact David E. Allyn, 619-561-8581, email svrsuvcw@yahoo.com

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Sons of Confederate Veterans of the Civil War (SCVCW) - Father A. J. Ryan Camp 302. Direct or collateral descent from a Confederate veteran.  Contact Adjutant Stu Hoffman at 619/447-7619.

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United Daughters of the Confederacy, Stonewall Jackson Chapter #476, accepts members whose ancestors (direct or collateral) fought for the Confederate States of America and any other Ladies with Southern Sympathies. For more information, call Davenia Cray at 619-444-3878.

May Program

Union Col. Abel Streight Brevetted Brig. General Commander "Lightning Mule Brigade"

On Wednesday May 20, 2009 at 7:30 pm the SDCWRT will hold its 273rd meeting at Palisades Presbyterian Church, 6301 Birchwood St. San Diego, CA 92120.

SDCWRT member Gene Armistead will present “Equines of the Civil War. Gene will be covering all facets of the horse family and how they served in the Civil War. They bore the battle and suffered more than humans; being fed little, starved most times, and were the unsung heros of the war.

April Meeting by Travis Fuqua

Pedro Garcia’s presentation “Lee, Stuart, and the Road to Perdition” from April 15, 2009

Pedro Garcia

April’s presentation was about a somewhat controversial topic, J. E. B. “Jeb” Stuart and how his actions affected the Battle of Gettysburg. Stuart has long been a controversial figure. In the spring of 1863 General Lee told the Confederate government that the best military policy was for the Confederacy to become the aggressor and take the war to Federal soil. In order to accomplish his goal, Lee had to first march through the Virginian mountain and remain undetected long enough to position his army. Not long before Lee was due to depart, Federal cavalry caught Confederate cavalry off guard at Brandy Station in northern Virginia. General Stuart was successful in getting the Federal army to quit the field, but he won at a great cost. Not only did he lose many men, but he was humiliated for being surprised and he was constantly under attack by the Confederate press.

Pedro Garcia presenting "Lee, Stuart, and the Road to Perdition"

After his surprise at Brandy Station, Stuart was placed in charge of protecting Lee’s army from Federal forces as they crossed the Potomac River into Maryland. Stuart did well in this capacity and the Federal army lost track of Lee for nine days until he was in Pennsylvania. Lee’s orders for Stuart are a source of speculation as Lee told Stuart to guard the Confederate army and to later cross the Potomac River and then meet with General Ewell’s right flank in Federal territory. The controversy in Lee’s orders is over the route that Stuart should have taken as there seems to have been ambiguity. Since Stuart was in search of glory and rehabilitating his reputation after Brandy Creek, he decided to march east through the lines of the Federal army and then go through Maryland and meet with Confederate forces in Pennsylvania. His route to the east was contrary to what Lee had intended him to do.

Stuart and his three brigades left Salem, Virginia on June 25, 1863, but he soon met the south east part of the Federal army under General Hancock. This forced him to the east even more and Lee was without both cavalry and the ability to scout Maryland. Upon meeting and defeating Hancock at Haymarket, Stuart sent a portion of his cavalry after him, but when that detachment later came back to meet Stuart, he was gone. The detachment then assumed that Stuart had gone to the northwest across the Blue Ridge Mountains as Lee had and they left in that direction. Stuart, meanwhile, had crossed into Maryland and captured a Federal wagon train, consisting of 125 wagons laden with supplies and mule teams near Rockville. Soon after, Stuart came dangerously close to the City of Washington, but did not enter on account of his tired horses. As Stuart continued through Maryland, he added to the supplies, but the slow mule teams and the long wagon train turned into a hindrance as it halved the distance that Stuart could travel in a day and stretched out his forces. On June 30th, Stuart met Federal cavalry in Hanover, Pennsylvania and was defeated and retreated to Dover, which he reached on July 1st as the Battle of Gettysburg began. Stuart then went north to Carlisle, Pennsylvania, hoping to find Ewell there and reunite with him as per Lee’s orders, but he found out that Lee was thirty miles to the south at Gettysburg. Stuart raced southward and arrived at Gettysburg on July 2nd. At Gettysburg, Stuart was supposed to help hold Confederate lines, but he was defeated by General Custer. The wagon train that had been a hindrance to Stuart proved useful in the retreat from Gettysburg.

Stuart was used as a scapegoat for the Confederate failure at Gettysburg and he was scolded heavily by General Lee, but he was never formally disciplined. Historians have often debated about the role that Stuart may or may not have played in the Battle of Gettysburg. In the end, Stuart was killed the following year. Mr. Garcia notes that he was more like a knight of the days of old than a modern general.

Bill Cooper presenting Speakers Award to Pedro Garcia

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)