Soon after daylight we reached the little village of Greencastle,
Pennsylvania, where the citizens came out to look at the “Rebel”
prisoners. They hurrahed for their own men and cursed at us.
Even the women joined in the game. Several of them brought their
children to the roadside and told them to shake their fists at the
“d--d Rebels.” Still there were some kind people in Greencastle.
Three or four ladies came to us, and, without pretending to have
any liking for Confederates, showed their charitable disposition
by giving us some bread and a cup of cold water. My horse was
taken from me at Greencastle and ridden off by a dirty-looking
cavalryman. Then the Confederates, numbering a hundred or more,
were packed into the cars, and sent by the railway to Chambersburg.
Duxberry had the good luck to be away from camp the night that we
marched from Crampton’s Gap, and was not taken. Leech had been
asleep in one of the wagons, and did not wake up until we had all
been gathered in.
Chambersburg is a pretty little town, and I had the satisfaction
of seeing it a year later under pleasanter auspices. On arriving
there the first time, the Confederates were put in the open yard of
the jail which we pretty well filled. Our presence there suggested
a new and interesting game to the small boys of Chambersburg. It
was a plain calculation that a stone which should fall within the
area of the yard would be very apt to hit one of the prisoners. The
boys, therefore, amused themselves by pitching stones over from the
outside, enjoying in this way the luxury of scaring the “Rebels,”
and hurting them too, without any risk to themselves. It was sport
to the boys, but it came near being death to some of our men. But
here, as at Greencastle, there were some charitable souls. Mr. A.
K. McClure, who is now the editor of the Philadelphia _Times_, came
to the jail with a committee of citizens, and gave us an abundance
of coffee and bread and meat. That night we lay on the rough stones
in the jail yard, and in the morning we were put on the train for
Harrisburg. We did not go into the town, but were taken at once
to Camp Curtin, in the suburbs, where we were to remain until our
final destination should be determined on.
By this time I had no baggage. It had been promised that my valise,
which was in one of the wagons, should be given to me, but it was
appropriated, I suppose, by one of our captors. At all events, I
saw nothing of it, and could get no information about it.
At Camp Curtin we were tolerably comfortable. There were only
two officers in our party besides myself, and as my uniform was
comparatively bright and fresh I attracted more attention than
my rank warranted. The United States officers at the camp were
exceedingly attentive, and talked with me in the frankest manner
about the position of affairs and the prospects of their army. They
gave me a blanket which I needed sorely, and bestowed upon me what
was equally desirable, a new tooth-brush. The evening after my
arrival, the Commandant of the camp asked me whether I would not
like to go into town, saying that one of the officers was anxious
to take me in with him. I told him I had no other dress than my
uniform, and if I had I would not wear it, and I did not suppose
that any of the officers would care to go into Harrisburg with a
Confederate officer in uniform. The Commandant said that this was
what was proposed, although he did not think it very prudent. The
Commandant gave me the necessary pass, and Captain ---- and I went
into the town.
First we went into the principal hotel and took supper. The persons
hanging about the hotel looked at me rather sulkily, but I was too
hungry to pay much attention to them. After supper we walked out
to the front of the hotel, where my companion slapped me on the
shoulder, and said in a loud voice: “Here is a real live Rebel
officer! The first man that says a word to him I will knock his
d--d head off!” This was not a very pacific speech to make to a
crowd of fanatical Pennsylvanians, who had just heard that the
battle of Sharpsburg had begun. Nothing came of it at the moment,
and my companion now insisted that we should visit the principal
music hall. As we entered, the whole company of singers was on
the stage shouting lustily: “The Union and McClellan forever!
Three cheers for the Buck-tail Brigade,” the audience joining in
the chorus with patriotic energy. My companion marched me down
the middle of the hall to the very front seat, and there was a
murmur of astonishment and disapprobation. But my companion did
not mind it, and I could not help it, so we remained there about
half an hour and then passed out, with no other damage than being
scowled at by the audience. By this time my companion was decidedly
exhilarated; and the next time that he invited an attack, by
saying that he would inflict condign punishment on any one who
molested me, an indignant patriot knocked my hat off. I knocked
down the man who did it, and half a dozen men pitched into me at
once. There was a general scrimmage. Knives were drawn, a shot was
fired, and I knew nothing more until I found myself in a large
room surrounded by a group of soldiers. In the row, it seemed,
my companion had been treated rather badly, and I had been choked
and knocked until I was insensible, and, indeed, was only saved
from death by a woman, who seized the arm of my foremost assailant
and prevented him from stabbing me to the heart. Just as I had
learned the particulars, the door opened and an officer came in
whom I recognized as the Commandant of Camp Curtin. He said very
quietly: “I thought you would be very apt to bring up at the
guard-house about this time, so I came in to look after you.” He
then accompanied me back to camp. I did not wish to trouble the
Commandant to escort me to my quarters, but he told me that his
guards were quite young, rather stupid, and very malicious, and
quite apt to shoot at a stray prisoner without giving him a chance
to halt and explain. I objected no further. The whole night’s work
was a very unpleasant one for me, but I had no way of escaping from
the difficulty when I once reached the city. Captain ---- had been
drinking hard, which I had not suspected until it was too late. If
I had left him and gone off alone I should have been in worse case
than by remaining in his company.
The next morning the Harrisburg paper had a glowing account of
an attempt I had made to escape from camp, and said that, when
recaptured, I had nearly succeeded in laying a mine to blow up the
great bridge across the Susquehannah. The newspapers, too, were
very severe in their condemnation of the Union officers who had
been seen in the city in company with a “Rebel officer in full
uniform.”
Early the next day we were ordered to be ready to take the cars
for Philadelphia, on the way to Fort Delaware. Just before leaving
camp, I was told that there were some ladies at the gate who
desired to see me. I went down and found two handsomely dressed
women in an open carriage. One of them asked me whether I did not
recognize her. I told her that I did not, and she said: “You ought
to do so, for I was passing by when you got into that difficulty
in town, and was the means of saving your life.” I thanked her
very warmly, but told her that there were too many demands on my
attention at the time of the fight to permit me to have seen her.
The ladies bade me very heartily good-bye, and I left my unknown
friends.
It was not a long run to Philadelphia, and in the cars was a
civilian who accosted me courteously, and asked me many questions
about the Confederacy and the Southern people, the character of the
army and the estimation in which the different Generals were held.
All such questions I answered as well as I could without divulging
anything that might be of injury to our side, and taking care to
depict everything in the highest possible colors. It was night when
the train reached the Quaker City, and I suppose that ten thousand
persons were awaiting the arrival of the train. There were no lamps
in the cars, and the persons in the crowd outside clambered up at
the windows, even lighting matches and holding lanterns to our
heads that they might see us the better, as though we were wild
beasts in a cage. One man thrust his hand in through the sash,
grasped my hand firmly and whispered: “Cheer up, it will all come
out right.” At last, it was my turn to leave the cars, and, as
usual, my scarlet cap attracted more attention than was agreeable.
Some said I was a drummer-boy, others declared I was a Colonel,
while one big fellow shouted out that he knew that I was a spy who
had deserted from the Union Army, and had been recaptured. There
was instantly a shout: “Hang him to the lamp-post,” and for a few
minutes I was in worse plight at Philadelphia than I had been in
at Stevensburg. The guard, however, succeeded in driving the crowd
back, and I reached in safety the steamer which was to take us to
Fort Delaware.