PRISON RELIGION.
The afternoon following the execution of our brave comrades was one of
indescribable sorrow, gloom and fear. We knew not how soon we might be
compelled to follow in the same path and drink the same bitter cup. As
has been before narrated, we had offered at Knoxville to accept the
award of the court in one of the cases as the sentence of all, since
there was not the slightest difference among us. At that time, however,
we were confident of acquittal. Now that confidence had utterly
vanished, and no one of our number anticipated anything but speedy death
on the scaffold.
But even without the addition of apprehension for ourselves, the parting
from our loved friends, whose voices were still ringing in our ears,
while they themselves had passed beyond the gates of death into the
unknown land of shadows, was enough to rend the stoutest heart. Few
words were spoken, but tears and sobs were frequent.
I could not shed a tear. A fierce fever burned in my veins, and my head
seemed as if on fire. For hours I scarcely knew where I was, or the loss
I had sustained. Every glance around the room, which revealed the vacant
place of our friends, would bring our sorrow in a new wave upon us
again. Slowly the afternoon wore on in grief too deep for words, and
despair too black for hope.
At last some voice suggested prayer. We had no chaplain, and few of us
were professedly religious, but the very thought of prayer seemed to
bring relief, and was eagerly accepted. We knelt around the bare
prison-walls, as so many prisoners have done before, and tried to draw
near to God. We felt as if already cut off from the world. Captain Fry
first prayed aloud. His voice was broken by sobs, but he did not now
pray for the first time, and we felt our faith leaning on his as he
poured out strong supplications for that Almighty help we so sorely
needed. He prayed that God's love might be revealed to us, and that we
might be able to trust the Saviour even on the gallows. When he ceased
another took up the thread of petition. After him, another and another
followed, until all but two had prayed aloud, and even these were
kneeling and sobbing with the rest. As the twilight deepened, our
devotional exercises grew more solemn. In the lonely shadow of coming
night, with eternity thus tangibly open before us, and standing on its
very brink, we prayed with inconceivable fervor. These exercises
continued far into the night, and wrought their effect deeply in our
hearts. From that night I recognized God's right to my allegiance. I did
accept Christ as my Saviour, and determined to confess His name before
men, whether I lived or died. This resolution in my own case--and I
doubt not the same result was produced in other hearts--restored the
fortitude that had been so rudely shaken, and I felt nerved for any
fate. Strangely enough, with this resignation to the worst came the
glimmer of a hope, unfelt before, that possibly life might yet be
spared.
This hour wrought a complete and permanent change in the routine of our
prison-life. Games, sports, and stories were no longer our leading
pursuits. The cards we had been accustomed to play for pastime only--an
old greasy pack obtained from the compassion of some soldier on
guard--were thrown out of the window, and that game given up forever.
Each morning and each evening we had a prayer-meeting,--not simply a
single prayer, but all praying in turn. We asked for and obtained a
Bible from the jailer, and read a chapter or more as part of our
exercises, and sang hymns, so that our meetings became as much like
those we had witnessed in the distant but never forgotten days of
freedom as we could make them. There was wonderful pathos in the very
rudeness of the singing, for our sweetest voices were silent in death.
The remark was often made, "If Ross was only here to lead the singing!"
The one who read the Bible lesson was considered the leader of the
meeting, and, for a time, we took this position by turns. In place of
"Do they miss me at Home?" we sang the more inspiring and helpful
"Jesus, Lover of my Soul," and "Rock of Ages." The jailer, the guards,
and all who came near the prison noticed the great change.
I had one peculiar difficulty which, to many readers, will appear almost
whimsical, but to me was most real. Our hope of ever regaining liberty,
or even preserving our lives much longer, was but slight; yet my
greatest difficulty in finding satisfactory religious consolation had
reference to a possible release. I had been a diligent law student, and
had managed to continue the study even in the army and in prison. But
now it was impressed upon my mind, with daily increasing force, that I
must submit the decision of my future career to God. If I took this
matter into my own hands, I could not feel that I was completely true to
Him. Underlying this feeling was the further conviction that if I made
such a submission of my future profession to God I would be led into the
ministry, and the thought of this was very repulsive. Yet the longer the
struggle continued the plainer duty became. If I gave myself to Christ,
it seemed a necessary consequence that I should accept any work He gave
me to do. If I feared that He would guide me in a certain direction,
this was sure proof that I was not resigned to His will, and, according
to my views, not a true Christian. At last the choice was made,--I
resolved to follow my sense of duty, no matter where that should
lead,--to the ministry or anywhere else. When this conflict was over
there was no great emotional excitement,--only a sense of peace and
rest. I could wait calmly in the prison until led forth to die, if such
should be my doom, and then go forth out of life feeling that I was
loyal to God, and that I should remain His, into whatever worlds the
gate of death should open. If, contrary to all probability, the
prison-gate should open for my passage back into the free world, from
which I seemed almost as effectually separated as if death had already
intervened, I promised still to be loyal to Him. This was the essence of
the inward change I date from that time. My standard of action before
had been pleasure, inclination, the world's notion of honor and
morality. Even this had not been held too strictly, as the reader of
these pages has discovered. But afterwards, however imperfectly
maintained, my standard became the will of God, as revealed in the
Bible, and my own sense of duty as enlightened by His Spirit. No great
joy, such as is often expressed in conversion, came at first. But it was
even better than any joy to feel that I now had a strong arm upon which
I could lean,--that there was one person to whom I could go at any
time, and who was not indifferent to my fate.
I now read the Bible with a clear purpose, and with a light on its pages
that never before beamed there. Its very history was full of new
meaning. Its grand beginning, the growth of wandering tribes into great
empires, the pathos of the Psalms, the sublimity and eternal hope of the
prophecies, and, above all, the life and death of that loving and lowly
man who was greater than Psalmist or Prophet,--all these passed before
me in the old Atlanta jail, until the place seemed like a new isle of
Patmos. I had a strong bent towards scepticism, though I had not yielded
to it, and found it hard to exercise simple faith in all the Word of
God. But, little by little, my doubts became weaker and my conviction of
truth clearer.
For a considerable time the whole of our party took turns in the
leadership of our devotions, but finally this work devolved on the
writer, and, after some months, the guards and other prisoners began to
call me the "preacher," though, as yet, I was a member of no church,
unless our prison band can be dignified by that title.
Two Southern ministers visited us at this period. The first requested
permission of the guard, and was allowed to enter with the express
provision that his conversation should be confined to religious topics.
His name was Scott, but I am not sure what denomination he belonged to,
and his conversation gave no clue. His first question did not contribute
to a good understanding. He asked how we could be so wicked as to enter
the Federal army, to fight against the Southern people and free their
negroes? We were sorry enough about many things, but had not yet
repented of those particular sins, and therefore answered a little
tartly, by asking how he and his friends could be so wicked as to rebel
against a good government? A heated dispute followed. Our visitor talked
so loudly and vehemently that the officer of the guard entered and told
him that he "had given those men religious counsel enough for one time
and had better leave." He never came again, and we were not sorry.
Our jailer, Mr. Turner, had a very kindly feeling towards us, and
hearing us so often singing and praying, asked if we would not like to
talk with a minister. Knowing that ministers were not all alike, we
assented. Rev. George G. N. MacDonell, of the M. E. Church South, then
visited us. We were glad to see him, and a very profitable conversation
took place. A little offence was occasioned by his first prayer, in
which he petitioned that our lives might be spared, if consistent with
_the interests of the Confederacy_. But we made no comment, and were
richly rewarded for our complacency. He not only gave us Christian
sympathy and counsel above all value, but on leaving sent us some
excellent books. When the first lot of books was finished--of which we
took the best of care, reading most of them aloud--we returned them, and
received others,--continuing the process of borrowing until we had
perused nearly the whole of the good man's library. Only those who know
what a terrible trial it is to pass day after day with no definite
employment, no company, and no means of diverting thought from one
never-ending round, can form any idea of the great boon thus bestowed
upon us. The Christian kindness and disinterested benevolence of this
minister will never be forgotten. But even these books were not
sufficient. I sold my vest--not expecting to live until cold
weather--and my pocket-book,--which my captors had left when they took
all its contents,--and with the proceeds the jailer bought me three
little books--all gems,--"Paradise Lost," "Pilgrim's Progress," and
Pollok's "Course of Time." These I deliberately set to work to memorize.
It was a pleasant and profitable employment, helping very much to
shorten those interminable days.
Our room was of greater size than that in Chattanooga; the windows
larger, and our number reduced; yet the heat was fearfully oppressive.
One of the party, Mark Wood, was very sick. He had been prostrated with
fever for nearly a month, and at this time his life was despaired of.
This was not thought by the others to be any great misfortune to him,
and they accordingly administered consolation in a style worthy the best
of Job's friends. They would say, "Now, Wood, I wouldn't try to get
well, if I were in your place. They will only hang you if you do. Better
try to die and save them the trouble." Wood, however, did not relish
this counsel, and, becoming contrary, he recovered, "just for spite," as
he often declared.
The black waiters of the prison were very friendly. They assisted us by
every means in their power, and seemed willing to take any personal risk
on our behalf. It was not long before they found that we desired few
things so much as to read the news, and they tasked their ingenuity to
gratify us. Newspapers were prohibited, as they had not been at
Knoxville. But the waiters would watch until the jailer or some of the
guard had finished reading a paper and laid it down, when they would
slyly purloin it, put it into the bottom of the pan in which our food
was brought, and thus hand it to us unsuspected. It had to be returned
in the same way to avoid suspicion. Our ministerial friend also, as he
acquired confidence in us, gave us reason to think that he was not so
much devoted to the Confederacy as his first prayer (made in hearing of
the guard) indicated. He asked permission of the jailer to give us some
old files of religious papers, and sent in a bundle weekly, or oftener.
They were acceptable, but their value greatly increased when we found
that an old religious paper might have a new daily folded carefully
inside! These acts of friendship were deeply grateful to us, and
lightened many a weary hour.
One morning our jailer came to our door and asked if we knew John
Wollam. We were startled, and hesitated to answer. For three weeks we
had heard nothing of Wollam, and hoped that one member of our devoted
band had escaped. Now we knew that the jailer was in possession of some
news, and while we burned to hear it, we feared the possibility of doing
Wollam an injury by acknowledging the acquaintance. But while we
deliberated John himself came up, and put an end to our doubts by
greeting us heartily. The door was unlocked, and he entered. All the
survivors of our party were now together, as those who had been
separated from us at Chattanooga were put into our room immediately
after the execution of our comrades. Our number, including Captain Fry,
who remained in our room, was fifteen.
The first thing in order, when left alone, was for John to tell us all
his adventures from the time he and Andrews had broken out of the
Chattanooga dungeon. He was fired upon while still suspended in the air
by the blankets upon which he was descending, but fortunately the hands
of the guards were too unsteady to inflict any injury. He succeeded in
getting safely to the ground, and then out of the prison-yard and
through the guard-line.
In his efforts to escape Wollam displayed qualities which would have
done credit to an Indian. A few moments' running brought him down to the
river-side in advance of all pursuers. Finding no means of crossing, the
brilliant thought struck him of making his enemies believe he had
crossed. This idea was instantly acted on. He threw off his coat and
vest, dropping them on the bank of the river, and then walked a few rods
in the water to throw any hounds that might be following off his track.
He next slipped quietly back and hid in a dense thicket of canes and
rushes. He heard his pursuers on the bank above him, and all around,
talking of their various plans. At last they found the clothes, and at
once concluded that he had taken to the river. Accordingly they ferried
the blood-hounds to the other side, and searched for the place of his
exit from the water. As might be expected, the dogs were unable to find
that, and after a due time spent in consultation, the Confederates
concluded that he had been drowned and gave over the search.
Wollam spent the day in great anxiety, but night gave him the
opportunity of leaving his hiding-place. He made his way cautiously down
the river on the Chattanooga side for some miles. At length he found a
canoe, in which he drifted down the stream by night, while hiding it and
himself in the bushes by day. On two occasions he would have been saved
if he had only known it. General Mitchel had captured a steamboat and
fitted it up as a cruiser, with which he patrolled the river as far as
his lines extended. In his night-voyaging Wollam passed this
extemporized gunboat twice, but fearing that it was some rebel craft, he
crept quietly by in the shadow of the shore without discovery.
At length he felt sure that he was inside the Union lines, and beyond
the probable danger of capture, and therefore ventured boldly forward in
the daytime. This was a fatal mistake. The danger of capture is never so
great as in the debatable ground between two armies, where both exercise
their utmost vigilance. This boundary in most cases is also a shifting
one. It was so in this instance. A band of rebel cavalry on the shore
saw the lonely voyager, and, riding on ahead, procured a boat and came
out to meet him. He was unable to escape, and thus the poor fellow was
captured on the very brink of safety. As usual, he tried to persuade
them that he was a Confederate, but unfortunately a certain Lieutenant
Edwards, who had assisted in his previous capture, happened to be
present, and at once recognized him by his bold and reckless bearing. He
was then taken to join us at Atlanta.
Our provisions here became worse and less, until the starvation point
was very nearly reached. Constant hunger was one of the torments of our
life. We only received a very small fragment of half-baked corn-bread,
without salt, and a morsel of pork,--the latter always spoiled, and
frequently covered with maggots. But none of it was wasted! Several had
very little appetite, because of malarial or intermittent fever. The
allowance of _such_ food was abundant for these, but the others ate all
that the sick spared. Many a Barmecide feast was spread by the
description of rich dainties that would be enjoyed if "at home" once
more; and what was even worse, the same banquets would be spread in
dreams, from which the tantalized sleepers awoke more hungry and
miserable than ever. I am not sure that the aching head and burning
fever were more painful than the constant pangs of unsatisfied hunger.
However, I need not linger over these details. In the mere matter of
starving I presume we suffered no more than thousands of our
fellow-soldiers in Andersonville and other prisons. Alfred Wilson, whose
iron constitution bore up well under all hardships, and whose appetite
was always good enough for all the rations of every kind he could get,
felt these privations most keenly. He says of the food that it was
"almost enough to convulse the stomach of a hungry dog. I have found by
experience, and I think I will be corroborated by all the men who have
been in rebel prisons and have suffered the protracted pangs of hunger
and starvation, that man, when forced to it, is as ravenous, reckless,
unreasonable, and brutish in his appetite as the lowest order of animal
creation." In other prisons, it was not uncommon for the inmates to
fight over their miserable allowance; but our common sympathy and
discipline were so strong that few disputes arose, and these were
quickly settled by the general voice. The religious influence that had
grown up in our midst also tended powerfully to prevent any
interference of the stronger with the rights of the weaker.
Indeed, the completeness of our voluntary discipline and the systematic
manner in which we employed our time was little less than marvellous. To
sleep was always in order, when possible, but the disposal of waking
hours was not left to the will of each person. The only game permitted
was that of checkers or drafts, and over the rude board carved on the
floor eager players bent during all the hours allotted to amusement.
Then we had a couple of hours daily for debating, and discussed
questions of every kind. No little ingenuity and skill were thus
exercised. Often great political questions occupied our attention, and
evoked real and strong differences of opinion. Strange as it may seem,
there were but two of us--Buffum and myself--who avowed ourselves out
and out abolitionists. The name had not yet lost all its reproach, but
we held our own in argument, especially when we pointed out the natural
result of slavery in making men barbarous and inhuman even to whites, as
illustrated in our condition. _That_ argument never failed to give us
the advantage!
We also set aside two hours in the forenoon and two in the afternoon for
reading. During this time not so much as a whisper was permitted, and
few schools have kept better discipline. Any one not wishing to read was
permitted to sleep or occupy himself in any quiet manner. Frequently
some one was selected to read aloud for a time, but this only took place
by general consent, that those who wished to read silently might be
undisturbed. The extraordinary character of these exercises will be
better appreciated when it is remembered that we had no "light reading,"
but mainly theological works, with a few volumes of travels, biography,
and poetry,--just what the good minister's library could furnish, for we
read everything we could get. The Bible was not forgotten. When the
supply of books ran short, we resorted to our memories. All the
prominent incidents of our lives had been told in our terribly close
association, and we next began to repeat for the common benefit the
books we had read so far as we could remember them. One night about dark
I began to tell something about a weird book I had read a few months
previously. A few questions elicited fuller detail, and it was after
midnight before the story was finished. Buffum, especially, was so
deeply impressed that when released he took the earliest opportunity of
getting and reading the volume, but he gave me a great compliment by
saying that the original was not half so good as the copy. The changed
circumstances, perhaps, made a more natural, if less flattering,
explanation of his diminished interest. We also had our regular hours
for gymnastic exercise,--wrestling, boxing, acrobatic feats, etc. One of
our party, Hawkins, having once been connected with a circus, now
trained us in all the exercises that our enfeebled condition and close
quarters permitted. Much of the health and vigor that we retained during
so long an imprisonment was due to our systematic and diversified
employments.
This careful division of time, and endeavor after constant employment,
was, doubtless, of great advantage, but it could not change the fact
that we were close prisoners in a stifling room, and far from our home.
Those summer days, as month after month glided away, were terribly long
and oppressive. The tediousness and vain longing for action pressed upon
us more and more closely. We fought the dreadful weight with all the
strength of our wills, but even will-power grew feebler. The engineer
Brown, who was one of the most restless of mortals, all nerve and fire
in action, capable of enduring tremendous hardship if it were only of an
active character, would pace the floor back and forth like a caged
tiger; when this, too, grew unendurable, he would stop at the door,
shake its woven iron bars till they rang again, and say in the most
piteous tones (of course, meant only for _us_ to hear), "Oh, kind sir,
please let me out! I want to go home!" The feeling he expressed was
shared by all. Never before could I realize the full value of liberty
and the horror of confinement. In previous prisons the novelty of our
situation, the frequent removals, the painful excitement of trials,
prevented the blank monotony of imprisonment from settling down upon us
as it did here, after the first few weeks of our stay in Atlanta rolled
by, and no whisper regarding our probable fate reached us. It was like
the stillness and death that brood over the Dead Sea!
We would sit at the windows in the sultry noon and look out through the
bars at the free birds as they flew past, seemingly so full of joyous
life, and foolishly wish that we were birds, that we, too, might fly far
away and be free.
At long intervals, two of us at a time would be permitted to go down
into the jail-yard to do some washing for ourselves and the party. This
great privilege came round to me at last. It was then three months since
I had stepped out of that prison room, and the unobscured vision of open
air and sky made it seem like another world. I remember looking up at
the snowy clouds, my eyes dazzled by the unusual light, and wondering,
as I gazed in admiration upon their beautiful and changing forms,
whether beyond them lay a world of rest in which there were neither wars
nor prisons. Oh, how I longed for freedom! to be where I could look up
at the sky every day and go where I wished! Yet with the thought came a
great fear. If I was ever removed from the pressure of immediate danger,
and allowed to mingle in the interests and cares of the thronging world,
might I not forget my prison-made vows and lose my claim to the world
beyond the clouds and stars? Such a sense of weakness and helplessness
came over me that I felt greatly relieved when, my task being done, I
was conducted back to the dark and narrow prison room, where the
contrast between freedom and bondage was less palpable!
All this time we hardly permitted ourselves to indulge a hope of getting
home again. The friends we had known in happier days were separated from
us by an impassable gulf; and when fancy called round us the loved
scenes and friends at home, it was like treading upon forbidden ground.
But when the long day had dragged its hours away, when we were weary
with fighting against weariness, the night removed every restraint, and
for a few golden hours love and freedom were ours again.
Often in dreams have I seen the streets and buildings of my own town
rise before me, and have felt a thrilling pleasure in contemplating each
feature of the landscape around as I wended my way in fancy towards the
old log cabin forever consecrated by affection. But the waking from such
dreams of earthly paradise was sad beyond measure. The evening hour,
when the burning heat had abated, and when we were settling to
rest,--though it was on the bare floor, and without even a stone like
that upon which Jacob pillowed his head,--was our happiest time. Then
prayer and song and more cheerful conversation prepared us for rest and
often for happy dreams. But the morning hours, when we wakened, hungry,
sore, unrefreshed, with no food but our miserable bit of vile bread and
spoiled meat, and a long day to look forward to,--these were always
dreary. After prayers, and our apology for a breakfast, we grew more
cheerful, and again took up the task of living.
An anecdote here will fitly illustrate the affection and exaggerated
reverence felt for what we, to the great annoyance of the guards and
citizens, persisted in calling "God's country." I had been reading aloud
a sermon of Bishop Bascom's, from a book loaned us by our friend, the
minister. The topic was "The Joys of Heaven." All listened with delight
to his magnificent descriptions, but when the reading closed, engineer
Brown, who was of a matter-of-fact disposition, asked, "Now, candidly,
boys, would you rather be in heaven, safe from all harm, if it is as
good as the preacher says, or be in Cincinnati?" This roused a very
animated discussion, but at its conclusion, when we took a vote on the
subject, the majority decided, honestly, no doubt, that they would
rather be in Cincinnati,--for a while, at least!
The expedients to which the tobacco-chewers of our party were driven to
obtain a supply of "the weed" were at once amusing and pathetic. They
were even more eager for it than for their food. They begged from the
negroes, jailer, guards, visitors,--anybody who could supply the valued
article. The little they got was husbanded with the utmost care. One
chewing was not sufficient. No "quids" were thrown away, but carefully
laid up, dried, and again used. When no more narcotic could be so
extracted, they were once more dried and smoked in cob pipes!
When Andrews broke out of the Chattanooga jail, he gave Hawkins a large,
fine coat, which was too heavy to be carried. This was now sold to the
jailer, and the proceeds furnished quite a treat of provisions.
We found some diversion in opening secret communication with every room
in the prison. Those on the opposite side of the entry were reached by
means of a small stick, which was shot from the crack under one door to
the corresponding crack under the other. Each door was double,--one
thickness of heavy wood, which was shut only at night, and precluded all
communication; the other of light iron bars. A string tied to the stick
pulled over any message we might desire to send. Between our room and
the other on the same side of the hall there was an unused chimney, into
which stove-pipes led on each side. By removing the elbows we could talk
through, but there was the danger of being overheard. To remedy that, a
long lath was forced off the side of our room in such a way that it
could be put back again when desired, and this was used in passing notes
back and forth through this concealed passage. This "telegraph" was very
useful when we afterwards undertook an escape.
I can preserve no order of time in relating the events of these tedious
months, which slowly rolled away their ponderous length. It was an
almost perfect isolation from the world, with little hope of ever again
mingling in its busy currents. As each month closed, we were startled by
the thought that we were still alive,--that the thunderbolt had not yet
descended,--and we surmised and wondered how much longer it could be
delayed. At last a small ray of hope began to rise, very feeble at
first, and based only upon the incomprehensible reprieve we were
enjoying. As week after week glided away eventless--marked only by the
monotony that is more wearying to heart and brain than the most severe
anguish--this hope grew stronger; though it was so little assured that
the most trifling circumstance--such as the strengthening of the guard,
or the visit of an army official--was sufficient for the time to
overturn it. It was the 12th of June when we entered that room. It was
the 18th of October before we left it amid events of the most startling
character, which will form a fit topic for a new chapter.