Taken to Columbus, Mississippi—Visit from the Clergy—An Enthusiastic
Mute—American Aristocracy—Secession Lies—Political and Ecclesiastical
Prisoners—Reflections.
On Monday morning, at ten o’clock, a part of the prisoners left
Corinth, for Columbus, Mississippi. Wherever the cars stopped, the
wildest excitement prevailed.
“How goes the day?” was the constant inquiry.
We were exhibited as some of the trophies of the battle. That the
people were somewhat divided, could easily be perceived from their
countenances. On the evening of the same day, we arrived at Columbus,
and there we were placed under a heavy guard, in an old warehouse; but
the ex-Governor of Mississippi came to the prison, and took us to the
hotel, where we enjoyed supper at his expense. There the crowd gathered
round us as though we were some mammoth traveling menagerie, while our
hostess kept commenting earnestly upon our handsome appearance, that,
in spite of my longitudinal neck and limbs, I began to suspect myself
worthy the compliment. While under guard here, I heard men declaring
most unequivocally their opposition to a Republican form of government.
Two ministers who visited me—Rev. Doctor Tensley, of the First Baptist
Church, and Rev. Mr. Morris, of the M. E. Church South—expressed but
little confidence in the Confederate cause. These gentlemen invited me
to their church on Sabbath, but the force of circumstances compelled me
to decline the invitation. These circumstances were, close confinement
under a heavy guard; and of this fact they were perfectly aware. I was
led from this to believe that their sympathy was not genuine.
After the ministers left me, a deaf and dumb man came to the door, and
handed me a paper which contained an article relative to the recent
battle of Shiloh. The account began in the following self-gratulatory
style: “Glory! glory! glory! Victory! victory! I write from Yankee
paper.” The writer proceeded in his intense and heated manner by
saying, “Of all the victories that have ever been on record, ours is
the most complete. Their repulse at Bull Run was nothing to compare
to our victory at Shiloh. General Buell is killed, and General Grant
wounded and taken prisoner. Soon we will prove too much for them, and
they will be compelled to let us alone. Our brave boys have driven them
to the river, and compelled them to flee to their gunboats. The day is
ours.”
The mute who had given me the paper was so permeated with the prospect
of rebel success, that he favored hoisting the black flag, and in this
was sustained by a large number in that neighborhood. As the news came
slowly in, the comments made on the state of affairs were as various
as they were amusing. Only through the friendship and ingenuity of
the slaves, who were the _attaches_ of the prison, were we privileged
to receive papers giving the account of the recent fight. When they
learned the true condition of their army after the battle, and
realized that their boasted victory was a bloody defeat, they became
more charitable in their opinions. I became well satisfied from the
conversation I overheard from rebel officers and visitors, during my
incarceration here, that a favorite doctrine of Dixie is to adjust
their “peculiar institution” in such a way as to include the poor
whites as well as the colored people as chattel property.
I was here visited by two rebel captains belonging to Bushrod
Johnston’s staff, one of whom was a lawyer from Virginia, named
McMoore. These men converged freely on the times. Both of them
expressed themselves as decidedly in favor of an American Aristocracy!
They argued, with as much earnestness and ability as their vocabulary
furnished words, the imbecility of Republican government; and to prove
the immutability of their opinions, cited to me the semi-idiotic and
degraded “clay-eaters” of the South, saying:
“What do these men know of civil institutions, and what right have they
to vote?”
Said I, “Gentlemen, is it possible that this is the faith of your
leaders?”
They replied emphatically in the affirmative.
“Then, sirs, we of the North have not been mistaken on a subject which
has been forcing itself upon us as a fact, but which we were loth to
believe could harbor itself even in the basest American heart. Since
you are frank enough to own it, certainly the world should know it, and
execrate it as it deserves.”
When I became acquainted with the motives of these two representative
men—how they despised their poor, ignorant soldier-brethren, armed and
fighting to fasten fetters on themselves and children for ever, I could
but exclaim, “Send out thy light and thy truth, O God! into all the
earth. Hasten the day when ignorance and oppression shall vanish before
the free gospel, and righteousness through all the land prevail.”
From my prison windows I now had ample leisure to study the
countenances of all classes of our rebellious enemies, from
Brigadier Generals down to the conscript “Sand-hillers.” All faces
were indicative of sadness. From what I could see and overhear—the
downcast eyes and the conflicting stories—I was well satisfied that
they had been worsted at Shiloh. The officers were given to wholesale
exaggeration, their falsifying tongues gliding from lie to lie with the
alacrity of a Baron Munchausen! These prevarications forcibly reminded
me of a negro boy down South, who undertook to describe to his master a
storm.
“Why, massa, dare was de wonderfullest, de tremendus’est most
powerfulest win’ stohm dat you ever heah. De win’ blowed so hard dat it
blowd de har—_de har_—all off one man’s head. Ya’as, de har all off one
man’s head! De har!”
“Now, Sam, you lying rascal, why didn’t the wind blow _your_ hair off?”
“Why—why—you’se allers bodderin white folks when dey’se tellin’ de
trufe—why, _dare was a man a-stan’in’ a-holdin my har on_! Ya’as—a man
a stan’in’—a man!”
“But why wasn’t his hair blown off?”
“O dare was anudder man a-standin’ a-holdin’ his har on! Ya’as anudder
man.”
“But why was’nt _his_ hair blown off?”
“Kase—why—w-why,—(you’se bodderen you’sef about de wind-stohm)—why
_dare was a little boy a-standin a-holdin his har on. Ya’as, a-ha_-a
little boy—a holden his har on!”
“But why wasn’t the little boy’s hair blown off, you black scamp?”
“Why—w-why—golly, does’nt you see plain ’nuff how it was? Why, DARE WAS
A MAN WID A BALD HEAD A-STANDIN’ A-HOLDIN’ HIS HAR ON!”
Just so the secession leaders falsify, and thus they attempt to bolster
up their improbable Confederacy. The whole compact is a libelous league
with darkness!
Some of these pompous Southerners would treat us with a kind of
counterfeit courtesy, which became to us even more disgusting than
outright abuse. The rebel army is made up of a passive-minded,
illiterate citizenship, officered by slave-owners and negro-drivers.
The maximum of soldiers in a regiment is much smaller than in the
Federal army, and each company has three Lieutenants. This gives
the young men of aristocratic families an opportunity to wear
shoulder-straps and lord it over the “poor white trash,” which compose
the rank and file. I learned from the prison guards, many of whom
would be loyal to the old Stars and Stripes if they dared, that the
mass of the Southern armies have been forced by the most stringent
and often cruel measures to take up arms against the United States
Government.
At this place there were a number of political prisoners, and a few
prisoners of war. Once we obtained leave to visit them. We were
conducted by a vigilant guard to their apartments in an upper room
of a very dilapidated building. We found about one hundred and fifty
Mississippi citizens, such as were suspected of Union sentiments, in
a most loathsome situation. Among them were three clergymen—one a
Presbyterian, one a “United Brother,” and the other a Methodist. There
was also a lawyer from Kentucky, named Halleck, who had been captured
by Bishop General Polk. Halleck was a subject of the ecclesiastical
body over which the Bishop ruled; but his loyalty to church did
not save him from arrest and trouble for want of confidence in
arch-treason. He had been dragged from his bed by a band of ruffians
who tied his hands behind him, and forced him into a filthy prison
where he lay for seven months in close confinement. He was finally
permitted to share a room with thirty-five or forty other Unionists.
At one time they were so shamefully neglected, that for three days they
were unsupplied with any food. To prevent absolute starvation, they
were obliged to beg the guards to assist them in stealing a barrel of
soap-grease, which they devoured with a greedy relish! This was in the
midst of the boasted chivalry of Columbus, Mississippi!
I should not forget to mention here the names of the ex-Governor of the
State, Mr. Whitefield, and his son. They had human hearts, and extended
to us some degree of kindness and sympathy. But these friendships were
rare exceptions, and all sufficient, if reported to rebel officials,
to call down vengeance on their heads. The people, to avoid suspicion
and imprisonment, were compelled to practice all manner of apparent
cruelties. In this building we began to feel the hateful oppressor’s
power. We could hardly believe that any portion of our once united and
happy country could be so soon, so darkly blighted by accursed treason!
While looking on the old, rusty walls of my prison-house, mocked and
insulted by the jeering outside multitudes, I had time and heart for
reflection. I thought of a familiar cottage amid the hills of Ohio, at
that very hour all fair and free in the spring sunlight, the orchard
blossoms, the opening flowers in garden and arbor, the dewy meadow
grass, and the thousand charming scenes of my home! I thought of wife
and children there—how they would wonder and fear at receiving no
tidings from the one they loved. I thought of God and his cause—my
country and her honor—my flag and her insulted glory. I thought of the
poor Southern conscript, and the despised and fettered slave of the
cotton-field, and my soul was stirred with mingled hope and compassion.
Thinking of my home, my friends, my country, my wounds, my prison, I
could but say:
“Patience, my soul, the Saviour’s feet were worn;
The Saviour’s heart and hands were weary too;
His garments stained, and travel-worn, and old,
His vision blinded with a pitying dew.
Love thou the path of sorrow that he trod,
Toil on, and wait in patience for thy rest;
Oh! country that I love, we soon shall see
Thy glorious cause triumphant, crowned and blest.”
While reflecting upon the inconsistency of secession, and witnessing
the persecutions heaped upon those who were loyal to the flag and truth
of our fathers, I almost faltered in my religious faith, for many of
these leaders in treason were professed Christians. But, through the
power of prayer, came a satisfying answer to my questioning fear. I
felt that the Lord Omnipotent was just—that his grace and gospel were
for the poor and the oppressed.
I remembered the day when the Saviour appeared to me—when denser,
darker prison-bands were sundered. Then old things passed away. Then
came the strength to believe and trust in a Higher Power—an Infinite
Deliverer. Remembering when the friendly voice had spoken to my
troubled heart, “Peace, be still,” even in prison, and hated of men for
Christ’s and country’s sake, I could exclaim:
“Faith, of our fathers, living still,
In spite of dungeon, fire, and sword;
Oh! how our hearts beat high with joy
Where’er we hear that glorious word!
Faith of our fathers! holy faith!
We will be true to thee till death!”
Though a prisoner of war, a soldier can be a Christian. He realizes in
trial and trouble that the Judge of all the earth does right.