The Rebel Reveille—A Horrid Dinner—A Reinforcement of Little
Rebels—The Darkie’s Explanation—An Exciting Trial—Hope of
Release—Retribution—My Old Chains doing good Service.
The dawn came at last, bringing with it the reveille of the rebel
drums, and the yelling of rebel guards. Our rations, however, took a
longer time to reach us, for it was not until about eleven o’clock that
the negro brought us a mess of the stereotyped greens and corn-bread.
A glance into the pan showed us that the maggots had received heavy
reinforcements; but so, also, had our hunger gained strength, and we
were glad to receive even the repulsive maggots and spoiled-bread, and
thank God we fared so well. I could not forbear questioning the negro
concerning this outrageous food, and from him I received the following
explanation:
The jailor had some time before purchased a lot of meat at a lower
figure than it could now be bought for, for the reason that a portion
of it was tainted. The worst of this meat had been thrown aside into a
large box used for holding soap-grease.
“He tole me, sah,” said the negro, “to go to dat box and get dat meat,
an’ when I tole him it stink like de debbil, he swore de tallest kind
o’ swore dat I lied, an’ fur me to go git it, as it wus plenty good
’nuff for dem d——d Yankees. I’se sorry, sah, but I had to do as massa
tole me.”
We were satisfied with the poor slave’s explanation, and shutting our
eyes, demolished our horrid dinner to the last atom, and were still
as hungry as ever, for the quantity of the food was as meagre as its
quality. As yet I had received no reply to the letter I had sent out by
the hands of the negro, to whom I have previously referred. Days and
nights passed successively in monotonous misery, and still I beheld
the face of no friend save that One which beamed down from above, and
supported me in all my trials. Whenever we got the opportunity, we used
to question the negroes as to their opinions and ideas concerning the
war and slavery. In so doing, we assumed a great risk, as a white man
who is caught conversing with the slaves, receives the most rigorous
treatment. One day I asked the slave, who brought us our scanty supply
of loathsome food, what he thought of the war.
“God bless you, sah,” he answered, in the same whispering tones of
caution as I myself had used, “I knows all ’bout it, an’ all us niggas
knows all ’bout it. Why I couldn’t tell you half what we knows an’ what
we says ’mong ourselves, sah!”
“God grant that more light may be sent into the land of the slave, and
salvation to the downtrodden inhabitants thereof!” prayed I, as the
negro, seeing his master, hurried away from our cell.
Our rest was much disturbed at night by the howling and yelping of a
dog, which was doubtless as much ill treated and starved as we were
ourselves.
Time rolled on, but still no event occurred to dispel the gloom
that surrounded me, until I learned that the man I had met on the
cars, and who, it will be remembered, asserted that he had known me
in Cincinnati, had arrived in Macon. I learned, also, that he was
reporting it about the town, that, in Ohio I was possessed of some
degree of influence. The faithful slave who told me this added:
“One of you is a-gwine to be taken out, for I heard de sheriff say
that a lot o’ people went to the Major, and wanted him to let you out.”
This was, of course, like a star of hope in a dark horizon, and day
after day I awaited the appearance of some deliverer who should bid me
walk forth free. But, alas! it was a delusive dream, for none came, and
I was no nearer liberty than ever.
About this time, an occurrence took place which I here record, to show
the workings of that pernicious system which is the real root of all
our national troubles. I was standing at the bars of my cell, looking
out into the prison yard, and saw Woods, the jailor, order the negro,
who used to wait on us, to bring him an ax. Upon receiving it, he
deliberately broke off the lock of a trunk that belonged to Captain
Clay Crawford, and took therefrom a watch and several cards of jewelry.
Soon after the darkey brought us our rations, and upon our speaking
of the affair, he was quite surprised that we knew of it. He said the
trunk was Mr. Crawford’s, and smiled knowingly.
Two days after, a party of men came for the trunk, and found it broken
open, as I have stated. They, of course, called the jailor to account,
and he was fairly implicated in the matter. Without hesitation,
however, the vile robber accused the poor negro of having committed
the act. Of course the latter denied the charge, and told the whole
truth about it. This enraged Woods, and he tied him up to a rough
timber cross so that, while his arms were stretched to their utmost
extent, his toes barely touched the ground. He then took a heavy whip,
with three thongs, and lashed the unfortunate negro until his shirt was
actually soaked in blood.
Occasionally the monster ceased a moment, and bade the victim of his
brutality to confess to the deed; but with the most heroic fortitude
the poor slave refused to comply, and Woods, finding that he could not
succeed thus, untied the bleeding man, and threw him into the cell next
to our own.
Between us there was only an iron grating, so that we could converse
with the negro, and see with our own eyes the horrible treatment to
which he had been subjected.
As chance had it, Captain Clay Crawford himself had been a witness of
all the proceedings, and upon seeing the negro so unmercifully beaten,
he lost his temper, and uttered a rent of oaths, swearing that he saw
the jailor do the deed. As he was regarded, however, as a Yankee,
his word had no more effect than the negro’s. As I gazed upon the
quivering back of that poor, downtrodden African, I exclaimed, in the
words of Thomas Pringle:
“Oh, slavery, thou art a bitter draught,
And twice accursed is thy poisoned bowl,
Which taints with leprosy the white man’s soul!”
In the power of such monsters what might not we expect at their
blood-stained hands? There was but one Deliverer for us, as well as
the slave, and that deliverer was God, and on Him we cast ourselves,
feeling that He was all-powerful. Job truly wrote:
“The wicked man travaileth with pain all his days, and the number of
years is hidden to the oppressor.”
And with equal truth did the prophet exclaim:
“So I returned, and considered all the oppression that is done under
the sun, and beheld the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had
no comfort. And on the side of the oppressed there was power, but they
had no comfort.”
Oh, may the hand be stilled in death that would raise itself to defend
such a system!
While the jailor was in the midst of his trouble, the star of hope that
had arisen on the coming to Macon of my Ohio friend, and then set so
suddenly, came up once more, but with more cheering brilliancy this
time; for, through the hubbub that he had raised, I was released from
my prison cell the very day on which the poor negro, who had been so
unmercifully lashed, was to have his trial. I was scarcely fit to be
seen, for I was yet clothed in the wretched rags in which I had lived
for several months. Yet, notwithstanding this, when I appeared before
the Major, whose opinion, since having heard of my real character and
position, was wonderfully changed, he began to bow and scrape in his
best style.
“Oh, sir,” he exclaimed, “I did not know that you were a minister, or I
would not have had you put into that cell. And now,” added he, “I will
give you a parole of the town, and you may report here every morning.”
As commissioners had come to terms concerning the exchange of
prisoners, the only object that the contemptible Major had in view,
was to induce me, upon my return home, to speak well of him and his
friends. I must confess that I lost my temper. However, I said nothing,
but, called, in very positive tones, for a guard to accompany me to the
military prison, which was near at hand. As I was going thither, the
thought that the poor negro was to be tried that day for the offence
which had been really committed by his master, shot across my mind, and
I resolved that I would do my duty in the matter. I instantly returned
to the commandant, and asked him to give me a parole of the town.
This he forthwith did, as he imagined that I wished to purchase new
clothing. He furnished me, also, with two guards with loaded muskets. I
then went to the building where the trial was being held. Upon entering
the room, I saw the poor, friendless slave, loaded with chains, sitting
in the culprit’s dock, while the brutal Woods sat confidently near
him, fully expecting to have him condemned. When I mildly requested
the court to allow me to speak a word in defence of the accused, Woods
sprang to his feet, and swore that they would not listen to any d——d
Yankee. This brought the owner of the negro to _his_ feet, with the
exclamation, that I was a white man, and, consequently, entitled to
speak. A long debate ensued on this point, which was settled finally in
my favor, and I took the stand.
“Gentlemen,” I began, “I am a Yankee prisoner. I have been in some
three or four of your county jails, and several of your penitentiaries;
but still your commandant has confidence in me, and has given a parole
of the town, and your surgeon has made statements which prove me to be
a man of some little credit at home. If, therefore, I shall find any
favor in your eyes, I will make a statement in reference to the matter
on trial.”
I paused until I was assured by the court that what I had to say would
receive credence, and then resumed:
“I saw that man, Woods, who sits here at my right, force the prisoner
at the bar to bring him an axe. Upon receiving it, he deliberately
broke open the trunk referred to, and took therefrom a watch and a
card of jewelry. Subsequently, that he might extort from the prisoner
a false acknowledgment of guilt, he tied him up, and beat him most
inhumanly.”
This brought Woods to his feet once more, livid with rage.
“You don’t mean to say that I broke open that trunk, do you, sir?” he
ejaculated, shaking at me his clenched fists.
“I do; and you know you did it!” was my prompt reply.
The villain thereupon lost all control of himself, and, drawing a
bowie-knife, swore vengeance upon me. I quietly stepped back, and
placed myself between the two guards, who, lowering their pieces,
prepared to protect me, should my assailant attempt to do me violence.
I then made a statement that my testimony could be corroborated, if
necessary, by Captain Clay Crawford himself, and Lieutenant Collins,
both officers in the United States army. He quibbled, and protested,
and reasoned, and raved alternately; but it was all useless, and when
at last I told the minutest particulars about the affair, such as where
the negro took the axe from, _et cetera_, he was forced to give in, and
was accordingly found guilty, while the poor black fellow was released
amid the most tumultuous excitement.
To show that Providence was retributive in this case, I need only state
that the crest-fallen culprit was taken from court, placed in the
same cell in which I had been incarcerated, was chained with the same
irons, slept on the same filthy bed, and I have no doubt was bitten and
tormented by the identical little inhabitants of the last, by which I
had been long annoyed, so much to his merriment.
Before my time was out, I reported at the jail, and then went over to
the military prison, where I had a bone removed from my wounded hand. I
then passed in among the prisoners, and while conversing with them, I
was obliged to repeat the story of my escape and recapture many times.
That night, on account of the pain I suffered, I was unable to sleep,
and so I spent the still hours in reflections on my situation, God’s
mercy and goodness, and on those dear ones at home, who were then, most
likely, peacefully slumbering and dreaming of a soldier of the Union,
far away in a Southern prison, wounded and weary, and no one even to
speak a word of kindness to him.
The next day I heard of many deaths which had occurred during my
absence. Quite a number of the names were familiar to me, and my heart
was indeed sad. Some of these noble fellows died shouting for God and
their country with their last breath. Think of it, reader, and let it
awaken your grateful remembrances for the heroic martyrs. They had
left pleasant homes, fruitful fields, beloved relations, and cherished
friends, to fight and suffer for the Union. And there, in a loathsome
prison, without a pillow for their dying heads, without a covering,
without proper food, without medicine, without water even to slake
their burning tongues, they died, a glorious sacrifice on a glorious
altar.