LOCKED UP.
THE inmates of the hospital were allowed passes, after roll-call in the
morning, to go into the city, or whither they pleased; but it was
imperative that they should return by half-past seven in the evening,
positively, without fail. One morning, as usual, I got a pass to go into
the city, and as the Doctor handed it to me, he said:
“Don’t fail to be back at half-past seven.”
“I won’t,” I replied, with the best intentions in the world.
As new patients arrived almost every day, some of whom might be ignorant
of the rules and regulations, the Doctor had got into the habit of
repeating this injunction every time he gave out a pass; and as he gave,
on an average, about one hundred and fifty per day, Sundays excluded, he
must, in the course of a year, have said, “Don’t fail to return by
half-past seven,” forty-six thousand nine hundred and fifty times.
I had just stepped from the street-car in the heart of the city, when I
ran squarely against one of the boys of my own regiment, whom I had not
seen since the battle of Antietam.
“Hallo, Charlie!” I exclaimed, delighted to see the familiar face of my
comrade; “what are you doing here?”
“I have been in the Chestnut Hill Hospital,” was his reply, as we shook
hands. “I was wounded at Fredericksburg, and am just well enough now to
return to the regiment: I go to Washington to-day. What are _you_ doing
here?”
“I am staying at Haddington Hospital,” I returned, “waiting to have a
Palmer leg fitted on me that is made of willow, and only weighs three
ounces and a half.”
“Come and go to Washington with me,” he said, as the thought appeared to
strike him. (It struck me rather forcibly about the same time, I
confess.)
“I couldn’t—I—I—”
“Why couldn’t you?”
“Because I only have a pass till evening.”
“Oh, that will make no difference. They will hardly be so strict with
the cripples.”
“When do you go?” I asked, thoughtfully.
“At eleven o’clock.”
“Where is the regiment?”
“Lying at Upton’s Hill. Come—you’ll go with me!”
“I might get into trouble,” I said, wavering. “I only have a pass till
half-past seven, and if I should go away and stay whole days——”
“O, pshaw! They wouldn’t care. You have no duty to perform there.”
“No, but——”
“O, come,” he urged—all I wanted was a little urging—“the boys would be
so glad to see you! You don’t know how they felt about your losing a leg
at Antietam!”
This argument completely disarmed me. I had not been with the regiment
since I was carried away from it in the smoke of battle, and, O, I knew
that the boys would be glad to see me! No one who has not been a soldier
knows how dear one’s comrades are to him! And especially his
messmates—those with whom he has slept many a time on the cold ground,
and under the same narrow tent; those with whom he has drank from the
same canteen, or eaten from the same scanty dish! The attachment that
grows up among companions in arms is like no other. It is not like
paternal or fraternal love; it is not like the love of lovers; but it is
as fond, as deep, and as lasting!
I accompanied my comrade to Washington, thence to Upton’s Hill, and saw
the “boys;” and I think I never enjoyed so much true happiness, in the
same length of time, as I did during that pleasant visit. I never
thought of my being absent without leave, till I neared Philadelphia
again. Then I began to wonder if “any thing would be done with me” on my
return to the hospital. I tried to persuade myself that there was no
danger of any thing of the sort, but something would keep whispering to
me that I was going to “get into trouble.”
I arrived at the hospital again just one week from the day I had left.
The roll was regularly called, both in the morning and in the evening,
and I could not suppress an involuntary shudder, as I thought of the
fourteen roll-calls I had evidently missed, and of the fourteen _black
marks_ that were surely placed, by this time, opposite the honest,
unassuming name of Smith, John.
However, I put on a bold face, walked up the hospital steps, paid no
attention to the guard, who said, “Where the deuce have you been all
this time?” walked in, and calmly reported myself to the surgeon.
“Doctor,” said I, “it isn’t half-past seven yet, is it?” (It was about
two o’clock, _post meridian_.)
I had hoped he would enjoy this joke, and good-naturedly laugh the
affair off, but I saw no such indications on his stern countenance.
“Where have you been, Smith?” he asked. Do I say _asked_? I should say,
_demanded_. That is putting it mildly enough.
“I went to Upton’s Hill to see my regiment,” I replied.
“Exactly. Upton’s Hill. Let me see—that is—”
“Upton’s Hill,” said I, “is about eight or nine miles from Alexandria,
by the pike. From Washington, it is situated——”
In fact, I was going on to deliver a first class lecture on geography,
when he interrupted me with:
“So you went there, eh? A pretty way to act! I gave you a pass a week
ago to-day, as the records will show, telling you to return by half-past
seven, and, until now, have not seen you or heard of you!”
“Well,” said I, still hoping that the affair might be accepted as a
joke, “I am back, you see, before half-past seven. The mere matter of a
week——”
“Go to your ward,” interrupted the Doctor, who did not seem to be in a
joking mood.
“Glad to get off so easily,” I muttered to myself, as I withdrew. “I
really did begin to get a little scared; but it’s all right now. I
believe I’ll go and write a letter or two.”
Now, there was at the hospital, acting as sergeant of the guard, a
contemptible little fellow named Kinsley, who had never been wounded,
and probably had never seen any active service. I do not remember what
regiment he belonged to. He was very fond of displaying his sergeant’s
stripes, paper collar, and delicate little mustache. I had not been in
my ward long, when this pompous little fellow came in with a _key_ in
his hand, approached me and said:
“Come and go with me, Smith.”
Observing the key, I at first supposed that new quarters had been
assigned me—in truth, I was nearly right—and I arose and followed him.
He led the way up one flight of stairs, then another, then another. We
had not quite reached the fourth story when the horrible truth suddenly
flashed upon me. _I was to be put in the guard-house_—yes, the
GUARD-HOUSE!
“Sergeant,” said I, pausing on the stairs, “I half believe that you
contemplate locking me up.”
“So I am ordered,” he replied.
“I’ve considered the matter,” I continued, coolly, “and have come to the
conclusion not to go.”
“But you’ve got to go,” said he. “There’s no use in——”
“No, I really don’t think I’ll go: not right away, anyhow,” I said,
coolly; and I turned about and began to descend the stairs.
He quickly followed me, and roughly seized one of my arms. Letting my
crutches fall, I turned impetuously upon him, and with all the fire of
assailed dignity, seized the foppish little sergeant by both arms, and
hurled him down the stairs with all my might. I tumbled down after him,
however, for I had not then such command of my equilibrium as I have
since acquired, and we landed at the foot of the stairs all in a heap. I
was up first, and snatching up one of my crutches for a weapon, I stood
with my back to the wall, and proposed to “split his skull” if he should
dare to approach. He did not dare, however, but with a savage oath for
so small a man, he picked himself up and ran down the other two flights
of stairs. I deliberately followed. I was half-way down the last flight,
when the Doctor and two guards, armed with musket and bayonet, appeared
in the hall.
“Doctor,” said I, “did you order me to be put in the guard-house?”
“Yes,” he replied, frankly.
“You have no right to do it,” I said, with some force. “I am a sergeant,
and cannot, without a trial, be confined in a guard-house.”
“But you can,” he retorted, “if there are men enough here to carry you
up. Go, boys, and put him in No. 41.”
The two guards came up to me, and one of them said:
“Come, now, you see we are ordered to do it. We don’t like to, but——”
“I will go with _you_,” said I, “for I know you are a soldier; but if
that dandified little sergeant comes within reach of me, I will break
his head!”
I again ascended the stairs, for I saw that resistance would be both
useless and wrong; and one of the guards, inserting the key, opened the
door, and I walked in. Just then, the cowardly little sergeant made his
appearance, rushed to the door, drew it to, turned the key, and
tauntingly said:
“Now I’ve got you, my fine fellow! You see a sergeant _can_ be put in
the guard-house!”
I could not help acknowledging the truth of this, but did not do so to
him. I merely promised to lick him as soon as I should get out.
“You know nobody would hurt you, because you are a cripple,” he replied,
“or you wouldn’t talk that way.”
“And you,” I retorted, “who never went into danger enough to lose a
limb, can well afford to lounge about a hospital, and bully over the
cripples!”
No reply was made: I heard them going down stairs, and I was alone in my
prison!
Fortunately, during my youthful days I had not neglected one important
branch of my education. I had read, with deep interest, minute and
graphic accounts of the daring adventures and hair-breadth escapes of
Claude Duval, Dick Turpin, and Sixteen-string Jack, contained in a
series of twenty-four octavo volumes, of one hundred pages each,
handsomely bound in orange-colored paper, and illustrated with numerous
spirited lithographic engravings, done on brown stone.
There is no sort of learning that will not come in play at some time or
other; and, with my extensive theoretic knowledge of prisons, it is not
to be supposed that an ordinary hotel-room, with the lock on the
_inside_ of the door, would hold me very long. I looked about me for
means of escape. The window was too high to think of taking a jump from
it, as it will be remembered I had led Thomas to believe I was in the
habit of doing, and as Chris. Miller had threatened to do; so I resolved
to force the door open or die in the attempt.
There was a stove in the room, without fire, of course, and I opened the
door and peered in. It contained about eighteen quarts of ashes and
cinders, and——a small iron shovel with an iron handle. I seized it with
joy. I saw _liberty_ beaming all over it. First I tried to insert the
handle between the lock and the iron “catch,” into which the bolt went,
which was only secured by a couple of one-and-a-half-inch wood-screws.
The crevice was too small, or the shovel-handle too big. I next tried a
corner of the shovel itself: it entered the crevice, but it proved too
pliable—it bent. Then, with some effort, I wrenched the handle from the
shovel, and tried that end. It was smaller than the other end, and
success stared me in the face. I inserted it in the crevice, and, with a
reasonable expenditure of strength, pried the “catch” off, and it fell
to the floor, in a somewhat bent and dented condition. The door swung
open. I was free.
Thus liberated, I walked calmly down stairs, and went out on the piazza,
where the Doctor and a number of the boys were sitting, airing
themselves.
“Doctor,” I said, coolly, as I boldly confronted him, “I am not
accustomed to sleeping in the fourth story: couldn’t you give me a room
lower down?”