trouble produced a flat bottle. “A friend,” he said, “gave me this, and
I mean to carry it through to Arkansas, if I can, but I must take a
drink with a gentleman that was on the other side in Missouri, the first
year of the war, if I never drink again as long as I live.”
We touched our lips to the detestable poison, and thanked our friend for
his courtesy. The “border ruffian” then expressed his great satisfaction
at finding we were treated as gentlemen and prisoners of war should be,
and said he doubted if he didn’t respect the soldiers on “the other
side” rather more than he did a good many folks on his own. Finally he
asked our names—gave us his own, which was Woodland—shook hands warmly,
and rode off. We shouldered our loads and plodded on, wondering whether
the barbarous and brutal trade of war does not of itself inspire men at
last with some noble and chivalric sentiments.
These meditations lasted us till we reached the gate. We were somewhat
apprehensive that our appearance would produce a sensation in camp, and
excite anticipations of the coming festivities, but luckily the rain and
cold had driven all within their hovels. We walked rapidly past the
closed doors of the “shebangs” till we hastily kicked open our own, and
threw down our loads before the eyes of our astonished messmates. Then
after a savage attack on cold beef and hot dodger, and after brewing a
hot decoction of sumach to keep the cold out, we hung our wet clothes
before the fire, and rolled ourselves in our warm blankets for the rest
of the evening. Ere we fell asleep some one came in and said that it was
freezing, and that the ground was white with snow.
The ground was white with snow, and so were our blankets the next
morning. The north wind blew a gale—a goodly sized snow-drift stretched
across the floor of the “shebang”—the water pail was frozen nearly
solid, and a cup of sumach tea that stood upon the table directly in
front of the fire was coated with ice. Daylight stole in through many
chinks and crevices to find us still shivering in our bunks. One
gentleman suggested that another gentleman rise and cook the breakfast;
but the other gentleman thought the day would be long enough if we had
breakfast any time before sunset. A humorous man from another “shebang”
poked his head in the door, and inquired whether we would like to be dug
out in the course of the day. We took no notice of his humor, and
shivered in silence. At length the most uncomfortable one rolled out,
threw a pile of logs upon the fire, and swept away the snow. As a matter
of course the others followed. Breakfast was first disposed of, and then
Lieutenant Dane began his great work. All of that day we were engaged,
like Count Rumford, on a series of scientific experiments closely allied
to the art of cookery. When night came we had fought our way over all
obstacles, and were able to announce that the dinner should come off and
should be a success.
The two junior members of the mess had at the outset agreed (in bad
faith) that if we would cook the dinner, they would wait upon the table.
We now held them to this agreement, and, as a righteous punishment for
their contempt, determined to cut the dinner up into as many courses as
we decently could, and make them wash the plates at the end of every
course. The rest of the mess who had been abashed by our foraging and
overawed by our experiments, became gradually interested, and joined in
the work by inviting the guests, manufacturing a table, and chopping an
immense pile of wood for the evening.
“Happy New Year’s” came to us bright and clear, and the prisoners
followed the old Dutch custom by wandering around and wishing each other
happier returns of the day. At our “shebang” we were compelled to inform
visitors that we received on the other side of the way. We were, in
fact, busy beyond powers of description, scolding, as I have observed
good cooks always scold, and ordering in the style that really talented
artists always order. We had three fires in full blast—one in our
fire-place, one in our stove, and one under an independent pot. I
observed, I regret to say, that one or two of the invited strolled up
with a suspicious air, as if they really feared the invitation might be
what the vulgar term “a sell,” and the dinner so much moonshine. It was
plain that they were not used to being invited out. As the appointed
hour approached, the remarks of passers-by gradually called our
attention to the fact that this was the coldest day ever known in Texas.
(4° Fahr.) Some extra work was therefore necessary. We placed the table
across the “shebang” directly in front of the fire-place, and close
behind the table, hung blankets from the roof to the floor, thus
curtaining out the cold after our Camp Groce plan. There were actually
found crockery plates in camp just sufficient to go round, and also two
naval table-cloths, which spliced, exactly covered the table. We devoted
our last three candles to illume the festal board; and we built a fire
over a backlog as large as a barrel.
As the hour of six o’clock approached our guests were adroitly
intercepted at the door, and carried into a neighboring cabin, where
they were entertained till wanted. When every thing was ready, the last
finishing touches given, and the two waiters fully instructed with
respect to some strategic movements to be executed behind a curtain, the
door was opened, and our guests triumphantly marshalled in. As these
misguided men, who for half a year had been devouring rations off of tin
plates, and had not so much as heard the word table-cloth spoken—as they
descended into the “shebang,” they seemed to be fairly dazed with the
splendors of the apartment. They sank into their designated seats, too
much appalled to speak, and only talked in subdued tones after three or
four courses. The first course was on the table. It consisted of soup
and wheaten bread—flour bread, as it was vulgarly called in camp. I
observed—at least I had a sort of suspicion—that one or two of the
guests had an habitual idea that soup was all the dinner; for they
looked nervously over their shoulders when an adroit waiter (with an eye
to the morrow,) whisked the soup off the table immediately after
everybody had been helped _once_.
The _soup_ plates were removed by one waiter: he disappeared with them
behind the curtain, and re-appeared with the dinner-set in about the
time the other waiter had placed the second course upon the table. It
might have been remarked that our soup plates were rather shallow, and
our dinner plates, by contrast, rather deep; but the eyes of our guests
were too dazzled to perceive such slight peculiarities. We knew that it
was a wise maneuvre to show great profusion at the beginning of a
dinner. The guests then have their anxiety allayed, and carry with them
an overpowering idea of plenty, which of itself allays the appetite.
Accordingly we double shotted this gun. At the head of the table
appeared a dish not generally known or appreciated. Sweet potatoes and
beef entered largely into its composition. A hungry naval officer had
introduced it into the mess, and he called it _scouse_. Yet it served a
certain purpose well, and was skilfully slipped in at this point to
attract the attention of gentlemen with vigorous appetites. At the other
end appeared a broiled spare-rib, and the lines of communication between
these right and left wings were kept open by detachments of squash,
turnips, boiled potatoes, and _cranberry_ sauce. With secret pleasure we
saw our friends lay in heavily of the scouse, and deceive themselves
into the foolish belief that we had thrown two courses together, and
that this was the dinner.
But the next course came on, with clean plates, in the imposing form and
substance of a CHICKEN PIE. A magnificent chicken pie it was, filling an
immense pan, and richly crowned with brown crust heaving up above the
brim. It had no accompaniments save baked potatoes, and constituted of
itself an entire army corps. No one associated with it the idea of
anything little, or niggardly, or economical. On the contrary, all
applauded it enthusiastically, and declared that it alone would have
made a dinner.
From the gravity of this heavy dish we passed to the gayety of mince and
pumpkin pies. These were the only common-place things in the dinner.
They were followed by a course of tarts—small, refined-looking tarts,
elegantly covered with currant jelly and beautiful pear preserves. This
course was surprisingly showy and genteel, impressing beholders with the
idea that there must be a pastry-cook shop concealed somewhere in the
camp. Our grand climax was one of those efforts of genius sometimes
called “jelly-cake,” sometimes “Lafayette cake,” sometimes “Washington
pie.” It was some eighteen inches in diameter, and four or five inches
thick, (the exact size of our dodger pot), a beautiful brown on the
outside, and a rich golden yellow within, and when cut was seen to be
divided by strata of tempting jelly. Finally, we closed with coffee (not
corn, but Java) and tea (not Thea Chinensis, but Thea Texana), and
tobacco inhaled through pipes, instead of through the original leaf. We
broke up, after the usual four hours’ sitting of a respectable party,
with the usual courtesies and ceremonies. One of two late men stayed, as
they always do, to tell their best stories; and one or two early men
slipped off, as they always do, on the plea of domestic engagements.
There was one or two small mishaps, such as a slight infusion of red
pepper in the coffee (occasioned by one of the cooks grinding the pepper
first), and the house getting a-fire (caused by the stoker piling the
wood as high as the log mantel), but the affair, as a whole, was a
grand, noble, philanthropic success.
For the benefit of those persons who (allured by the brightness of this
report) desire to become prisoners, I will minutely narrate how this
wonderful result was obtained.
The soup was _real_, and probably the strongest thing of the kind ever
made, for a choice assortment of beef-bones were boiled for thirty-six
hours. The turnips and spare-rib were a present from the Confederate
Commissary, Lieutenant Ross, and came in the very nick of time. That
solitary fowl we had discussed for a mile or two of our walk back, and
had finally determined to put him in a pie. But the only pie-dish we
could procure was a large tin milk-pan. To have a dish half full of pie
would never do. It was necessary both to have pie enough and to fill the
dish. From Confederate beef we selected pieces free from fat and
grizzle, and then took the fowl and chopped him up bones and all. The
beef was also chopped, and the two mixed thoroughly together. The
fragments of bone, to which some prejudiced housewives would have
objected, were of great value to us in establishing the authenticity of
the pie; for a man who, with every mouthful he took, pricked his tongue
on a splinter of chicken bone, could not doubt (if he were a reasoning
creature) that he was eating chicken pie.
The next, and perhaps the greatest achievement of our art, was in the
currant and cranberry line. We made, after many experiments, a strong
decoction of sumach. Into this we stirred flour, slightly browned to
reduce its color and take off the raw taste. When this mixture was
properly sweetened and cooled it made a dark, pasty substance, looking
and tasting precisely like poor currant jelly. The cranberry sauce was
more difficult, and involved repeated experiments. Finally a handful of
dried peaches was chopped up, so that when cooked the pieces would
appear about the size of cranberries. To get rid of their peach flavor,
we soaked them and boiled them and drained the water off, and then
cooked them slightly in a decoction of sumach, and added sugar in the
usual way. Although every one must have known that there were no
cranberries in Texas, yet no one dared to question the reality of this
dish. It was not cranberry, but it was so like cranberry that they could
not imagine what else it could be, and feared to betray their ignorance.
A shrewd observer will have noticed the fact that our invaluable peaches
nowhere appeared on the bill of fare. Indeed they were very carefully
kept out of sight, and did duty in the secret service. Those mince pies!
They were made of peaches—of peaches and mince-meat, well flavored, and
moistened with cider-vinegar. I cannot assert that they were poor, for
we had no other mincepies wherewith to compare them; I cannot deny that
they were good, because they were all eaten up. The proof was in their
favor.
The big pumpkin that we carried under one arm till benumbed, and on one
shoulder till a stiff neck for life threatened us, was a very useful
vegetable. In one course it appeared as squash; in another as pumpkin,
and in a third as pear. The chief cook recollected having seen or heard
of pumpkin preserves, and our early experiments pointed to ultimate
success. To succeed, however, the simplest common sense told us we must
have a name for our invention. To call it _pumpkin sweatmeats_ would
ruin it. We knew that guava jelly and preserved ginger must become
bankrupt under such a label. Accordingly we cut the pumpkin in pieces,
like those of a quartered pear; we stewed it till it was not quite done
(a little tough where the core ought to be); we spiced it with
sassafras, prickly-ash, a few cloves, and the last half of a nutmeg, and
we called it pear-preserve.
It will be remembered that I alluded to a gigantic cake, beautifully
brown without and richly yellow within. This magnificent work of art,
truth compels me to say, was a failure. Its golden richness was not due
to eggs but to corn-meal. We mixed a dodger with some flour, to give
consistence, and some sugar, to give sweetness. We baked it at the right
time and in the right manner. We sliced it up, and daubed the slices
over with artificial currant jelly. We went a step farther, and called
it cake. We even varied the name of the cake, to meet the prejudice or
fancy of the particular guest about to be helped. But vulgarly speaking,
“it was not a go.” We could cheat our guests through the medium of their
eyes and ears in many things, but we couldn’t cheat them on dodger. When
they tasted dodger, they recognized dodger. Dodger for breakfast, dodger
for dinner, and dodger for supper, in the course of half a year, makes a
deep impression on the human mind. A little sugar and jelly were wholly
inadequate to smooth it away. Here, then, in the very flush of victory,
we were in danger of suffering a shameful defeat. Earlier in the dinner
we could have brought up fresh forces, but now, in the hope of making
the affair overwhelming, we had thrown our last reserve into action. A
retreat was ruin, and an instant of hesitation would have acknowledged a
defeat. In less than an instant we turned the retreat into a flank
movement. Captain Dillingham, with naval effrontery, gave the cake a new
name, and called it a JOKE!
Thus ended this great dinner. Our guests retired from it wiser and
better men. A profound sensation was followed by a healthy excitement.
Manufactures sprang up and trade began. Some gentlemen made caps from
rags, and hats from straw. Others built a gymnasium for amusement, and
others engaged in gardening for recreation. A few musicians manufactured
banjoes, tanning the parchment and preparing the strings in camp. One
officer, possessed of a worn-out file, a large screw, and a couple of
old horse-shoes, ground the file into a chisel, and turned the screw and
worn-out horse-shoes into a good turning lathe. Another changed this
lathe from half-action to full-action. A third made for it a crank and
foot-treadle. A fourth built an entirely new lathe, better than the
first. And thus affairs went on until we numbered more than forty
articles of camp manufacture made, chiefly, like our dinner, out of
nothing.[2]
Footnote 2:
Among these fabrics manufactured and sold by the prisoners in Texas,
were:
Axe helves, Baskets, Blacking, Brooms, Candles (mould and dip), Chairs
(arm and rocking), Chessmen, Checkermen, Crockery-ware, Caps
(military), Cigars, Door mats, Hats (straw); Musical instruments,
viz., banjoes, castanets and triangles; Pails, Pepperboxes, Pipes,
Potash, Kings, Shirt-studs, Sleeve-buttons, Soap, Shoes, Tables,
Toy-boxes; Wooden-ware, viz., knives, forks, spoons, plates, dishes,
bowls, salt-cellars, wash-boards.
X.
ESCAPE.
Through illness, changes, toil and trouble, the subject of escape never
left our minds. At Camp Groce, weakness and ill-health constantly
postponed intended attempts. Moreover, the open prairie country around
the camp, the nearness of the coast-guard, and, above all, the absence
of any point or outlet to which to run, were disheartening obstacles. At
Camp Ford, it was somewhat different; for the woods came down nearly to
the stockade, and the country was one vast forest.
The troubles that beset the path of an escaping prisoner in Texas were
entirely different from those which would attend him in the Northern
States. The difficulty of passing the stockade and guard was trivial;
the difficulties of crossing the surrounding country were not
insurmountable; but after hundreds of miles were traversed, and weary
days and nights had exhausted the body and dulled the mind, then the
chief obstacles began. Two hundred miles to the south was the Texan
coast-guard. One hundred and fifty miles to the east were the carefully
watched lines of the Red River and Atchafalaya. To the north were the
rebel Cherokees and the open Indian country. Five hundred miles west of
us stretched desolate prairies, and beyond them were the scouts that
watched and guarded the Rio Grande. In short, when we studied the map,
we saw no city of refuge to which we might flee; when the stockade was
scaled and the pursuit evaded, there was still no outlet of escape.
Further than this, the chances of re-capture were many. To look over the
wide extent of country with its sparse population, its scattered
plantations, its remote towns, and talk of pursuing prisoners would seem
as idle as searching for needles in a haystack. But every road was
watched, every river was guarded. Every man or woman or boy who was not
a secret Unionist was in effect a Confederate patrol; the entire State
was one great detective police, constantly pursuing prisoners, refugees
and slaves.
Yet, after calmly contemplating these difficulties, the greater part of
the prisoners at Camp Ford determined to escape. Perhaps the
determination was quickened and extended by annoyances which began soon
after our arrival, and which steadily increased. There are said to be
“bad streaks” in all countries, and Tyler is situated in a very bad
streak of Texas. The inhabitants were poor, ignorant and narrow-minded,
and viewed, with angry ill-will, the liberality of Colonel Allen. They
poured in complaints at head-quarters, and the result was, that one fine
morning, the poor Colonel received a reprimand for his liberality, and
strict orders not to let us out of the stockade.
The kindness of Colonel Allen and his amiable wife was not lessened by
its unpopularity. Regularly, every afternoon, Mrs. Allen came within the
stockade, accompanied by a little black girl bearing a basket. Sometimes
she brought in visitors, partly to amuse us and partly to soften them.
She was tireless in every work that could add to our comfort. She
cheered the despondent and comforted the weak, and for the sick, showed
that beautiful solicitude that no one save a Christian woman can evince.
There was a little paper then in camp, printed with the pen by Captain
May, of the 23d Connecticut, which was read successively in the
“shebangs,” and shortened the hours and occupied the mind. It had much
_local_ wit and humor, but so blended with the inner life of Camp Ford,
that the outside world can never understand its hits and jests. Yet
frequently the _Old Flag_ rose above satire and humor, and it enabled
Lieutenant-Colonel Duganne to pay to Mrs. Allen the following graceful
tribute:
“All kindly acts are for the dear Lord’s sake,
And His sweet love and recompense they claim:
‘I was in prison’—thus our Saviour spake,
‘And unto me ye came!’
“So, lady! while thy heart with mother’s love
And sister’s pity cheers the captive’s lot,
Truth keeps her record in the courts above,
And thou art not forgot.
“Though nations war, and rulers match their might,
Our human bosoms must be kindred yet,
And eyes that blazed with battle’s lurid light,
Soft pity’s tears may wet.
“Were all like thee, kind lady, void of hates,
And swayed by gentle wish and peaceful thought,
No gulf would yawn between contending States,
No rain would be wrought.
“May all thy matron’s heart, with joy run o’er
For children spared to bless thy lengthened years—
Peace in thy home, and plenty at thy door,
And smiles, to dry all tears.
“And may each cheering hope and soothing word
That thou to us sad prisoners hast given,
Recalled by Him, who all our prayers hath heard,
Bring the reward in Heaven.”
When the minds of many men are given wholly to one subject, it is
incredible how many expedients they can devise. Yet no expedient could
be devised to comply with one condition which the calmer judgments
imposed, and which was thus allegorically expressed by one of our
friends in the guard, “When General Green spreads his tents, there will
be plenty of good recruits join him;” which meant, “You had better wait
till the leaves are out.”
At length, in the latter part of March, ere the buds were fully blown,
the impatience of fifteen officers broke through their discretion. They
divided into three parties, and made their preparations carefully. Old
haversacks were mended, and new ones made. Suspicious articles of dress
were exchanged. Some beef was saved and dried; hard-tack was baked, and
panola made. This last article was recommended by the Texans. It
consists of corn-meal browned to about the color of ground coffee, with
a liberal allowance of sugar stirred in. Its advantages are that it
requires no cooking, and contains a large amount of nutriment in
proportion to its bulk and weight.
The parties were soon ready to start. But the Texan atmosphere is dry
and clear, with cloudless nights. One evening, while the colors of
sunset were still glowing upon the western sky, an officer came to me,
and pointing to a black cloud that was rising from the horizon, said,
“If that cloud comes up overhead, we will make the attempt.” It was a
bad hour, in every way; for darkness had not yet succeeded day, and the
moon was already throwing her pale light upon the eastern clouds. Yet
this cloud might not come again for weeks, and its dark shadow was too
precious to be lost.