the stockade. They had a fiddle and banjoes and castanets, and all the
vocal minstrelsy of the camp. They roared Irish songs, and danced negro
break-downs, and the little cabin shook with the tumult of their glee.
Down at the farther corner of the enclosure, where all was gloom and
quiet, two men crawled on the ground to the stockade. They were about
thirty feet apart, and a rope lay between them. The sentry on the
outside heard the merriment in the “shebang,” and as all was quiet on
his beat, he walked up to look at the Yankee’s fun. He passed the two
men. The second twitched the rope; the first quickly rose, and dug with
all his might. A few minutes, and the hole was deep enough to allow a
post of the stockade to be canted over, so as to leave a narrow aperture
between it and its neighbor. The man laid down his spade, signalled to
some one behind him, and began to squeeze himself through the opening.
Fourteen others rose from the ground, and one by one, trembling with
impatient eagerness, pressed through and followed him. They crossed the
sentries’ path, ran up a little hill that fronted the stockade, and
disappeared beneath the trees beyond. The second of the two men still
lay upon the ground. The last of the fifteen was to have twitched the
rope, and this man was to have replaced the post. But who, at such a
time, ever looked behind to see if he were last? The signal was not
given! Within the “shebang” still rose the racket, and still the sentry
stood grinning at the Yankee antics. But from the other direction came
the tramp of the next guard-relief!
Among those who waited and listened, and saw nothing, there was intense
suppressed excitement. In vain one or two moved round, begging the
little groups to break up—to stifle their earnest whispers—to resume the
ordinary hubbub of the evening—to laugh—to sing—to do anything. In vain
a young lieutenant, who was both a wit and vocalist, burst forth with—
“Roll on, silver moon!
Light the traveller on his way.”
The groups broke up, but re-formed; the whispers stopped for a moment,
and then went on.
The corporal of the guard halted his relief, and could be seen observing
the opening of the leaning post. There was a little pause, and then a
light came down to the suspicious opening. There was a little longer
pause—a slight stir through the guards’ quarters, and then a squadron of
cavalry rode out, and an officer, with four or five men, went at a
gallop down the Tyler road.
The black cloud seemed to be the fugitives’ friend; for at this moment
of discovery it poured down a heavy shower. We retired to our cabins,
and felt some little relief in the hope that the friendly cloud had
washed away the trail. Some time passed—perhaps two hours, and our hope
had well-nigh turned into belief; when, from the Tyler road, a low,
wailing, ominous cry smote upon our ears. “Did you hear that?” each
asked of the other, in startled whispers. “Yes; the _bloodhounds_!”
The hounds came down to the stockade. They snuffed and moaned for a
moment around the opening, and then ran straight up the bank and under
the trees. There lay the trail. We listened until their faint baying
could be heard no longer. Of all the dismal sounds that mortal senses
were ever laden with, none more melancholy than the baying of these
hounds was ever heard. We passed the uneasy night in speculating upon
the chances of the three parties, and in trying to imagine the feelings
of our friends when they should first hear the foreboding wail behind
them, and surmise that the bloodhounds were upon their track.
Yet the next morning the prospect appeared brighter. Three showers of
rain had fallen during the night; twelve hours had passed since the
escape, and we felt confident that the hounds must have lost the scent.
The day passed in growing cheerfulness, and at taps no tidings had come.
We went to our quarters, sure that all had been successful. About nine
o’clock that evening, the door of my “shebang” opened, and
Lieutenant-Colonel Leake, of the 20th Iowa, entering, presented, with
mock formality, Lieutenant Lyon, of the 176th New York. He and his party
had been recaptured.
There were still eleven officers out, who, we knew, were divided into
two parties. Twenty-four hours must have passed before the hounds could
have taken their trail, and every hour dissipated the scent. The second
day passed without news. So did the third evening, and the morning of
the third day. Then, about noon, word was passed in from the guard-house
that nine more were caught.
In an hour or two, they came, close packed on the bottom of a wagon. We
waited with some anxiety the reception they would meet with at
head-quarters. Colonel Allen came out, shook hands with one or two,
laughed, and manifestly treated the affair as a joke. The wagon started
for the gate. Its way lay through the quarters of the guard, who had, of
course, turned out to look at the runaway Yanks. We waited in the
painful expectation of hearing a Texan yell over the misfortune of our
friends. To their honor be it known, the Texan’s showed no ill-mannered
exultation. But the instant it was settled that no shout of triumph was
to be raised by the victorious rebs, there was a revulsion of feeling in
the prison community. As the gate opened, a slight, restless stir ran
through the crowd. As the wagon drove in, a loud shout arose (couched in
expressive Texan slang) of, “Here’s your mule! Here’s your mule!” The
runaways smiled feebly, as men do who are the victims of a joke. The
crowd laughed boisterously, and gave excellent imitations of the baying
of hounds. About the same time, a little three-year-old, the child of a
commissary-sergeant, came out on the bank opposite to us, and in shrill
tones piped out, “Yankee ran away! Yankee ran away!” And all the
afternoon, the little wretch would come, at short intervals, and re-sing
his refrain, “Yankee ran away! Yankee ran away! Yankee ran away!”
When we came to collate the stories of the three parties, and of their
captors, we gathered the following account: each party had kept secret
its intended movements; yet all had selected substantially the same
route. Unluckily for them, their trails crossed, and, still more
unluckily, there rode with the Confederates an old western trapper, whom
the men called Chillicothe. When the first party was captured, the
pursuers merely returned to the crossing of the second trail, and
followed it up. In like manner, when they had captured the second party,
they only came back to the third trail. At these crossings, the
prisoners could see nothing; but to the eyes of Chillicothe and the
instinct of the dogs, the two trails were as plain as the crossings of
two streets. The trapper told the prisoners where they had been, and
nearly everything they had done. He showed them where (unknowingly) they
entered a swamp by the same opening, and crossed a stream on the same
tree. He pointed out to them the spot where they sat down to rest, and
the hill up which one climbed to reconnoitre. He described to them a log
where one pulled off his boots, and another lit his pipe. A secret
history of their movements seemed to be written upon the ground.
The story of the last party captured was this: they marched rapidly all
of the first night, and hid themselves through the first day. At dark,
they resumed their march, and continued to travel rapidly through the
woods. On the second morning, they selected, as a hiding-place, a narrow
gully, roofed over and completely hidden by a fallen tree. The barking
of dogs and crowing of cocks told that a plantation was near. In the
afternoon, two restless members of the party insisted on going there to
buy eggs. Hardly had they gone, when, in the opposite direction, was
heard the baying of hounds. Yet there were no fears of being tracked,
for forty-four hours had passed since the party left camp. The baying
came nearer. Still it was thought that a party of hunters were
accidentally coming that way. A number of horsemen rode down to the
little brook at the foot of the hill, and paused there to water their
steeds. The dogs, at the same time, started, and came directly up the
hill. A beautiful dark hound led the pack, and when he reached the tree,
he mounted it with his fore-feet, and looked intelligently down on the
prisoners. They remained quiet, fearing that some growl or bark might
betray them, yet hoping the hounds would pass on. The leader turned, and
quietly trotted down the hill. He went, not to his owner, but to the
lieutenant who commanded the party; he looked a moment at him, and then
turning looked toward the fallen tree. The lieutenant instantly shouted,
“Here they are!” All of his men drew their pistols, and spurred their
horses up the hill. The tree was surrounded, and the fugitives
recaptured.
What became of the two remaining officers was a question with us for
many weeks. The unerring hounds had started on their trail, but the
lieutenant who commanded, had ordered that they should be called off. He
did not know how many prisoners had escaped, and moreover, he had
already caught two parties of four each. Therefore, when he found five
prisoners in the gully, he naturally concluded that they were all.
Several weeks after this, a quotation from a New Orleans paper assured
us of their safe arrival within our lines.
The first fact impressed upon us by these adventures was the wonderful
power and sagacity of the bloodhounds. During the next three months, a
long list of experiences re-taught this lesson. The Confederates
possessed in them “pursuing angels,” whose powers exceeded those of men.
If you buried yourself in the earth, they dug you out. If you climbed a
tree, they came and stood at the foot. If you plunged into trackless
wilds, they followed you. If you threw yourself into a stream, and
threaded its windings for miles, they passed tirelessly up and down its
bank, until they came to the spot where you had left it. As every means
that ingenuity could devise failed, and as prisoner after prisoner who
tried them was recaptured, there gradually grew up, in our minds, a
feeling that to be hunted by these brutes was like being pursued by
dreadful phantoms, such as we read of in old stories, which no mortal
power could outstrip or elude, if their insatiate chase once began.
At the time of the escape of the fifteen, a number of officers were
secretly engaged in “tunnelling out.” There were two plans connected
with this tunnel. The first was that all who wished to escape should
pass out on the same night and then scatter in small parties. We knew
that some of these parties would be caught—we also thought that some
would escape, and every man hoped that he would be in a lucky party. The
second plan rested in the breasts of but three or four officers, and
they hardly ventured to speak of it to each other. It was that on some
dark night we would pass all able-bodied men out, form them in the
neighboring woods, march boldly down the road, and surprise the guard in
their quarters; then after burning the Confederate arsenal and workshops
at Tyler, we would seize upon horses sufficient to mount the party, and
push without ceasing for the Sabine and our lines beyond.
About one hundred feet beyond the north side of our enclosed camp stood
two large trees. The spot was known as the “Quartermaster’s Grave,” for
there slept Lieutenant John F. Kimball, Quartermaster of the 176th New
York. The grave, carefully enclosed by a wicker fence, was between the
two trees. The sentries’ walk was close to the stockade and parallel to
the grave. Within our enclosure the “shebangs,” though not built upon
any plan, had nevertheless sprung up with somewhat of the regularity of
streets. One, however, called from its Indiana owners, the Hawk-eye,
stood detached, and only about sixteen feet from the stockade. This
cabin was taken for our starting point. In one corner a shaft was sunk
eight feet in depth and length by four in width. From the bottom of this
shaft the tunnel started. It was just high enough for a man to sit erect
and work, and just wide enough for two men to meet and pass by each
other. Two men worked in it at the same time, the one excavating and the
other removing the earth. Their tools consisted of an old sword-bayonet,
a broken shovel and a small box.
The first difficulty met was in establishing the grade and direction of
the tunnel. The top of it at the shaft was less than five feet below the
surface, while the posts of the stockade stood four and a half feet
deep. It was necessary to go well below them, and therefore necessary to
start with a descending grade. Beside the Quartermaster’s grave were
three others. They projected over a line drawn from the shaft to the
largest tree, and we designed that the tunnel should come out through
the roots of this tree like a fox-earth. The wicker fence with the trunk
and shadow of the tree, formed so perfect a screen from the sentries
that a hundred men could have passed out on a stormy night with only
remote chances of detection. Yet as the graves projected over the line I
have mentioned, it was necessary for us to deflect from our true course
until we should pass them, and then turn and work toward the tree. To
bore under ground in the dark, and hit such a mark as the tree could not
be done by chance or guess-work. We also must know the exact distance of
the point where we should turn from our deflecting course; for if we
turned too soon we should run into the graves, and if we turned too late
we should shoot beyond the tree.
The difficulty of grade and direction was speedily disposed of. A
pocket-compass and a small vial were soon procured, and Mr. Johnson,
engineer of the gun-boat “Diana,” with admirable skill combined them
into a good surveyor’s compass and level. The direction of the tree was
taken, the amount of our deflection estimated, and the compass-level
handed to the workmen with orders to keep on a certain grade and course.
To ascertain the exact distance of the tree was a harder task. For this
three methods were suggested. It was first proposed that an officer
should go out for wood, and as he passed this part of the stockade, some
one should request him to copy the inscription on a head-board. He would
then come up to the stockade for a pencil, and thence walk directly to
the tree, counting his steps as he went. The objection to this was that
it might excite suspicion, and draw attention to the tree.
The second method was to form an interior triangle, which should be
equal to an imaginary exterior triangle. To do this it was indispensable
that we should have “a given angle” and a “given side” of each. Our
pocket-compass was too small to take angles, and moreover this had to be
done literally within a few inches of the sentries and before their
eyes. It was advisable, therefore, to measure and establish our given
angle without instruments, and in the most artless manner.
Now every body possessed of a smattering of geometry knows that in a
right-angled triangle the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the sum
of the squares of the other sides. Yet very few people can turn that
knowledge to any practical account. This theorem, however, enabled us
readily and accurately to establish a right-angle, and to use it as our
“given angle.” It was done in this way: we took a cord and measured off
and marked with pins, ten feet, eight feet, and six feet. By squaring
these numbers it will be seen that 10^2 = 8^2 + 6^2. Hence by bringing
our line into the shape of a triangle (the pins designating the angles),
we formed of it a right-angled triangle.
[Illustration]
It was not to be supposed that a Texan sentry, seeing us measuring with
a cord on the inside of the stockade, would ever dream that we were
measuring distances on the outside. Yet it was desirable that our
measurements should be few and quickly done. After thus marking the
line, and also measuring upon it twenty feet, Captain Torrey, of the
20th Iowa and myself, carried it up to the Hawk-eye cabin, dropped it on
the ground, and quickly drew it into the form of the little triangle—A J
K. As soon as the side A J came on a line with the tree, one of us
glanced along the other side A K and noted the point B where its
projection struck the stockade. He then quickly measured twenty feet in
this direction, and stuck a peg in the ground at C. He measured twenty
feet more and placed another peg at D. Here we re-set the triangle,
which gave us the new direction D E. One of us then walked down this
course till he found himself on a line with the peg C and the tree. Here
we placed another peg, F. We then picked up the cord and came away. When
the guard was relieved, and a new set of sentries stood around the
stockade, we went back and measured the distance from F to D. It was
equal to the distance from the cabin to the tree.
[Illustration]
The third method was suggested by Captain Torrey. It was to take the
altitude of a triangle by trigonometry. A table of logarithms remaining
in the possession of a naval officer, enabled us to do this. Captain
Torrey laid off the base of his triangle well down in the camp, out of
sight of the sentries. To measure the angle at A he described a circle
on the back of a large chess-board, and divided it as accurately as he
could into degrees. When the altitude B T was thus obtained, all that
remained necessary to be done was to measure the distance from the base
to the corner of the “shebang” (B C), and subtract it from the altitude
B T. The results obtained by these two methods were substantially the
same.
A great deal of earth comes out of such a hole. It was estimated that we
brought out two cart loads a day. For the first day or two our plan was
simply to carry it from the cabin after dark. Now this might escape
notice, but if it once attracted observation, and that observation
should continue from night to night, detection was certain. The boldest
course is always the safest, and therefore it was determined that all
the earth should be carried out in broad daylight. Accordingly a number
of officers were detailed for this work. They never went for a bucket of
water without filling the bucket with earth; none carried out a bag or
basket empty. Little by little, the contents of the tunnel were
distributed around the camp. Some was thrown in the paths and trampled
down—some in the ravine, and covered with ashes, and some was used to
bank up “shebangs.” It was scattered so perfectly that many of our own
number were at a loss to know what had become of it.
A sentinel constantly watched the gate. When any Confederate visitor
entered, a signal was given, the work stopped within the tunnel, and a
blanket was spread over the shaft. Yet all these precautions did not
satisfy our anxiety. The ingenious engineer of the “Diana” was again
called in. He skilfully arched over the shaft, leaving a hole at one
end, over which he placed the meal-box of the Hawk-eye. The bottom of
this box was movable. When work was suspended in the tunnel the bag of
meal and cooking utensils were thrown into the box, and it became as
honest a looking box as a man could have. When work was to begin again
the box was emptied, the bottom was lifted out, and there appeared a
dark hole, through which a man could drop down into the shaft below.
Yet still our anxiety grew with the work. We knew that if suspicion ever
fell on any “shebang” it would fall on this one. We, therefore,
determined to push a sap to an inner cabin, and pass all the earth
through to the less suspicious building. A wet morning gave us a pretext
for digging a trench. The trench was speedily roofed and covered with
earth. When fully completed, one end of it entered the shaft, and the
other opened in the second “shebang.” The operation then was this: a
workman in the tunnel filled a small box with earth; a second one in the
shaft drew out the box, and lifted it into the “baby-jumper” (as the sap
was called); a third drew it through, and emptied it in the second
“shebang.”
Yet all this precaution was deemed insufficient. The “baby-jumper” was
enlarged so that a man could crawl through; the box was removed, and the
shaft was covered over entirely. On the very day that this was
completed, the gate suddenly opened, and Colonel Allen came in. He
walked rapidly to the Hawk-eye (whither he had never gone before), and
contrary to his invariable custom, entered it unasked and unannounced.
He saw only a bare earth floor.
It was plainly desirable that information of the projected movement
should be sent to our army, and accordingly a message to that effect was
duly forwarded to our lines by the Confederate authorities in the
following letter:
CAMP FORD, _March 19, 1864_,
DEAR N——
“Letters came yesterday for some of• us•, and it will please J—— to
know that hers did not _escape_ this time. About a dozen of us have
had letters containing news to 15th ult. There were two from mother,
and one dated April 7th from C—— for me. On the whole _we_ will not
complain of our luck. I am even willing to scatter them more equally
amongst the prisoners, and indeed to let others have a few of mine.
“We feel certain the blockaders at• Sabine• and Galveston keep ours.
Maj. Hyllested assures us, he sent a flag off with them at least
three times. Let F—— look out• for them. Some were sent in
September, others in October, November and December, I think, but
will not be sure as to all of these months. Those which go _by
Shreveport_ and Red River seem to get through and reach their
destination in _some_ cases.
“Stevenson (as I wrote to you) whom we left sick at Iberia, is here
nearly well. Let his family know this.”
The key to this letter had been previously sent out by an exchanged
prisoner. It early became apparent that secret correspondence might be
useful to us and of advantage to the government. But it was necessary
that it should be both secret and unsuspected. An ordinary cipher would
have been as worthless as any contraband letter. My first idea was to
take a certain word of every line to convey the hidden message. But this
I found lengthened the letter too much, and I therefore added to these
every blotted and underscored word. If a person were sure that his
correspondent knew the key, and if he were allowed to coin facts and
write nonsense, this correspondence would be easy enough. But it became
somewhat difficult when written under the following conditions; viz., 1.
To write briefly; 2. To use such words and subjects as a prisoner in
that camp would naturally use; 3. To state in the body of the letter the
personal information I wished to communicate; for I was never sure my
key had reached my correspondent. Yet a very little practice removed
much of the difficulty, and for six months, every letter carried out its
twofold intelligence. If now the reader will collate the fifth word of
every line, the words marked thus• and those in _italics_, the inner
meaning of the foregoing letter will become apparent.
News now arrived of the advance of our army up the Red River. The leaves
were coming out, and the time was slowly approaching when we expected to
use the tunnel. The officer who had been selected to direct the work,
well know that when this time should arrive it would be absolutely
impossible to prevent the whole camp from talking of it, and that one
careless word might ruin everything. He therefore sought to conceal the
real situation of the affair, by concealing the real distance to the
tree, and under-rating the amount of work actually performed. Every
precaution was taken to divert attention from the progress of the work;
for the inspection of the shrewd Colonel betokened that some foolish
word had been overheard by the sentries, or else that we had a secret
spy in camp. There were then a few straggling privates within the
stockade, and suspicion pointed at two of these. A constant watch was
kept upon them; and orders were given that all conversation on the
subject should cease.
The night of the fifteenth of April would be the first on which the moon
would rise late enough for a sufficient number of men to pass out; and
on the fifteenth of April it was designed that the tunnel should be
finished and the sally made. On the ninth, news arrived that a great
battle had begun at Mansfield. On the tenth, rumors came, saying that
the Confederate General had possessed sufficient courage to move forward
and strike our invading army. On the eleventh, we heard that he had
struck it in detail, routing it and driving it back toward Alexandria.
On the thirteenth, Colonel Allen received orders to prepare for four
thousand new prisoners. On the fifteenth, the stockade was moved back
six hundred feet, and our unfortunate tunnel left high and dry in the
middle of this new enclosure.
XI.
EXCHANGE.
The work upon the tunnel was interrupted for a day by an event, which I
think must be without a parallel in any other prison-camp. At the
breaking out of the rebellion, Miss Mollie Moore was a school girl of
sixteen. After Galveston was re-taken by the Confederates, the “Houston
Telegraph” was adorned with several heroic ballads, written by the young
lady, whom the editor sometimes called “our pet,” and sometimes the
“unrivalled star of Texan literature.” The 42d Massachusetts had been
quartered in a warehouse on the wharf of Galveston, and had passed the
night previous to their capture in fighting, all of which the ballad
described thus:
“Beneath the Texan groves the haughty foemen slept.”