LONGINGS FOR GOD’S COUNTRY--CONSIDERATIONS OF THE METHODS OF GETTING
THERE--EXCHANGE AND ESCAPE--DIGGING TUNNELS, AND THE DIFFICULTIES
CONNECTED THEREWITH--PUNISHMENT OF A TRAITOR.
To our minds the world now contained but two grand divisions, as widely
different from each other as happiness and misery. The first--that
portion over which our flag floated was usually spoken of as “God’s
Country;” the other--that under the baneful shadow of the banner of
rebellion--was designated by the most opprobrious epithets at the
speaker’s command.
To get from the latter to the former was to attain, at one bound, the
highest good. Better to be a doorkeeper in the House of the Lord, under
the Stars and Stripes, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness, under
the hateful Southern Cross.
To take even the humblest and hardest of service in the field now would
be a delightsome change. We did not ask to go home--we would be content
with anything, so long as it was in that blest place “within our
lines.” Only let us get back once, and there would be no more grumbling
at rations or guard duty--we would willingly endure all the hardships
and privations that soldier flesh is heir to.
There were two ways of getting back--escape and exchange. Exchange was
like the ever receding mirage of the desert, that lures the thirsty
traveler on over the parched sands, with illusions of refreshing
springs, only to leave his bones at last to whiten by the side of those
of his unremembered predecessors. Every day there came something to
build up the hopes that exchange was near at hand--every day brought
something to extinguish the hopes of the preceding one. We took these
varying phases according to our several temperaments. The sanguine
built themselves up on the encouraging reports; the desponding sank
down and died under the discouraging ones.
Escape was a perpetual allurement. To the actively inclined among us
it seemed always possible, and daring, busy brains were indefatigable
in concocting schemes for it. The only bit of Rebel brain work that I
ever saw for which I did not feel contempt was the perfect precautions
taken to prevent our escape. This is shown by the fact that, although,
from first to last, there were nearly fifty thousand prisoners in
Andersonville, and three out of every five of these were ever on the
alert to take French leave of their captors, only three hundred and
twenty-eight succeeded in getting so far away from Andersonville as to
leave it to be presumed that they had reached our lines.
The first, and almost superhuman difficulty was to get outside the
Stockade. It was simply impossible to scale it. The guards were too
close together to allow an instant’s hope to the most sanguine, that
he could even pass the Dead Line without being shot by some one of
them. This same closeness prevented any hope of bribing them. To be
successful half those on post would have to be bribed, as every part of
the Stockade was clearly visible from every other part, and there was
no night so dark as not to allow a plain view to a number of guards of
the dark figure outlined against the light colored logs of any Yankee
who should essay to clamber towards the top of the palisades.
The gates were so carefully guarded every time they were opened as to
preclude hope of slipping out through theme. They were only unclosed
twice or thrice a day--once to admit, the men to call the roll, once
to let them out again, once to let the wagons come in with rations,
and once, perhaps, to admit, new prisoners. At all these times every
precaution was taken to prevent any one getting out surreptitiously.
This narrowed down the possibilities of passing the limits of the pen
alive, to tunneling. This was also surrounded by almost insuperable
difficulties. First, it required not less than fifty feet of
subterranean excavation to get out, which was an enormous work with
our limited means. Then the logs forming the Stockade were set in the
ground to a depth of five feet, and the tunnel had to go down beneath
them. They had an unpleasant habit of dropping down into the burrow
under them. It added much to the discouragements of tunneling to think
of one of these massive timbers dropping upon a fellow as he worked his
mole-like way under it, and either crushing him to death outright, or
pinning him there to die of suffocation or hunger.
In one instance, in a tunnel near me, but in which I was not
interested, the log slipped down after the digger had got out beyond
it. He immediately began digging for the surface, for life, and was
fortunately able to break through before he suffocated. He got his head
above the ground, and then fainted. The guard outside saw him, pulled
him out of the hole, and when he recovered sensibility hurried him back
into the Stockade.
In another tunnel, also near us, a broad-shouldered German, of the
Second Minnesota, went in to take his turn at digging. He was so much
larger than any of his predecessors that he stuck fast in a narrow
part, and despite all the efforts of himself and comrades, it was
found impossible to move him one way or the other. The comrades were
at last reduced to the humiliation of informing the Officer of the
Guard of their tunnel and the condition of their friend, and of asking
assistance to release him, which was given.
The great tunneling tool was the indispensable half-canteen. The
inventive genius of our people, stimulated by the war, produced nothing
for the comfort and effectiveness of the soldier equal in usefulness
to this humble and unrecognized utensil. It will be remembered that a
canteen was composed of two pieces of tin struck up into the shape of
saucers, and soldered together at the edges. After a soldier had been
in the field a little while, and thrown away or lost the curious and
complicated kitchen furniture he started out with, he found that by
melting the halves of his canteen apart, he had a vessel much handier
in every way than any he had parted with. It could be used for anything
--to make soup or coffee in, bake bread, brown coffee, stew vegetables,
etc., etc. A sufficient handle was made with a split stick. When the
cooking was done, the handle was thrown away, and the half canteen
slipped out of the road into the haversack. There seemed to be no end
of the uses to which this ever-ready disk of blackened sheet iron could
be turned. Several instances are on record where infantry regiments,
with no other tools than this, covered themselves on the field with
quite respectable rifle pits.
The starting point of a tunnel was always some tent close to the Dead
Line, and sufficiently well closed to screen the operations from the
sight of the guards near by. The party engaged in the work organized
by giving every man a number to secure the proper apportionment of the
labor. Number One began digging with his half canteen. After he had
worked until tired, he came out, and Number Two took his place, and so
on. The tunnel was simply a round, rat-like burrow, a little larger
than a man’s body. The digger lay on his stomach, dug ahead of him,
threw the dirt under him, and worked it back with his feet till the man
behind him, also lying on his stomach, could catch it and work it back
to the next. As the tunnel lengthened the number of men behind each
other in this way had to be increased, so that in a tunnel seventy-five
feet long there would be from eight to ten men lying one behind the
other. When the dirt was pushed back to the mouth of the tunnel it was
taken up in improvised bags, made by tying up the bottoms of pantaloon
legs, carried to the Swamp, and emptied. The work in the tunnel was
very exhausting, and the digger had to be relieved every half-hour.
The greatest trouble was to carry the tunnel forward in a straight
line. As nearly everybody dug most of the time with the right hand,
there was an almost irresistible tendency to make the course veer
to the left. The first tunnel I was connected with was a ludicrous
illustration of this. About twenty of us had devoted our nights for
over a week to the prolongation of a burrow. We had not yet reached
the Stockade, which astonished us, as measurement with a string showed
that we had gone nearly twice the distance necessary for the purpose.
The thing was inexplicable, and we ceased operations to consider the
matter. The next day a man walking by a tent some little distance from
the one in which the hole began, was badly startled by the ground
giving way under his feet, and his sinking nearly to his waist in a
hole. It was very singular, but after wondering over the matter for
some hours, there came a glimmer of suspicion that it might be, in some
way, connected with the missing end of our tunnel. One of us started
through on an exploring expedition, and confirmed the suspicions by
coming out where the man had broken through. Our tunnel was shaped like
a horse shoe, and the beginning and end were not fifteen feet apart.
After that we practised digging with our left hand, and made certain
compensations for the tendency to the sinister side.
Another trouble connected with tunneling was the number of traitors and
spies among us. There were many--principally among the N’Yaarker crowd
who were always zealous to betray a tunnel, in order to curry favor
with the Rebel officers. Then, again, the Rebels had numbers of their
own men in the pen at night, as spies. It was hardly even necessary
to dress these in our uniform, because a great many of our own men
came into the prison in Rebel clothes, having been compelled to trade
garments with their captors.
One day in May, quite an excitement was raised by the detection of one
of these “tunnel traitors” in such a way as left no doubt of his guilt.
At first everybody was in favor of killing him, and they actually
started to beat him to death. This was arrested by a proposition to
“have Captain Jack tattoo him,” and the suggestion was immediately
acted upon.
“Captain Jack” was a sailor who had been with us in the Pemberton
building at Richmond. He was a very skilful tattoo artist, but, I am
sure, could make the process nastier than any other that I ever saw
attempt it. He chewed tobacco enormously. After pricking away for a few
minutes at the design on the arm or some portion of the body, he would
deluge it with a flood of tobacco spit, which, he claimed, acted as
a kind of mordant. Piping this off with a filthy rag, he would study
the effect for an instant, and then go ahead with another series of
prickings and tobacco juice drenchings.
The tunnel-traitor was taken to Captain Jack. That worthy decided to
brand him with a great “T,” the top part to extend across his forehead
and the stem to run down his nose. Captain Jack got his tattooing kit
ready, and the fellow was thrown upon the ground and held there. The
Captain took his head between his legs, and began operations. After an
instant’s work with the needles, he opened his mouth, and filled the
wretch’s face and eyes full of the disgusting saliva. The crowd round
about yelled with delight at this new process. For an hour, that was
doubtless an eternity to the rascal undergoing branding, Captain Jack
continued his alternate pickings and drenchings. At the end of that
time the traitor’s face was disfigured with a hideous mark that he
would bear to his grave. We learned afterwards that he was not one of
our men, but a Rebel spy. This added much to our satisfaction with the
manner of his treatment. He disappeared shortly after the operation was
finished, being, I suppose, taken outside. I hardly think Captain Jack
would be pleased to meet him again.