_Buy his book and read his story,
Every word of which is true.
He fought bravely for Old Glory
That its folds might shelter you._
_H. C. STAFFORD_,
_Captain of Company C.
Eighty-Third Pennsylvania Volunteers_.
_Erie, Pa., Aug 25, 1903._
[Illustration: DAVID W. STAFFORD.]
IN DEFENSE OF THE FLAG.
[Illustration]
A TRUE WAR STORY
(ILLUSTRATED.)
A Pen Picture of Scenes and Incidents during the
Great Rebellion.—Thrilling Experiences During
Escape from Southern Prisons, Etc.
By DAVID W. STAFFORD.
All Rights to this Story Reserved by David W. Stafford
of Company D, Eighty-Third Pennsylvania Volunteers
1904.
IHLING BROS. & EVERARD, PRINTERS,
KALAMAZOO, MICH.
[Illustration: HENRY LEDIERER.]
A True War Story.
By David W. Stafford.
Now in the commencement of this narrative and tale of my early life, I
must say that a good part of my life has been somewhat gloomy. At the
time of my entering the service of my country I was seventeen years of
age. It was just after the first and second engagements at Bull Run.
My father was a poor man, the father of some nine children, and a
shoemaker by trade. I had left home early in my youth, when about
fourteen or fifteen years old, and at this time, just before the war,
a boy’s chances for labor and wages paid were very small. I worked for
only seven dollars a month. This was the first labor I ever performed,
working by the month. Oh, how my mind goes back to childhood days!
Now in the fall of 1862, on the 28th day of August I felt it my duty to
respond to my country’s call, and I enlisted in the 83rd Pennsylvania
Volunteers, to serve three years.
After I had been some two years in the service, my brother, two years
younger than myself, enlisted and came to the army at Rappahannock
Station, on the Rappahannock River. Now I had written a good many
letters home to my poor brother, advising him not to come to the army,
but it was of no avail. He would and did come, but I have reason to
thank God that it was his own good will, and that my brother’s life
blood was not shed in vain for his country, although I did try my best
to have him stay at home.
Soon after he came to the regiment and was placed in the same company
with me, I was detailed to go on picket duty. Very shortly thereafter
I became injured while assisting in the building of rifle pits at
night and was sent from our headquarters to Washington. I had previous
to this been through all of the engagements from the Antietam war,
where we first found the regiment. I had participated in all of the
engagements, such as the first and second Fredericksburg battles and
the Chancellorsville battle, or “Stick in the Mud,” and the Culpepper
battle and Mine Run, and at this place it certainly did seem as though
we run, for we retreated clear beyond Manassas Junction, in the
direction of Washington, and we could not stop long enough to steep our
coffee without getting shelled from the rebel batteries. For six miles,
on what was called the stone pike, we double marched, and it did seem
as though the rebels were destined to lick us every time we met them. I
had, up to the time of my brother’s coming into the army, participated
in all of the engagements that our regiment had been called into.
There is one thing that I recall to memory very distinctly. It is the
incident of our camping on the battle field of Bull Run, on our retreat
from Mine Run, near the Rapidan River. Near this run the rebels had
very strong fortifications thrown up. Now on the battle field of Bull
Run our dead had just been covered—a great many by the enemy—on top of
the ground, and so shallow that the bones of thousands of the dead,
skulls and all others, lay on top of the ground. Oh, how sad it did
seem to wake in the morning to find the country strewn with human bones
for miles around, and it is one thing that I can’t forget very soon.
I had gone over the ground in the direction of Bull Run, and very close
to the run, studded with trees, sat the skeleton of one of our Indiana
men against a large elm tree, just as he had died one year before. I
called the attention of the officers to this spectacle. The skeleton
was in a sitting posture, the flesh having entirely disappeared, and on
the ground lay his blue clothes. On the arms of the clothes were the
emblems showing the sergeant’s stripes and the number of his company
and regiment. One of the officers just touched his sabre under the chin
of this skeleton and it fell all to pieces. I thought this a wonderful
sight.
Now after my injury at Rappahannock Station, of which I have already
spoken, and being sent to Washington, I stayed in Lincoln hospital.
Here I was treated some two months and was sent home on a seventeen
days’ furlough, when the Battle of the Wilderness came on. This was the
first battle that my poor young brother had ever been in. As our troops
were charging on the enemy’s works for the third or fourth time, my
brother fell, pierced through the right thigh, and another ball passed
through the shoulder very close to the heart. After the battle he lay
on the field eight hours before he was finally taken to Alexandria,
near Washington, and here he was placed in what was called the Haywood
church. This church had been made over into a hospital in which to
place the wounded soldiers.
I had not been home but a few days at this time. As soon as I found
on the list of the wounded that my brother had been hurt, I went back
to Washington and returned to Lincoln hospital, from which place I
had received my furlough. I was very uneasy until I got a pass to go
to Alexandria, where my poor brother lay dying of his wound, received
in the Battle of the Wilderness. On receiving the pass and arriving
at Alexandria I stayed two days. I found on leaving my poor brother
that his stay in this world was very short. I went to headquarters and
called for another pass and told them of the condition of my brother.
They told me if I was able to travel back and forth to the city that
they would send me to the front and ordered me to go back to the
barracks until the next morning at ten o’clock, and, oh, with what a
sad heart I spent the night, scarcely sleeping, and then to think of
the suffering my poor wounded brother would have to endure! It made
my heart ache as I thought of his parting words. While at his bedside
he told me of a good old lady nurse who had told him of his Lord and
Saviour, how He had died to redeem him, and, oh, how happy he was in
all of his suffering! He would point me to the kind old nurse, tell me
how much she had told him about his Creator, and it was wonderful what
faith he had in God. He would tell me how much the old nurse reminded
him of our mother. He told me if he could only see our poor old mother
he could die contented. Oh, what sad hours these were to me! I would go
out on the street to pass away the time. I felt so sad after I started
to leave him and to think of his last words, when he would look up and
say, “David, don’t be gone as long as you were before.” I think I saw
him twice before he passed away.
Now comes almost the saddest part of my life. The next morning dawned
and at nine o’clock there were collected before the doctor’s office
twenty men to be looked over and sent to the front, myself being
included. Some were pronounced able for duty and some were sent across
the Potomac River, three miles from Alexandria, where my dear brother
lay dying of his wounds.
Just as soon as I got to this distributing camp I went straight to
headquarters for a pass to go to Alexandria, three miles away, and see
my brother, as I thought, for the last time. I could see the spires
from where I was. Well, I went and laid the matter before the commander
at this place and told him of the condition of my brother and plead in
tears for him to let me go to him. He told me that there were passes
ahead of my request, and with all of my pleading I could not get a pass
under two or three days. Well, I went around in the enclosure of the
distributing camp, which was surrounded with a fence ten or twelve feet
high. At the south side there was a piece of a board off, about two
feet in length, and through this I finally made my way and started for
the city, taking the chances of the guards shooting me. They halted,
then followed me some distance, but I got to the city, and with a good
deal of trouble I finally got through the guard lines that surrounded
the town and went to the church where my brother was, but, oh, what
a surprise awaited me! At the door or entrance I found the hospital
steward and the old lady who had cared for and shown my poor brother
the way to his Redeemer, and on entering to where the couch was I
found to my sorrow that he had died the day before and was laid in the
cemetery to rest, and it is difficult to tell what a sad night I put in
that night, lying on the same couch where my poor brother had died, and
thinking of what the next day would bring forth, and knowing that I had
deserted from the camp. It indeed was a sad night to me, yet with my
faith and trust in God I was in hopes that I would not be punished for
deserting camp. Oh, how this continued to haunt me through the night:
And the loss of my poor brother! All this made me very sad, indeed.
Well, when morning dawned I went and gave myself up to the guards
and returned to camp, and to tell you the truth, this seemed like a
hopeless trip. I finally arrived at camp and went before the commander.
He well remembered my pleading a day or two before and wanted to know
if I understood what deserting would do to me if brought to trial.
I told him I did. “Well, young man,” said he, “did you find your
brother?” In this talk to me I broke down and told him plainly of
finding his empty couch and of the sad night I had spent, and he told
me to go to my quarters. “Young man, it is all right. I would have done
the same thing myself.” This seemed to lift a great weight off me. I
went to the barracks with a light heart then.
I will soon commence relating the tale of my confinement in the rebel
prison and the story of my escape. After the death of my brother I had
no desire to stay longer near Washington or Alexandria, but I wanted to
go to the front and get into the battles for my country, and if need
be die for it. I did indeed feel sad at heart at this time. Soon there
came an order for the men who were able to bear arms to turn out, for
part of Longstreet’s corps had come to Washington while Gen. Grant was
at Richmond, to see if the rebels could not take Washington. While our
army was trying to take Richmond the enemy came up on the Baltimore
Pike and got almost into Washington. Here we had a very severe battle,
which ended in our driving out the rebels from the city of Washington.
Now soon after our trouble with the enemy, we were sent by transport to
Richmond. Here, in rifle pits and bumproofs and from forts, we had some
very severe cannonading. We charged each other until we were called to
go on a reconnoitering trip on the south side of Richmond and south of
Petersburg, on what was called the Weldon railroad. This road we tore
up and continued to hold it against all the odds that could be brought
to bear against us.
[Illustration]
Now there was one other thing that occurred prior to what I have
just written that comes to my mind. This incident occurred at
Chancellorsville, on the south side of Fredericksburg, just after
the first and second battles of Fredericksburg, while we lay in line,
and more severe fighting never occurred at this place. For the time
being the battle waged fierce and warm. Now what I mention this for
is this: We had orders to get ready for a general inspection of arms
and all charges in the guns were to be withdrawn. In front of us there
was heavy timber, and perched in the trees were many sharpshooters,
ready to shoot any of our men who raised their heads above the line of
fortifications that we occupied. We had orders to draw all the loads
from our guns and I had tried to obey but could not get the charge in
my rifle dislodged. I had to get a special instrument, called a wormer,
placed on the end of my ramrod to take the ball from my gun. Well,
I had got one of these wormers fast in my weapon and I spoke to my
captain in regard to my firing the gun. He told me that Col. S. Strong
Vincon, our colonel, had given orders for every man to draw the charge
from his gun and be ready for inspection, as they must fire their guns.
I told him what shape my gun was in and told him in order to unload it
I would have to pick some powder and fire it in the fortifications,
and did so. The colonel came very soon and looked at each gun close
to where I was. Soon he took my gun and raised the hammer and blew in
the nozzle. The smoke came out of the tube and he ordered me to climb
on the fortifications there and remain for two hours or until he would
have me come down. This was supposed to be one of the rashest things
that any of our commanding officers had ever done. Well, I had nothing
else to do but to obey the colonel and I had no sooner gotten fairly on
the line of the works than the enemy’s sharpshooters commenced firing
at me. Here is one place in my life where I knew that I was being fired
at, and if there was one shot fired I believe there were thirty.
Captain Woodard of our Company went right after the colonel and told
him that he had command of Company D and he would either take that man
from those works or either one or the other would die, and while they
were contending over the matter I came down off the works. Well the
next battle that occurred was at Gettysburg, in my own native state,
and here the colonel was shot by sharpshooters and died in a few hours.
Thus ends this thrilling experience.
Now I will, by the help of the all-wise God, proceed to relate another
sad picture of my life and the story of my capture and confinement
in southern hells, called stockade prisons. Now, as I should have
given the date of my enlistment, also of my capture, I will say that
I entered the army on the 28th day of August, 1862, in Company D,
Eighty-Third Regiment, commanded by S. Strong Vincon, of Erie county,
Pennsylvania, and our company commander was Captain O. S. Woodard,
of Waterford, Erie county, Pennsylvania. At the battle of the Weldon
Railroad, while on outside picket, I was taken prisoner, with many
others, and carried to Macon state prison and was confined in this
prison about two weeks. This was the first prison in which I was ever
confined. This prison is just ten miles from Andersonville. Now for
about two days before we got to this place, we had about one day’s
rations of corn meal issued to us, with about four ounces of bacon,
and this bacon was nearly rotten. I felt that I must let my friends
know where I was confined, for my poor mother, after the death of my
brother, had mourned his loss so much that she nearly died. What I
wished to do was to get a letter to my captain. I knew that this would
soon be sent home and would let my folks know where I was. I observed
in this prison a man who had formerly been a Union man and whom the
rebels had drafted into the southern service. He wrote a very few lines
for me, and while he wrote he told me that he had been pressed into
the rebel army, but just as soon as an opportunity presented itself
he deserted and had been court-marshaled and was sentenced to be shot
the next day at ten o’clock. Yet he wrote a very fine letter and told
me that he had friends that he expected would help him out. We were at
this time in the outside yard to the prison. Some sixteen feet of wall
surrounded us, the top of which was covered with glass. Now when we
all fell in line it seems there was a box close to a large flight of
stairs that led up to the second floor. This man said to me that his
cell mate, if I remember right, was to shove this box, which had an
open end, up to the wall as he passed close by after he had been placed
in behind. The cell mate was to answer to the call of both names. This
was very successfully performed and the next morning when the prisoners
were let into the yard the fact revealed itself, that the condemned
man had disappeared. This man was a Northern man who had a good lot
of property in Georgia, and had not left as soon as he should have
done. Like many others, his property was confiscated, and I don’t know
whether he got away or not. My prayers were that he did and I hoped and
prayed that God might lead me in all that I might do in order that I
might continue to write and work for others. I now realize that this
life is closing very rapidly.
While we were confined in this prison our fare was about twelve ounces
of corn bread for a day’s ration and about four ounces of bacon.
We were kept here about three weeks and then sent to Andersonville
prison. Now when we arrived here we were soon visited by Captain
Wirz, the commander of this prison. We were left in the hot Georgia
sun for some time before we were taken inside. This Captain Wirz was
a very cruel man, for he would take the life of a helpless prisoner
upon the slightest provocation. We did some complaining because we
were not taken inside the stockade, and soon Wirz found that we were
dissatisfied about being obliged to remain in the hot sun. At the time
of our capture we had been stripped of all our clothing, except shirt
and drawers; no shoes, not even a cap to our heads. When we were taken
prisoners we were captured by Colonel Masfies’ guerrillas, and it was
known that these men did not spare many prisoners’ lives. Now, as I
was saying, we were lying in the hot southern sun, wondering why they
did not take us inside. Captain Wirz came along and with much cursing
told us that we would get in there soon enough. We soon found out
that in this he was telling the truth, if he never had before, for I
say he was a very bad man. It was well known that he was the cause of
thousands starving to death at Andersonville through his orders. Now
I must say that we soon realized what a place it was in which we had
to stay. It was the saddest and the most sickly place that I or any
human being could conceive. Here we met with the most ghastly sights
that eyes could ever behold, for there were fathers, sons and kindred,
of both North and South confined in this prison hell, starving to
death, with no eye, as it seemed, to pity, and in tattered rags, and
hundreds without a rag to cover their backs, and men found walking in
the sluggish stream that ran through this stockade from the north to
the south side, waiting for the water to get clear, which never did.
I often think of these starving souls, and how it is that there were
not more lunatics than there were. Right here I want to speak of the
great spring that broke out on the northeast side of the prison, near
the north gate, and all in answer to prayers to God. Oh, how often I
now think of the wonderful prayer meetings, and oh, with what power did
the real saints of God prevail through Christ, the Lord Jesus. I do
thank God in later years that I have learned to trust fully in Him.
Now think of poor suffering humanity living on less than one pint of
field peas for a day’s rations for nearly thirteen months! Such was
the suffering of many in this prison, and how often I have thought how
little one man’s experience was, considering the vast suffering in this
place. Oh, this is a sad thing to contemplate, but in my old age and
the crippled condition of my body, and mental and bodily suffering, I
have been led to write up for the last time, a true story of my life
and suffering.
There has not been a moment of time the last four years, coming April
28th, that I haven’t suffered almost untold agony from a severe fall
from a basement barn, which unjointed and broke my left hip and caused
other internal injuries, from which I can never recover.
Now there were many things that happened in Andersonville that have
never gone down in history, simply because there were many things that
were not generally known. There is the story of the hanging of the six
men, and such things that are known by almost every man who was not
there at the time, but now comes three men for their rations of the
rebel sergeant, two brothers and a father. Well, very soon the poor old
man gets sick and becomes so bad that he cannot rise from the cold,
damp ground. Soon the scurvy takes hold of him, with many other bodily
ailments. His sons are then called on to get his rations. The rebel
sergeant thinks it is some Yankee trick. He was the rebel police who
was always on hand at the time of issuing Yankee rations. We used to
remark that they were so very delicious you could smell them at least
ten rods. You knew they were coming if you were on the windward side,
because they were cooked up some two or three days ahead of dealing out
and of course they would ferment and get sour. Now these were steamed
in very large lots, in two bushel sacks, and emptied into a large army
cart drawn by a three mule team. As I was saying, here goes the two
sons for their own and their father’s rations. You would think it very
cruel if you had been in their place and had just got less than one
pint, and then have those rebel guards beset you as they did those poor
boys and almost kill you for asking for a small bit of stuff that you
would not be guilty of giving to your dog, for surely he would not eat
it unless he were nearly starving. Then to see the rebel guards without
any earthly excuse shoot men clear across the prison merely for pastime
to let the southern ladies see how good and correct they shoot, killing
poor praying men. These are sad pictures, but they are nevertheless
true. And to think of men catching a small dog belonging to Wirz while
he with Jeff Davis were inspecting the prison, and skinning and eating
it, and to punish them would make them go three days without rations. I
have seen men fight for a chance to carry out dead men to get a little
fresh air. Now I feel that I should not linger much longer with these
sad scenes, but hasten to the story of my final escape from the rebel
prison.
Now along late in the fall came a report that Sherman was on his
way; that is, General Sherman, to release all of the prisoners of
Andersonville prison and at Macon. The rebels had sent papers to the
prison, stating that they were going to take us to the nearest point of
exchange. This they did so that we would not try to escape, while being
removed to other quarters. Soon after this, in a very few days, there
came a rush of cars, and they put us aboard of these trains, composed
of box cars, and we were crowded into bacon and cattle cars. As many as
seventy-five or eighty of these poor starving men were put into one of
these box cars and sent to different quarters of the South. Now at this
time General Sherman was near Macon, about ten miles away—when they
sent the last train load of us away from Andersonville, and all the way
we plainly saw the devastation of burned and destroyed railroads and
stations. It seemed that the extent of the destruction was for over
forty miles, and here our progress was very slow and tedious. The train
moved very slowly over all of this new road, and while passing along
through this country the rebels would stop the train once in a while,
to our great relief, and open the car doors to let the people see the
Yankees, who were quite a sight for those Southern people. They would
stand and gaze at us with great curiosity, and I have no doubt it was
a great sight for them, for there were men in all conceivable shapes,
without a rag to cover their backs. Many of them were the hardest
looking sights, I do believe, that my eyes ever beheld, and at one
of those small stations there was quite a large gathering of people
and a large company of young boys, who had just been conscripted into
the rebel service. Here they all stood to see the great train load of
Yankee prisoners.
Right here something occurred that I can’t forget very soon. The large
car doors had been shoved back and here stood the gazing and gaping
crowd looking us over and asking all sorts of questions, and many of
them were eating melons and apples, and they would throw the peelings
and cores in to us. There was one saucy appearing rough who threw a cud
of tobacco in the face of a tall looking veteran. He was close to the
car door and it went in his eyes. He could not take this insult, and he
jumped from the train to resist it and trampled this young rebel nearly
to death, but he understood that he would be paid for his rash act with
his life, for there were many rebels on each car with loaded guns. Just
as soon as any of the prisoners attempted to leave the trains they were
shot down without mercy. Oh, how many there were who tried to escape
from the train and were shot down by the rebels guarding the train!
We were carried from Andersonville to Charleston City, and here they
ran us under the fire of our own guns and there were some severe shots
fired at the train load of prisoners. There were quite a few shots that
hit some of the cars, but soon the firing ceased. I think that it was
soon learned that it was not an enemy reinforcement. Here they kept us
in some large tobacco houses when it was learned that during the two
or three days we had been in the box cars, so many in each car, and so
close that there was not sitting room for them all. As I said before,
there were seventy-five or eighty in one car. Some one had sawed a hole
in the bottom of the car that we were placed in, which let us have more
air than we would otherwise have had. It was a sad sight to see from
eight to ten poor fellows taken out of each car half suffocated.
After our journey up to the unloading here at Charleston City it was
wonderful to see the devastated condition of this place. There were
many buildings that were falling from the solid shot that was being
thrown into them from our bombarding army.
The next day we were all placed on board of the cars once more and
started in the direction of Florence, South Carolina, one hundred miles
from this city. Here we were once more unloaded and placed in a ten
acre lot, for the stockade was not completed, which was thought would
have been completed in about two weeks. Here again we found that our
looked for exchange was still another bull pen, or a Southern prison
hell and worse. There were all of the same Andersonville bloodhounds
and Captain Wirz, the old commander, here to give us chase as soon as
any of us should try to escape. We had been here, surrounded by two
lines of guards and a line of pickets, for about five days, when the
rebels let out a large company between the guard lines, and they broke
through the next line and got away, three or four hundred, and many got
as far as the Peedee River, some thirty-four miles away. Nearly all
were caught and chewed up by the hounds and shot so that there were not
more than one-fourth of them ever brought back alive.
Henry Ledierer, an old comrade and bugler of the eighty-third regiment,
and of company C, of this regiment, the same one that I belonged to,
and who was with me while in Andersonville prison, was with me here at
this Florence prison. He was one to get away from here and was one to
get as far as the big Peedee River, some thirty-four miles from the
prison, and if I remember right was caught and brought back some three
days later. He was caught by a southern planter, who had been warned by
the rebels of the break that had been made by the prisoners. Henry had
brought back some eight or ten pounds of corn hoecake and he and myself
concluded that if we could get a chance we would get away just as soon
as we could. The day soon came, for it commenced to rain the next day
after Henry got back, and when night came we made ready and crawled out
through the first guard line, and then we laid in wait for a Northern
squad of about a hundred and fifty men who were let out through the
first line for water near the bull pen which they had not completed
yet, and when these men got outside of the first line of guards, there
lay just outside of the next line a lot of the sick on the ground
with nothing but the canopy of heaven to cover or shelter them from
the storm. We finally fell in with this working squad and passed out
through the second line here. Just as soon as we came to where the sick
lay it was understood that we would fall out among the sick without
being seen by the enemy, and we were successful in doing this. And
now came the picket line and if it had not been for their reckless
picket fire we never would have succeeded in our escape. We finally got
through their picket line and traveled all night until morning began to
dawn, when we had to find some place to conceal ourselves. But it had
been a bad night for us.
We had got out of the prison, but to tell in what direction to go
was the next thing to consider. Well, we were guided by the railroad
station lights until we got out of sight of the stations, then as
we had nothing to guide us we had to do the best we could. It still
continued to rain until we had traveled all night, when we found
ourselves in sight of the very prison that we had left early in the
evening. This was a surprise, for we had traveled nearly eight hours,
and to find ourselves within three miles of the very prison that we
were trying to get away from. Surely it made us feel sad enough.
As I was saying, the day was about at hand and the next thing to do was
to find some place in which to conceal ourselves until night should
close in, and while we were still looking we soon came to a large stack
of corn fodder, and in this we crawled and remained until night again.
Late in and during our first night’s travel we found nothing to subsist
on, but Henry had a small amount of hoecake that he had brought back
with him, but which was now all gone, and there was no water near us.
We were so close to the prison we could see the encampment. Oh, what a
day of suspense, with these Holland bloodhounds running in almost all
directions, hunting the trail that the rain had washed out. For this
we had reasons to thank God. When night set in we started again, and
the rain that had continued to fall had now let up for a time and the
stars came out. It had been very rainy for two days and nights. Now we
felt glad to have star light for we had studied out the small clump of
stars called the small dipper and also the north star.
Now this night we had before us about thirty miles before we came to
the Big Peedee River. This river runs nearly north and south. Well, we
traveled as fast as we could, keeping very shy of any inhabitants, for
in South Carolina it is very difficult to find a Union man.
We found some sweet potatoes on our way to help us along.
Praise God! How much I think of the little faith we had in God at that
time, but I am sure He cared for and protected us.
Well, just before dawn the second night we came in hearing of the
roaring of the river, for this river had several large falls in it,
and you could hear the sound of them before you came within a mile or
so of them. We came to the water’s edge. We had no sooner got on the
bank of the river than we discovered that the rebels were in pursuit
of us, for we could hear the faint baying of hounds. This almost made
our hearts quake, for Henry Ledierer had told me the reason that he
did not try to swim the river was because the fellow who was with him
could not swim and he himself was a very poor swimmer. Now this was
very discouraging, for the river was at least three-quarters of a mile
across and overflowed the banks nearly a half mile in two or three feet
of water. But we must start, for the hounds came closer and closer each
delayed moment. We plunged in. I had it understood that we must swim a
western course down stream so that the current would help us in gaining
the other side. Now it remained for us to get the hounds between us
and the river so that we could get out of the way of pursuit as far as
possible, but what was my surprise to find my comrade could not swim
against the current of the river. I had got some ten rods ahead, when
I found that he was floating down stream with the current. Oh, how sad
I felt to think the hounds were almost heaving in sight and that my
poor comrade, whom I had decided to stand by in every place possible
until death should separate us, struggling in the angry billows. Now
it seemed that the time had arrived, for he had already called to me
that he could not go any farther, and had sank once below the current,
and just as I reached him he went under again. I reached out my cane
that somehow I had kept in my left hand. He caught it like any drowning
man would, and it was all I could do to keep him from drowning both
of us. Well we got ashore just as the rebels came in sight. They had
been looking for some of our men ever since the break to pick up if
they could any straggling Yankees who had not yet been captured. We
were now destined to a few days of severe chasing, if not capture,
for there were in pursuit of us four or five mounted rebels and three
of the Andersonville bloodhounds. During all of this day and most of
the night we had been pursued along this river, and during the day we
were compelled to cross the river the third time to keep from being
captured. What suffering, without anything to eat! We began to get very
hungry and weak, still we kept on late in the night. For three days and
a good part of the night we were beset by these hounds, when in the
afternoon of the third day the blast of the horns and the baying of the
hounds ceased. For some distance we had traveled among the elm timber
along the river flats. Finally we came to a road which led off to the
left from the river, and we thought we would follow this road. Just
at this time there came a sudden blast of a horn, and, looking in the
direction of the sound, we saw an old gray-headed negro with a white
horse coming in our direction, who was beckoning to us to listen. He
went on to tell us that the rebels had given up pursuit of us, and he
had been close to them and to us most all day, and that his old master
was in hopes that we would not be taken. We did not want to believe
him, for we had come to the conclusion that most all South Carolians
were bad rebels and we felt rather suspicious of any one who would
speak a kind word for a white man. It showed the darkey to be a kind
old man and he told me in his old southern way, “Why, massy, for de
lobe of de Lord, I would not tell you a lie.” Well I must say that he
induced us to stay in the woods concealed in the thicket, and he went
away making us a promise that he would be back soon with something
for us to eat. I told Henry that I would go over near the road in the
direction from whence he would come and stay until he arrived, and
would find out whether he meant us any harm or not. Soon I came back
again. The poor old man went away singing in a low voice some tune,
and I went back to where Henry was. We waited, satisfied that he was a
friend in need. At this time it was about nine or ten o’clock in the
evening and when the old darkey showed up he had brought two large
hoecakes and some nice stewed bacon in one of those small stew kettles,
and some of the new sorghum cane syrup. Now if ever we were thankful
for anything in this wide world we were for this kindness shown us by
this poor old pilgrim, whom I believe was God’s own messenger. Now we
sat and ate and talked and told the old man of how we had suffered in
rebel prisons and many other things, and this poor old man told us that
his master was a good Union man and that he would like to see us. This
we did not desire to do, as we did not care to meet any white man. We
told the old darkey that we feared to meet with his old master, and
all the darkey could say, would not induce us to go to the plantation.
So we stayed concealed in the forest for three days, with nothing to
protect us from the cold, damp nights except a large amount of leaves
that I had gathered up to lay in.
Now this reminds me that I did not give the date of my capture and of
my getting away. It must have been about the first of August. I was
taken in the fall of 1864. Henry was taken about the time of the Battle
of the Wilderness. Now, the time of our escape was about the middle of
November, and I tell you it was at this time getting to be very cold
nights. Well, once a day, up to the third night, the old man continued
to come and bring something for us to eat, and the third night he came
he urged so hard to go to the plantation that we concluded to go with
him. When we got to the plantation barn we found two other men there.
One of them was an Irishman and the other a Frenchman. Both of them
had been concealed here for over a week. They were both from the same
prison, but we found out very soon that we did not want anything to do
with them for the old darkey brought four large hoecakes to be divided,
each to have one a piece, but the Irishman broke one in two and gave
Henry and I half of one a piece, and he and the Frenchman took the
other three. This we told the old darkey and he brought enough to make
it all right the next morning, and I and Henry concluded that we never
would travel a mile with them if we could help it. So we found out the
next morning that the old planter had looked in on us when the darkey
brought us our food for the last night of our stay at this plantation,
for it was understood that the next day was Sunday, the first Sunday
that we had known for a long time, and the old planter was going to
church. Our old friend, the darkey, was going to ferry us across the
river again for another start for our lines. The next day dawned
very beautiful and our sleep in the planter’s barn was very good and
undisturbed.
Just as soon as the old planter had gone to church the old colored man
took us all to the river, where the little and big Peedee Rivers join,
and here he ferried us across. Now this boat in which we were carried
was one that the old man stood up in and used his paddle in the stern
end, and as soon as we got across the river we concluded to separate
from the other two fellows and travel alone. It was our intention not
to travel any at all by day, if we could only avoid it, and to get away
from the two fellows who had taken our hoecake was our desire.
We had traveled but a short distance when we came to a public road.
There were about ten or fifteen negroes on this road. The Irishman
wanted apple jack, and it seemed that to get a hold of this apple
brandy was the most he desired. So he and the Frenchman went to the
road, and, calling to the darkies, told them what their desire was, and
from the chuckling of the darkies we came to the conclusion from what
we heard that it would not be long before they would get something that
they were not looking for, for at the time of the break at the Florence
prison the country was aroused and armed, and they told the negroes
that the Yankee man was so powerful that he would eat up a black man.
The people were all armed for miles around and as soon as they would
tree any of our men they would shoot them out of the trees as fast as
they would come to them. Now this superstition had spread all over the
country, and it was nothing but the most intelligent class who would be
ready to help capture and kill these flying fugitives. They would kill
them for pastime and amusement.
Now as soon as it was understood by the Irishman and his chum that they
would soon be supplied with apple jack, they waited until the return
of the darkies, and it was not longer than half or three-quarters of
an hour before we heard the sound of hounds and the blast of horns.
We knew well enough what this all meant, and just as soon as these
fellows met the darkies we started in the direction of the river again
and made as fast progress as we could until we came to a swamp. We went
into this morass as far as we could—through the mire and water to avoid
pursuit of the hounds. We could hear the bay of the hounds and the
blast of horns. We did feel bad to think that these poor simple fellows
would run right into danger as they had done! It might have been about
an hour before we heard the discharge of fire arms and all was still
again and so ended. I have no doubt but that two more lives of fleeing
prisoners were sacrificed. They had escaped from what was more than
death—a Southern hell—as these prison pens were called, only to be shot
to death.
Now we lay here in this quagmire marsh until night set in and then we
started again, never intending to travel after night unless compelled
to do so. The way that we intended to travel lay in a northwesterly
direction, and oh, such suspense and fear as a man will have in
traveling in the cold part of the year in the enemy’s country,
surrounded on every side by a gaping mob and howling hounds, and many
a time while we were traveling near any road have we come upon a large
company of rebels, almost on us before we would know it. We would lay
down wherever we could, sometimes not over fifty feet away, and lay
there until it seemed as though every eye was turned on us.
[Illustration]
There are many incidents that happened that I never will be able to
relate here in this tale of my escape. As I was saying, when night
again set in it found us on our way to complete our travel. We had
come a good, long journey without anything occurring of any note for
several nights or days, until we got within sixty or seventy miles of
the North Carolina line. We had not had anything to eat for several
days, except hard corn and once in a while some raw sweet potatoes that
we had gathered along the way. We had at this time camped, or stopped,
as I should say, in a secluded place in the forest, near a nice ravine,
and in the forest quite a distance from any inhabitants. We had been
traveling, as we had concluded to do, nights, and to sleep by day, and
at this place we had got up just before night on Saturday. We thought
we would move on a short distance, when we spied about fifty wild
turkeys, and we tried hard to kill some of these, but we could not get
near them, so we traveled on for some little distance, when we came to
an old grist mill, some ways from any settlement. All around this mill
there was corn growing, and it was loose and dry in the husk, so we
gathered about a bushel of this corn and shelled it and tried our hands
at milling. This mill we found was an old overshot wheel and it had but
one run of stone. It seemed it had just been shut down, so we took the
corn we had shelled and put it in the hopper. This did surely seem like
a great undertaking, but we let it run, raising the gate and letting on
a full force. Our small grist ran through the mill very fast, and just
as soon as we could we scooped up the damp and smoking meal, and not
any too soon either, for just about three-fourths of a mile away came
two or three Johnnies on the run to see what had happened. We ran into
the woods west of the mill, leaving it running full blast. We ought to
have shut down the waste gate to the old mill, but we had no time to
lose, as we thought, if we got away. We found some old sacks that we
carried our meal in. Now we did not know what use we could make of this
meal, but still we thought we might come across some darkey who would
make some hoecake out of it.
Well, we traveled along in this timber for some little time, for fear
that these rebels would pursue us, and just as night was closing in we
came to where there was a woman chopping wood in these woods, and we
lay concealed and watched her chop until she got ready to go home. Then
we made ourselves known to her. She seemed to be very much frightened
all the way home, and when she arrived at her house she told us that
she had a husband in the army—I think in the Union army—at Knoxville,
Tenn., and she told us how she was left with one boy and two girls. Her
boy, just a few days before we arrived there, had been caught in the
house, right on the hearth in the log cabin, where we now were, and
had been shot down at his own mother’s feet. He had been conscripted
some months before and had been a wanderer in the forest, pursued by
home guards, as they were called, but they were nothing but bands of
guerillas, scattered all over the states, and this poor woman told
Henry and I that her husband had been a good Union man before and since
the war. It did seem strange that this poor woman should be compelled
to cut this four-foot coal wood with which to make charcoal, and this
was also used in making powder to shoot our Union boys.
Oh, yes, after she had related this sad story to us, she urged us to
leave her house just as soon as we could, for she declared that there
would soon be a band of rebel home guards along, and that they would
kill us as soon as captured. We let her have the corn meal. I think
that we had done the first milling in the southern country in the
manufacture of corn meal. I have often heard the rumble of that old
mill in my imagination since we left it running away. Oh, such speed,
and such smoking from the fast heating stones!
Well, as I was saying, this woman told us that there was a poor old
colored man down in a valley south of the house where she lived, about
three-fourths of a mile away. We had not yet left her house, south of
the road, when we heard the clatter of hoofs and of galloping steeds.
At least two hundred of these home guards, or cut throats, as they were
more commonly called, came rapidly up to this poor woman’s house and
halted for a few moments. We kept concealed to see what might turn up,
and as soon as they went on we went down the valley until we came to
the place that we had been directed to—the old colored man’s hut. This
was about eight o’clock in the evening and we saw to our amazement a
little hut in the side of the west bank of this valley bluff. In front
of this hut stood the poor old pilgrim, singing a beautiful hymn. We
had found again one of God’s true servants. He seemed to be about
eighty years old. He had been in some way taught to read, and had a
good idea of his Divine Creator. Well we had a good meeting with the
old man, but all we found to eat, that the poor old man made us welcome
to, was a small piece of mutton chops and about a pint of beans. After
a long talk, he told us there was a good old Quaker whom he knew would
befriend us if we would go with him. After he had declared the Quaker
to be a truly good man we finally concluded to trust the old man, but
we decided to keep our eyes on him while we went with him. He also told
us that this man had a large sugar plantation, which he worked very
late nights. Now our fare of chops and beans was becoming very slim,
and we began to get very hungry. I tell you it is hard to relate what
a hungry man wouldn’t do before he would allow himself to starve to
death. This I have had the sad experience of witnessing, and I pray
to God it will never occur again. Well, this Quaker’s place was about
one and one-half miles from the old darkey’s place. We started at
about 9:30 o’clock, and after we arrived at the plantation the house
we found was a large brick structure. Just beyond we could hear the
sound of mills grinding cane and the noise of the factory. We went just
a little ways from the old planter’s house and here Mr. Ledierer and
myself waited, while the old darkey went on to get the old planter,
or to see him in our behalf. Now, for fear the old man was working
some scheme to betray us, I went on ahead of where Henry was to hear
what the conversation might be. As soon as the planter had heard the
old darkey’s story, he discharged all of his hands and came to where
we were. I was about ten yards in advance of Henry when they came
along, and just as soon as I heard their talk I was convinced that we
had fallen into the hands of a Godly man and a true christian pilgrim
Quaker. Just as soon as he met us he took us by the hand, called on God
to bless us, and whatever lay in store for us. Thank God, dear reader,
for these apostles of Christ!