The mad screams of a man in an agony of pain awoke me on this Sunday,
October 5, at daybreak. The room was a sorry sight. Some had died in the
night, and were soon carried out for burial. I lay still, in no great
pain, and reflected on the swift succession of events of the past week.
I had had bad luck, but soon, of course, my aunt or father would know
of my misfortune. As I waited for what might come, I tried to recall the
events of the battle. I found it almost impossible to gather them into
consecutive clearness, and often since I have wondered to hear men
profess to deliver a lucid history of what went on in some desperate
struggle of war. I do not believe it to be possible.
Being always of a sanguine turn of mind, I waited, full of comforting
hope. About five, after some scant food, we were told to get up and
go downstairs. It was still dark because of the continuous rain and
overcast skies. I refused to walk, and was lifted by two men and put in
a waggon. A few early idlers were around the door to see us come out. I
looked eagerly for a face I knew, but saw none. Our ride was short. We
went down Sixth street, and drew up at the Walnut street front of the
prison, called, while the British held the town, the Provost. It was
unfinished, a part being temporarily roofed over with boards. At the
back was a large yard with high walls. Some, but not all, of the windows
in the upper story had transverse slats to keep those within from seeing
out. On the Sixth street side were none of these guards, and here the
windows overlooked the potter’s field, which now we call Washington
Square.
As I managed, with some rough help, to get up the steps, a few early
risen people paused to look on. Others came from the tumble-down houses
on the north side of Walnut street, but again I was unfortunate, and saw
none I knew.
My heart fell within me as I looked up at the gray stone walls and
grated windows. The door soon closed behind a hundred of us, not a few
being of the less severely wounded. Often in passing I had thought, with
a boy’s horror, of this gloomy place, and tried to imagine how I should
feel in such a cage. I was to learn full well.
With fifteen others, I was shut up in a room about twenty-two feet
square, on the Sixth street side and in the second story. I was, but
for a Virginia captain, the only wounded man among these, the rest being
stout country fellows, ruddy and strong, except one lean little man, a
clerk, as I learned later, and of the commissary department.
As I had again refused to walk upstairs, I was carried, and not rudely
laid down by two soldiers in a corner of the bare room, now to be for
many a day our prison. The rest sat down here and there in dull silence,
now and then looking at the door as if there hope was to be expected
to enter. I called the Virginia captain, after an hour had gone by,
and asked him to lift and ease my hurt leg. He was quick to help, and
tender. In a few minutes we came to know each other, and thus began a
friendly relation which has endured to this present time.
For a day or two soldiers were employed as turnkeys, but then a lot of
rough fellows took their places, and we began to feel the change. I may
say the like of our food. For a week it was better than our pot-luck in
camp. We had rye bread, tea without sugar, and horribly tough beef; but
within two weeks the ration fell to bread and water, with now and then
salt or fresh beef, and potatoes or beans, but neither rum nor tea. A
surgeon dressed my wounds for a month, and then I saw him no more. He
was a surly fellow, and would do for me nothing else, and was usually
half intoxicated. The arm was soon well, but the leg wound got full of
maggots when it was no longer cared for, and only when, in January, I
pulled out a bit of bone did it heal.
Once a day, sometimes in the morning, more often in the afternoon, we
were let out in the yard for an hour, watched by sentries, and these
also we heard outside under our windows. Observing how quickly the big
country louts lost flesh and colour, I set myself to seeing how I could
keep my health. I talked with my unlucky fellow-prisoners, ate the food
even when it was as vile as it soon became, and when in the yard walked
up and down making acquaintances as soon as I was able, while most of
the rest sat about moping. I felt sure that before long some one would
hear of me and bring relief. None came.
The scoundrel in charge was a Captain Cunningham. He had risen from the
ranks. A great, florid, burly, drunken brute, not less than sixty years
old, This fellow no doubt sold our rations, for in December we once
passed three days on rye bread and water, and of the former not much;
one day we had no food.
He kicked and beat his victims at times when drunk, and when I proposed
to him to make ten pounds by letting my aunt know where I was, he struck
me with a heavy iron key he carried, and cut open my head, as a great
scar testifies to this day.
In late December the cold became intense, and we were given a blanket
apiece to cover us as we lay on the straw. We suffered the more from
weather because it chanced that, in October, the frigate “Augusta” blew
up in the harbour, and broke half the panes of glass. In December the
snow came in on us, and was at times thick on the floor. Once or twice
a week we had a little fire-wood, and contrived then to cook the beans,
which were rarely brought us more than half boiled.
We did our best, the captain and I, to encourage our more unhappy
companions, who, I think, felt more than we the horrors of this prisoned
life. We told stories, got up games, and I induced the men to go
a-fishing, as we called it; that is, to let down their ragged hats
through the broken window-panes by cords torn from the edges of our
blankets. Now and then the poor folks near by filled these nets with
stale bread or potatoes; but one day, after long ill luck, a hat was of
a sudden felt to be heavy, and was declared a mighty catch, and hauled
up with care. When it was found to be full of stones, a strange misery
appeared on the faces of these eager, half-starved wretches. The little
clerk said, “We asked bread, and they gave us a stone,” and of a sudden,
broke out into hideous exuberance of blasphemy, like one in a minute
distraught. It was believed Cunningham had been he who was guilty of
this cruel jest; but as to this I have no assurance. Our efforts to
cultivate patience, and even gay endurance, by degrees gave way, as we
became feeble in body, and the men too hungry to be comforted by a joke.
At last the men ceased to laugh or smile, or even to talk, and sat in
corners close to one another for the saving of body warmth, silent and
inert.
A stout butcher, of the Maryland line, went mad, and swore roundly he
was George the king. It was hard, indeed, to resist the sense of despair
which seemed at last to possess all alike; for to starvation and cold
were added such filth and vileness as men of decent habits felt more
than those accustomed to be careless as to cleanliness.
The Virginian, one Richard Delaney, soon got over a slight hurt he had,
and but for him I should not be alive to-day. The place swarmed with
rats, and he and I set to work capturing them, filling their holes as
they came out at evening, and chasing them until we caught them. They
kept well in the intense cold, and when we were given fire-wood, we
cooked and ate them greedily.
Meanwhile death was busy among the starving hundreds thus huddled
together. We saw every day hasty burials in the potter’s field. I wrote
twice, with charred wood, on the half of a handkerchief, and threw it
out of the window, but no good came of this; I suppose the sentries were
too vigilant.
A turnkey took one of my guineas, promising to let my aunt hear of me.
I saw him no more. As to Cunningham, he was either too drunk to care, or
expected to make more out of our rations than by a bribe, and probably
did not credit the wild promises of a ragged prisoner. At all events, no
good came of our many efforts and devices, which were more numerous
than I have patience to relate. From the beginning my mind was full of
schemes for escaping, and these I confided to Delaney. They served, at
least, to keep hope fat, as he said.
Early in December I began to have dysentery, and could eat no more, or
rarely; but for Delaney I should have died. He told me, about this time,
that the men meant to kill Cunningham and make a mad effort to overcome
the guard and escape. It seemed to me the wildest folly, but they were
grown quite desperate and resolute for something--all but the butcher,
who sang obscene songs or doleful hymns, and sat dejected in a corner.
The day after I saw the little commissary clerk talking in the yard to
Cunningham, and that evening this rascal appeared with two soldiers
and carried off four of the dozen left in our room; for within a week
several had died of the typhus, which now raged among us. The next
morning the clerk was found dead, strangled, as I believe, in the night,
but by whom we never knew.
I got over the dysentery more speedily than was common, but it was
quickly followed by a burning fever. For how long I know not I lay on
the floor in the straw, miserably rolling from side to side. The last
impression I recall was of my swearing wildly at Delaney because
he would insist on putting under me his own blanket. Then I lost
consciousness of my pain and unrest, and knew no more for many days. I
came to a knowledge of myself to find Delaney again caring for me, and
was of a sudden aware how delicious was the milk he was pouring down my
throat. What else Delaney did for me I know not, except that he found
and cared for my money, and bribed the turnkey with part of it to bring
me milk daily for some two weeks. But that we had hid the guineas for a
while in the ashes of the fireplace, I should have lost this chance and
have died; for one day Cunningham made us all strip, and searched us
thoroughly.
About the end of January, Delaney, seeing me bettered and able to sit up
a little, told me this strange story. While I was ill and unconscious,
an officer had come to inspect the prison. Cunningham was very
obsequious to this gentleman, and on Delaney’s seizing the chance
to complain, said it was a pack of lies, and how could he help the
dysentery and typhus? All jails had them, even in England, which was too
true.
“I went on,” said Delaney, “to say that it was an outrage to confine
officers and men together, and that Mr. Wynne and myself should be put
on parole. The inspector seemed startled at this, and said, ‘Who?’ I had
no mind to let a lie stand in your way, and I repeated, ‘Captain Wynne,’
pointing to you, who were raving and wild enough. He came over and stood
just here, looking down on you for so long that I thought he must be
sorry for us. Then he said, in a queer way, and very deliberately, ‘Will
he get well? He ought to be better looked after.’ Cunningham said it was
useless, because the surgeon had said you would be over yonder (pointing
to the potter’s field) in a day or two.” Which, in fact, was his
cheerful prediction. It was safe to say it of any who fell ill in the
jail.
“This officer appeared puzzled or undecided. He went out and came back
alone, and leaned over you, asking me to pull the blanket from your
face. I did so, as he seemed afraid to touch it. You, my dear Wynne,
were saying ‘Dorothea’ over and over; but who is Dorothea the Lord
knows, or you. The officer, after standing a while, said, ‘it was a
pity, but it was of no use; you would die.’ As for me, I told him that
we were officers starving, and were entitled to better treatment. He
said he would see to it; and that is all. He went away, and we are still
here; but if ever--”