The miserable have no other medicine, But only hope.--MEASURE
FOR MEASURE.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the
memory a rooted sorrow?--MACBETH.
Truly saith the Italian proverb, "There are no ugly loves and no
handsome prisons." Still we found Salisbury comparatively endurable.
Captain Swift Galloway, commanding, though a hearty Confederate, was
kind and courteous to the captives. Our sleeping apartment, crowded
with uncleanly men, and foul with the vilest exhalations, was filthy
and vermin-infested beyond description. No northern farmer, fit to be a
northern farmer, would have kept his horse or his ox in it.
[Sidenote: THE OPEN AIR AND PURE WATER.]
But the yard of four acres, like some old college grounds, with great
oak trees and a well of sweet, pure water, was open to us during the
whole day. There, the first time for nine months, our feet pressed the
mother earth, and the blessed open air fanned our cheeks.
Mr. Luke Blackmer, of Salisbury, kindly placed his library of several
thousand volumes at our disposal. Whenever we wished for books we had
only to address a note to him, through the prison authorities, and, in
a few hours, a little negro with a basket of them on his head would
come in at the gate. It seemed more like life and less like the tomb
than any prison we had inhabited before.
[Sidenote: THE CRUSHING WEIGHT OF IMPRISONMENT.]
And yet those long Summer months were very dreary to bear, for we had
upon us the one heavy, crushing weight of captivity. It is not hunger
or cold, sickness or death, which makes prison life so hard to bear.
But it is the utter idleness, emptiness, aimlessness of such a life. It
is being, through all the long hours of each day and night--for weeks,
months, years, if one lives so long--absolutely without employment,
mental or physical--with nothing to fill the vacant mind, which always
becomes morbid and turns inward to prey upon itself.
What exile from his country Can flee himself as well?
It was doubtless this which gave us the look peculiar to the
captive--the disturbed, half-wild expression of the eye, the
contraction of the wrinkled brow which indicates trouble at the heart.
We were most struck with this in the morning, when, on first going out
of our sleeping quarters, we passed down by the hospital and stopped
beside the bench where those were laid who had died during the night.
As we lifted the cloth, to see who had found release, the one thing
which always impressed me was the perfect calm, the sweet, ineffable
peace, which those white, thin faces wore. For months I never saw it
without a twinge of envy. Until then I never felt the meaning of the
words, "where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at
rest." Until then I never realized the wealth of the assurance, "He
giveth his beloved sleep."
[Sidenote: BAD NEWS FROM HOME.]
Some prisoners had an additional weight to bear. They were southern
Unionists--Tennesseans, North Carolinians, West Virginians, and
Mississippians--whose families lived on the border. They knew that
they were liable any day to have their houses robbed or burned by the
enemy, and their wives and little ones turned out to the mercy of the
elements, or the charity of friends. This gnawing anxiety took away
their elasticity and power of endurance. They had far less capacity for
resisting disease and hardship than the northeners, and died in the
proportion of four or five to one. I could hardly wonder at the fervor
with which, in their devotional exercises, night after night, they sung
the only hymn which they ever attempted:
"There I shall bathe my weary soul
In seas of heavenly rest;
And not a wave of trouble roll
Across this peaceful breast."
The cup of others, yet, had a still bitterer ingredient, which filled
it to overflowing. I wonder profoundly that any one drinking of it ever
lived to tell his story. They had received bad news from home--news
that those nearest and dearest, finding their load of life too heavy,
had laid it wearily down. During the long prison hours, such had
nothing to think of but the vacant place, the hushed voice, and the
desolate hearth. Hope--the one thing which buoys up the prisoner--was
gone. That picture of home, which had looked before as heaven looks to
the enthusiastic devotee, was forever darkened. The prisoner knew if
the otherwise glad hour of his release should ever come, no warmth of
welcome, no greeting of friendship, no rejoicing of affection, could
ever replace for him the infinite value of the love he had lost.
[Sidenote: THE GREAT LIBBY TUNNEL.]
Early in the Spring we were delighted to learn from Richmond that
Colonel Streight had succeeded in escaping from Libby. The officers
constructed a long tunnel, which proved a perfect success, liberating
one hundred and fourteen of them. Streight, whose proportions tended
toward the Falstaffian, was very apprehensive that he could not work
his way through it. Narrowly escaping the fate of the greedy fox which
"stuck in the hole," he finally squeezed through. The Rebels hated him
so bitterly that, by the unanimous wish of his fellow-prisoners, he was
the first man to pass out. A Union woman of Richmond concealed him for
nearly two weeks. The first officers who reached our lines announced
through the New York papers that Streight had arrived at Fortress
Monroe. This caused the Richmond authorities to relinquish their
search; and finally, under a skillful pilot, having traveled with great
caution for eleven nights to accomplish less than a hundred miles,
Streight reached the protection of the Stars and Stripes.
Our prison rations of corn bread and beef were tolerable, in quantity
and quality. The Salisbury market also afforded a few articles, of
which eggs were the great staple. We indulged extravagantly in that
mild form of dissipation--our mess of five at one time having on hand
seventy-two dozen, which represented, in Confederate currency, about
two hundred dollars.
We soon made the acquaintance of several loyal North Carolinians.
Citizens of respectability were permitted to visit the prison. Those of
Union proclivities invariably found opportunity to converse with us.
Like all Loyalists of the South, white and black, they trusted northern
prisoners implicitly. The reign of terror was so great that they often
feared to repose confidence in each other, and cautioned us against
repeating their expressions of loyalty to their neighbors and friends,
whose Union sympathies were just as strong as theirs.
[Sidenote: HORRIBLE SUFFERINGS OF UNION OFFICERS.]
Captains Julius L. Litchfield, of the Fourth Maine Infantry, Charles
Kendall, of the Signal Corps, and Edward E. Chase, of the First Rhode
Island Cavalry, were imprisoned in the upper room of the factory.
Held as hostages for certain Rebel officers in the Alton, Illinois,
penitentiary, they were sentenced to confinement and hard labor during
the war. In one instance only was the hard labor imposed. In the prison
yard they were ordered to remove several heavy stones a few yards and
then carry them back. For some minutes they stood beside the Rebel
sergeant, silently and with folded arms. Then Chase thus instructed the
guard:
"Go to Captain Galloway, and tell him, with my compliments, that
perhaps I was just as delicately nurtured as he--that, if he were in
my place, he would hardly do this work, and that I will see the whole
Confederacy in the Bottomless Pit before I lift a single stone!"
Chase and his comrades were never afterward ordered to labor. Other
Union officers, held as hostages, arrived from time to time. Eight, who
came from Richmond, had been confined one hundred and forty-five days
in that horrible Libby cell where the mold accumulated on the beard of
the Pennsylvania lieutenant. While there they suffered intensely from
cold, ate daily all their scanty ration the moment it was issued, and
were compelled to fast for the rest of the twenty-four hours, save when
they could catch rats, which they eagerly devoured. Some came out with
broken constitutions, and all were frightfully pallid and emaciated.
Starving and freezing are words easily said, but these gentlemen
learned their actual significance.
Four of them were held for Kentucky bushwhackers, whom one of our
military courts had sentenced to death, which they clearly deserved
under well-defined laws of war. Had they been promptly executed, the
Rebels would never have dared, in retaliation, to hurt the hair of a
prisoners head. But Mr. Lincoln's kindness of heart induced him to
commute their sentence to imprisonment, and made him unwittingly the
cause of this barbarity toward our own officers.
The hostages were plucky and enterprising, frequently attempting to
escape. One night they suspended from their fourth-story window a rope
which they had constructed of blankets. Captain Ives, of the Tenth
Massachusetts Infantry, descended in safety. A daring and loyal Rebel
deserter, from East Tennessee, named Carroll, who designed to pilot
them to our lines, attempted to follow; but the rope broke, and he fell
the whole distance, striking upon his head. It would have killed most
men; but Carroll, after spending the night in the guard-house, bathed
his swollen head and troubled himself no further about the matter.
Captain B. C. G. Reed, from Zanesville, Ohio, was constantly trying
to secure his own release. It always seemed to make him unhappy when
he passed two or three weeks without making attempts to escape. They
usually resulted in his being hand-cuffed and ballasted by a ball and
chain, or confined in a filthy cell.
[Sidenote: A COOL METHOD OF ESCAPE.]
But, sooner or later, perseverance achieves. Once, while so weak
from inflammatory rheumatism, contracted in a Richmond dungeon, that
he could hardly walk, he made a successful endeavor, in company with
Captain Litchfield. At nine o'clock, on a rainy March night, with their
blankets wrapped about them, they coolly walked up to the gate. They
rebuked the guard who halted them, indignantly asking him if he did not
know that they belonged at head-quarters! Impudence won the day. The
innocent sentinel permitted them to pass. They went directly through
Captain Galloway's office, which fortunately happened to be empty;
reached the outer fence; Litchfield helped over his weak companion,
and the world was all before them, where to choose. They traveled one
hundred and twenty miles, but, in the mountains of East Tennessee, were
recaptured and brought back.
Nothing daunted, Reed repeated the attempt again and again. Finally, he
jumped from a train of cars in the city of Charleston, found a negro
who secreted him, and by night conveyed him in a skiff to our forces at
Battery Wagner. Reed returned to his command in Thomas's Army, and was
subsequently killed in one of the battles before Nashville. Entering
the service as a private, and fairly winning promotion, he was an
excellent type of the thinking bayonets, of the young men who freely
gave their lives "for our dear country's sake."
[Sidenote: CAPTURED THROUGH AN OBSTINATE MULE.]
Early in the summer, our mess was agreeably enlarged by the arrival
of Mr. William E. Davis, Correspondent of _The Cincinnati Gazette_
and Clerk of the Ohio Senate. Davis owed his capture to the stupidity
of a mule. Riding leisurely along a road within the lines of General
Sherman's army, more than a mile from the front, he was compelled to
pass through a little gap left between two corps, which had not quite
connected. He was suddenly confronted by a double-barreled shot-gun,
presented by a Rebel standing behind a tree, who commanded him to halt.
Not easily intimidated, Davis attempted to turn his mule and ride for
a life and liberty. With the true instinct of his race, the animal
resisted the rein, seeming to require a ten-acre lot and three days
for turning around--wherefore the rider fell into the hands of the
Philistines.
Books whiled away many weary hours. As Edmond Dantes, in the Count of
Monte Christo, came out from his twelve years of imprisonment "a very
well-read man," we ought to have acquired limitless lore; but reading
at last palled upon our tastes, and we would none of it.
[Sidenote: CONCEALING MONEY WHEN SEARCHED.]
Our Salisbury friends supplied us liberally with money. The editors
of the migratory _Memphis Appeal_ frequently offered to me any amount
which I might desire, and made many attempts to secure my exchange.
The prison authorities sometimes searched us; but friendly guards, or
officers of Union proclivities, would always give us timely notice,
enabling us to secrete our money. One (nominally) Rebel lieutenant,
after we were drawn up in line and the searching had begun, would
sometimes receive bank-notes from us, and hand them back when we were
returned to our own quarters.
Once, as we were being examined, I had forty dollars, in United States
currency, concealed in my hat. That was an article of dress which
had never been examined. But now, looking down the line, I saw the
guard suddenly commence taking off the prisoners' hats, carefully
scrutinizing them. Removing the money from mine, I handed it to
Lieutenant Holman, of Vermont; but, turning around, I observed that
two Rebel officers immediately behind us had witnessed the movement.
Holman promptly passed the notes to "Junius," who stood near, reading
a ponderous volume, and who placed them between the leaves of his
book. Holman was at once taken from the line and searched rigorously
from head to foot, but the Rebels were unable to find the coveted
"greenbacks."
The prison officers, under rigid orders from the Richmond authorities,
would sometimes retain money received by mail. Two hundred dollars in
Confederate notes were thus withheld from me for more than a year.
Determined that the Rebel officials should not enjoy much peace of
mind, I addressed them letter after letter, reciting their various
subterfuges. At last, upon my demanding that they should either give me
the money, or refuse positively over their own signatures, the amount
was forthcoming. Thousands of dollars belonging to prisoners were
confiscated upon frivolous pretexts, or no pretext whatever.
[Sidenote: ATTEMPTS TO ESCAPE FRUSTRATED.]
Persistent ill-fortune still followed all our attempts to escape.
Once we perfected an arrangement with a friendly guard, by which, at
midnight, he was to pass us over the fence upon his beat. Before our
quarters were locked for the night, "Junius" and myself hid under
the hospital, where, through the faithful sentinel, escape would be
certain. But just then, we chanced to be nearly without money, and
Davis waited for a Union _attaché_ of the prison to bring him four
hundred dollars from a friend outside. The messenger, for the first
and last time in eleven months, becoming intoxicated that afternoon,
arrived with the money five minutes too late. Davis was unable to join
us; we determined not to leave him, expecting to repeat the attempt on
the following night; but the next day the guard was conscribed and sent
to Lee's army.
These constant failures subjected us to many jests from our
fellow-prisoners. Once, in a dog-day freak, "Junius" had every hair
shaved from his head, leaving his pallid face diversified only by a
great German mustache. He replied to all _badinage_ that he was not the
correspondent for whom his interlocutors mistook him, but the venerable
and famous Chinaman "No-Go."
[Sidenote: YANKEE DESERTERS WHIPPED AND HANGED.]
The Yankee deserters, having no friends to protect them, were treated
with great harshness. During a single day six were tied up to a post
and received, in the aggregate, one hundred and twenty-seven lashes
with the cat-o'nine-tails upon their bare backs, as punishment for
digging a tunnel. Many of them were "bounty-jumpers" and desperadoes.
They robbed each newly-arriving deserter of all his money, beating him
unmercifully if he resisted. After being thus whipped, at their own
request their _status_ was changed, and they were sent as prisoners of
war to Andersonville, Georgia. There the Union prisoners, detecting
them in several robberies and murders, organized a court-martial, tried
them, and hung six of them upon trees within the garrison, with ropes
furnished by the Rebel commandant.
For seven months no letters, even from our own families, were
permitted to reach us. This added much to our weariness. I never knew
the pathos of Sterne's simple story until I heard "Junius" read it one
sad Summer night in our prison quarters. For weeks afterward rung in my
ears the cry of the poor starling: "I can't get out! I can't get out!"