THE CAPTURE AND RETURN TO COLUMBIA.
About four in the afternoon we sat up in the husks, ate the last of the
corn-bread the negro had given us, then covered ourselves over to wait
for darkness. While we were hidden from view we did not entirely cover
our haversack. In a short time we heard voices, and a man said, “There
is a haversack: I am going to get it.” As he walked over the husks he
stepped on me, but I did not squeal. As he picked up the haversack,
he saw Frank’s arm and cried, “The barn is full of d—d Yankees.” We
heard the click as they cocked their pieces, and thinking it about time
to stop further proceedings, we lifted up our heads. “Throw down your
arms,” was the next order. We explained that we had performed that sad
duty several months before.
After much talk they let us come out. Our captors were Texas rangers,
the hardest looking set of men I ever met; dressed more like cowboys
than soldiers, armed with sabres, two revolvers each, carbines, besides
a lariat hung to the saddle. There were but three of them, and we
resolved to make an appeal for one more chance. In the most earnest
manner possible we told the story of our long service in the field,
our starvation in prison, our long tramp for liberty and our near
approach to our lines, and begged them to let us go. I think we made
an impression on them, but after conferring they said, “You are loyal
to your side and we must be to ours, but we will use you well while we
have you in charge.”
The rest of the company came up while we were talking. They had
thirty-six prisoners, captured from Sherman’s army. These were known
as “Sherman’s bummers.” My experience with the Army of the Potomac had
been such that I looked with little favor on the bummers. Had they
been with their comrades they would not have been captured, but they
were, like a large part of that army, scattered over the country, not
foraging for the army but for themselves, and the loyal negro was
“cleaned out” the same as the “reb.” It was demoralizing, and had
the rebels been in force on this flank or rear, disasters instead of
success would have overtaken that grand army before it reached the sea.
With the bummers we were turned into the corn and slept in the husks
that night.
Bright and early the next morning we were turned out and were soon on
our way back to Augusta. The old negro came to see us off; as his eyes
fell on Frank and me a look of sadness came over his face. Our guards
were well mounted and they made us “hiper.” We marched several miles
without a halt, when we came to a brook, where all were given a chance
to quench our thirst. As we had no cups we lay down and drank. One by
one the boys got up and started on, I alone remaining. I was sure that
the guards were gone and was ready to run for the woods, when, looking
over my shoulder, I saw one with his revolver pointed at my head.
“Thought you had got away, didn’t you?” “Oh, no!” I replied. “I was
very thirsty and it took me a long time to drink.” “Well, I am looking
after you,” and he made me “double quick” until I caught up with the
rest.
We halted at night in a grove near a large mansion. We were hungry and
footsore, having eaten nothing that day, and having marched thirty
miles. The lieutenant commanding the guard went to the house and
demanded supper for seventy men. The old man said he had nothing, that
Sherman’s army had stripped him of all he had. “Never mind the story,”
said the guard, “bring out the grub.” After declaring over and over
again that he had nothing, the officer said, “we will see,” and sent
a sergeant and some men into the house. The old man changed his tune
a little, said he would try to find something, and after a short time
brought out a bag of meal, some sweet potatoes and a side of bacon. All
shared alike, the prisoners receiving the same as the guard. The night
was as cold as any December night in the north, and the guard drew on
the old man for a good supply of wood. Unlike our army, they did not
go after it but ordered it brought to them. They built several large
fires, and then posted guards for the night.
We were in a small space and there were only seven men on posts. I
believed there was a chance to make a break if we could only make the
men understand it. Frank and I formed our plans and began to work them.
I had lain down by the side of two prisoners and got them interested,
then stood up, warmed myself, and was sauntering over to the third,
when one of the guards cocked his piece, and said, “Yank, you get up on
that stump; I don’t like to see you moving about so much.” I tried to
explain that I was so cold that I could not sleep and must move to keep
warm, but he replied, “I think I shall feel better to see you on that
stump.” So I took the stump and held it until daylight. Another draft
was made upon the old man for breakfast, and we continued the march.
The citizens along the route were very bitter, and at times the guards
had hard work to protect us. Women came out with revolvers, looking
for the Yanks who had broken open their trunks. Although our guards
were very kind to us they did not take so kindly to Sherman’s men.
While in a ravine they halted us, and proposed to strip us. Frank and
I protested. They said, “These men have robbed our people and ought to
be punished.” We told them they would get enough when they arrived at
the prison, and that it was too cheap business for gentlemen, as they
had proved themselves to be. This aroused their pride, and they let the
boys march on.
At Waynesboro the citizens were determined to kill us. One old man
struck a boy over the head with a hickory cane, breaking the cane in
two. It looked as though we should have a hard time, but the guards
stood by us, and declared they would shoot the next one who struck
us. The women were worse than the men, and could hardly keep from
scratching our eyes out. All were going to die in the last ditch, live
in the mountains, walk to Europe, or do anything except live in the
same country with Yankees. We were called every name that was bad. One
woman said the Yankees were so mean that when they went through the
town they stole a woman’s false teeth. It was suggested that if she had
kept her mouth shut they would not have known she had false teeth. The
guards laughed, and the woman jumped up and down, mad way through. She
was about as angry with the guards as with us.
We took cars here for Augusta; the Texans said Georgians were mighty
mean people, and they reckoned we had better get to Augusta before we
had trouble. We arrived at Augusta late in the afternoon. The people
expected us and were in line on each side of the street to welcome us.
Old men called us “Yankee-doodles;” boys called us “Blue bellies;” the
women yelled all sorts of vile words. We marched up the main street
into an old stock yard; an officer, dressed in the uniform of a captain
of our army, stood at the gate, and the first words we heard were,
“Halt, d—n you, halt! Would you go to h—ll in a moment?” Our Texas
guards left us here; they shook hands with Frank and me, wished us good
luck, but reckoned we would have a right hard time with this fellow.
The “imp of darkness” who commanded the place was a Tennesseean, named
Moore. He was surrounded by a gang of cut-throats, mostly deserters
from our army, who, having jumped all the bounties possible, had joined
his gang; nearly all were dressed in uniforms of blue.
We were turned into a mule pen, and while resting there a boy about
seventeen years old, dressed in rebel gray, came to me and said, “They
are going to search you; if you have anything you want to save, give
it to me.” “But you are a rebel,” I said, “and I can’t trust you.” He
answered that he was not, only galvanized (had taken the oath); that he
had been a prisoner at Andersonville and had not courage to hold out,
so he had gone over to the other side, but assured me that if I would
trust him he would be true. While I hated the sight of him for his
treason, he was better than the rest. All I had was my diary; it was
very imperfect and of no real value; but in it I had noted the places
where we had stopped while out, and I felt if Moore got it the negroes
who had assisted us would suffer, so I gave it to him.
Soon after Moore came in. He swore at us collectively, by detachments
and individually. Looking at me he said, “I swear you look like the
breaking up of a hard winter.” He drew us into line and the picking
began. Frank had a corps badge that he had made while at Charleston; it
was cut out of bone, and was the work of days, but it had to go. As the
Tennesseean came to me he said, “That cuss isn’t worth picking,” and
passed me by. From the men they took everything; pictures of friends
at home, and when it was a picture of a lady, coarse remarks would be
made. After all the articles had been taken from their pockets, the
order was given to take off pants, blouses and shoes, and when we were
turned back into the pen they were nearly naked.
The pen was very filthy; the mules had recently vacated, and it had not
been cleaned. Moore said, “Make yourselves as miserable as possible,
and I hope to God not one of you will be alive in the morning.” Gangs
of the roughs came in and tried to trade. One of the boys came to me,
saying, “I have a watch that they did not find; one of these men says
he will give four blankets for a watch, and I think I had better let
him have it, as we shall freeze to death here.” I assured him that he
would lose his watch and get no blankets, but he was so cold he could
not resist the temptation, and gave the fellow the watch. When he came
in again he asked for the blankets. The wretch knocked him down and
kicked him; that was all he received for the watch.
My galvanized friend turned up again and said they were coming after
my jacket,—that they wanted the buttons. I took it off and laid it
under another man. Soon they came in and asked for the officer with
the jacket, a friend outside wanted to talk with him. They shook me and
asked where he was. I replied, “He lay down over the other side.” They
carried pitch-pine torches and looked at every man, but failed to find
the jacket. We managed to live through the night, and in the morning
my boy returned the diary, and Frank, two other officers who had been
recaptured, and myself were taken out to be sent to Columbia. As we
passed out I heard one of the gang say, “There is the cuss with the
jacket,” but he did not take it, and we marched to the depot.
The rebels must have entertained an idea that Yankees could live
without food, for they issued no rations to us either at night or in
the morning, and we were hungry enough to eat a raw dog. Our train
was one of those southern tri-weeklies which went from Augusta to
Columbia one week and tried to get back the next, and stopped at
every crossroad. At one place an old negro woman was selling sweet
potato pies. I had a Byam’s match paper and bought one with it. She
asked, “Is it good, boss?” I replied that it was worth five dollars in
Confederate, and she was satisfied. I think she got the best of it, for
the thing she sold me for a pie was a worse imitation of that article
than the match paper was of Confederate money. At another place I
bought a two-quart pail two-thirds full of ham fat, paying for it with
one of the five dollar bills Packard gave us.
We spent the entire day on the road, arriving at Columbia at seven
o’clock in the evening, and were put in jail. We were not confined in a
cell, but in a small room with a fireplace; we found a fire burning on
the hearth, and went to work. As we had had no opportunity to examine
our clothes since we escaped, their condition can be imagined. We took
bricks out of the hearth and spent an hour reducing the inhabitants.
It sounded like the discharge of musketry, and the list of killed was
larger than in any battle of the war.
In the morning we were ordered out and marched through the city. We
learned that Camp Sorghum had been broken up and our officers moved to
the lunatic asylum. The gate of the new prison swung open, the crowd
gathered, expecting to see “fresh fish,” but instead saw four ragged,
dirty, old tramps. We were received with a grand hurrah, and they
gathered around to hear our story. We had been out just four weeks,
and had travelled more than three hundred miles. While we were much
disappointed we were not discouraged. Our trip had done us good; we
had gained in flesh, had thrown off the stagnation of prison life and
were ready to try again. We found many changes inside. Major Dunn and
Captain Hume had received special exchange; others had escaped, and the
squads were broken. We were assigned to squad fifteen, composed of men
who had escaped, and we were a fine collection of innocents.
Before we escaped from Camp Sorghum an order had been issued by the
rebel commander that if any more escaped they would put us in a pen,
and the removal to Asylum Prison was the result.
There were about two acres enclosed. On three sides were brick walks;
on the fourth a high board fence which separated us from the insane.
Sentry boxes were built around the place and two pieces of artillery
were pointed at us through the fence. Inside was a wooden building
used for a hospital. The frames of about thirty small buildings were
up and eleven were covered. The work had been done by our officers,
and the rebels promised to send in lumber to cover the rest, but it
never came. The eleven would accommodate about three hundred, the rest
being quartered in a few old tents. Our squad had neither buildings nor
tents, and we huddled together on the bare ground. It was so cold that
we walked most of the night to keep from freezing.
I received eight letters upon my return. They had been written at
various times, but all came in one mail. My friends had heard from me
but once, and that was a letter written and sent out by an officer who
was exchanged at Charleston. I had written several letters, but suppose
they were never sent north.
Frank was taken sick and sent to the hospital. I visited him every
day. The only advantages he received from being in the hospital were a
roof to shelter him and his mush made thinner, called gruel. He only
remained a week, as he chose to be with us.
Christmas day came and we were anxious to celebrate in some way. I had
held on to ten dollars that Packard gave me, as I feared we should
require it for salt, but concluded to have a nice dinner, so I bought a
squash and we feasted on boiled squash and salt.
Soon after January 1 a chance was opened to get a little money. A man
named Potter, claiming to belong to Rhode Island and to be a Union man,
made arrangements with the rebel officers to let us have six for one
in gold or two for one in greenbacks. At that time outside the walls
gold was fifty for one confederate, and greenbacks, twenty-five. We
gave this noble-hearted (?) man bills of exchange on friends at home,
and were obliged to endorse them as follows: “This money was loaned me
while a prisoner of war, and I desire it paid.”
The arrangements were made through a rebel officer and done on the sly.
We did not get the money, but an order on the rebel sutlers, who put
up a tent inside and did a thriving business. The bills of exchange
were sent north—how, we never knew—and in nearly every instance paid
by our friends, who believed they were repaying a friend for kindness
to us. We were obliged to obtain the money to keep from starving, and
our necessities were such that we would have given twice the amount
charged, but it was a grand swindle nevertheless, and persons both
north and south were engaged in it. I managed to get into the ring
and gave a draft of fifty dollars, receiving three hundred dollars in
Confederate money. One not acquainted with the prices and value of the
money would think that I was quite well off, but in two weeks it was
all gone, and yet we were as prudent as possible. We first purchased
some coarse cloth, paying fifteen dollars per yard. Then bought some
cotton and made a quilt; we paid at the rate of a dollar and a half per
pound for the thread to make it with. Pork was seven dollars per pound,
tea one hundred and twenty dollars per pound, shoes one hundred dollars
per pair, lead pencils three dollars each, fools-cap paper two hundred
and twenty-five dollars per ream, envelopes twenty-five cents each,
other things in the same proportion; but the money put new life into
the prisoners, and many a man came home who would have died without it.
I was always blessed with friends, and am indebted to many old comrades
for favors. Frank and I had slept (or tried to) on the ground, without
shelter, for two weeks. One day Capt. Louis R. Fortescue of the signal
corps said, “Jack, I believe we can make room for you and Frank in
our shebang.” He was with a party of officers of the 18th Pennsylvania
cavalry, and they said by packing snugly we could come in. It was snug
quarters, but neither they nor we growled. My ham fat was a fortune;
our new mess owned a piece of iron—I think it was the side of an
old stove—and it was used to cook corn-meal cakes on. If any one
outside the mess wanted to cook on it they paid one cake in ten for
the privilege, but it was a hard job unless it was well greased, as
the cakes would stick. It was soon known that I had the fat, because
when we cooked we greased the griddle with a rag soaked in ham fat.
Outsiders would say, “Jack, lend me your grease,” but I had an eye to
business, and would ask, “How many cakes will you give me?” We fixed
the tariff at one cake in ten, so that when we had plenty of business
for the griddle and greaser our mess fared well.
We were very discontented and were bound to escape the first possible
chance; many tunnels were planned and one nearly completed when the
rebels came in and, driving the prisoners out of the tent where the
shaft was sunk, with little trouble discovered it. We were confident
we had been betrayed, and suspicion fell on a lieutenant who was
quite intimate with the rebel officers. A committee was appointed to
investigate. Before night a notice was posted on the bulletin board
that “General Winder has ordered that unless tunnelling is stopped
all buildings, tents, lumber and shelter of any kind will be removed
from the yard, and that he will use force for force if any attempt is
made to punish prisoners who report tunnelling to these headquarters,”
signed by Major Griswold, commanding prison. I will not give the name
of the lieutenant, because I may do him injustice, but, while our
committee could not obtain information enough to try him, all believed
that he was the man, and we did not see him after we left Columbia.
February 8 was a day of thanksgiving. News was received that General
Winder was dead. He was commander of all the prisoners and largely
responsible for our treatment. Before the war he was a citizen of
Baltimore, and was selected for the position he held by Jeff. Davis
because no suffering could touch his heart.
The information was given us in this way. The prison was calm and
still, when the voice of Lieut. David Garbett was heard: “Hell has
received reinforcements; Winder is dead.” A cheer went up from every
man in the prison. If the guards knew the cause of our joy they made no
effort to stop it.
February 13 a meeting was held to organize the National Legion. It was
proposed to have it take the form that was afterward adopted by the
Grand Army of the Republic, and I have always believed that the men
who organized the Grand Army were some of them members of our prison
association, for when I joined the order in 1867 the grip was the same
as our old Council of Ten.
Tunnelling began in earnest, and several tunnels were well under way.
The plan of operation was to sink a shaft from four to five feet deep,
then dig from that. The digging was done with a knife, spoon or half of
a canteen. Our squad began one from house No. 1. We were more fortunate
than some, for we had secured a shovel, cut it down with a railroad
spike and sawed off the handle. With this we could lie on our bellies
and work with both hands. The digger had a bag,—usually made out of
an old coat sleeve—and when he had filled it he pulled a string and
it was withdrawn by comrades at the opening. They would empty it into
their coat sleeves, and with their coats thrown over their shoulders
would walk about the prison, dropping the dirt wherever they could.
Usually when digging a tunnel we made holes in various places during
the day, so that new dirt would not attract attention. The man inside
had to be relieved often, as the air was so bad one could not remain
over fifteen minutes.
We were obliged to dig fifty-six feet before we were outside of the
wall. As work could only be done at night, our progress was very slow.
Fifty feet had been excavated, and it began to look as though we should
be free again, but on February 14 the order came to move, and half the
officers were taken out, marched to the depot, fooled around nearly
all night in a drenching rain, then marched back to prison again, as
they had no cars to take us out of the city. We renewed our work in the
tunnel, continuing all night and the next day, but before we could get
it beyond the wall they moved us. We covered up three of the officers
in the dirt at the mouth of the tunnel, but when the rebels were making
their last round through the prison to see if all were out they were
discovered.