is a sharp bend in the river just above Vicksburg, caused by a tongue
of land or peninsula on the Louisiana side. This peninsula had been
covered with trees; but the rebels had cut them down, so that their
guns had full sweep across it, and could command any and all vessels
descending the stream when they were nearly three miles above the
batteries. We floated at first, knowing that the puff of steam from
the tug could be heard at a long distance in the midnight silence,
and would necessarily attract the attention of the enemy. The first
twenty minutes were passed quite pleasantly. We opened a bottle of
wine, and drank to the success of our adventure, lighted our cigars,
and chatted upon the possibilities of the situation. Thinking
disaster might befall us, we tore up the few private letters we had
in our pockets, and indulged in all kinds of jests respecting the
potentiality of the result.
[Sidenote: UNDER FIRE AT VICKSBURG.]
We had scarcely reached the bend of the Mississippi, when we saw a
flash from the hostile guns, heard the boom, and felt that the outer
barge was struck. We thought that to be hit by the first shot was
pretty good to begin with. Knowing, too, that we should be nearly
three quarters of an hour under fire,—most of the time immediately
in front of the batteries,—our prospects of a happy issue to our
expedition were far from brilliant. There being no further use in
attempting to steal on the foe, the engineer of the tug set the engine
in motion. Our progress, hampered by the huge barges, was necessarily
slow—very little greater than that of the current.
The initial gun was followed by a hundred others. For several miles
along the Mississippi shore, the batteries belched forth shot and
shell, until the bank of the river seemed all ablaze. Those who went
for excitement certainly found it. The roar of the guns—some of the
largest calibre—was almost deafening. The round shot howled over our
heads; the shells shrieked fiercely and then exploded, many of them
just above the barges. We could hear fragments falling about us,
and it appeared as if the shot, so thick did they come, sometimes
grazed our hair and our whiskers. As a pyrotechnic exhibition, it was
splendid, and we should have enjoyed it greatly, had we not heard in
the brief intervals of the cannonading the groans of the poor fellows
who had been struck.
Such a situation is certainly a strong test of courage, which
frequently quails in an entire state of placidity, when it would not
blanch before the deadliest peril, could it be actively met. All we
had to do—all, indeed, we could do—was to stand and take it. There
was no possibility of shrinking or retreating, even had we been so
inclined. We were precisely in the position of a regiment under a
galling fire, and ordered not to move or return a single shot. Boom,
bang, boom! whiz, yship, hursh! roar, crack, shriek!
[Sidenote: EXCELLENT GUNNERY PRACTICE.]
Such were the indescribable sounds that greeted and surrounded us for
fully forty minutes, and you may be sure the minutes were not short.
The whole night was radiant, with flashing artillery and bursting
shells. The brightness of the moon and stars was quite eclipsed; they
looked dim and yellow through the blaze and smoke of war. The barges
were struck again and again, and so were the bales of hay; but still
the boats were not materially injured, and we could plainly hear the
puff, puff, puff, of the tug, doing its best to carry along the great
burden to which it was tied.
My two journalistic friends and myself were side by side, watching the
exhibition with an interest that might be called personal. We were not
excited, as we had supposed we should be, owing, no doubt, to the fact
that we had had two years’ experience in the field. And yet we were
forced to admit that it was about the liveliest experience under fire
which we had ever enjoyed. I presume that our nerves were at a higher
tension than we suspected, though we talked very glibly, and discussed
the probability of our getting through, albeit much of what we said
was lost in the infernal din.
What the French call the fire of hell was unremittingly kept up.
A hundred guns seemed to explode, and a hundred shells to burst,
every second. We suggested that the so-called Confederacy would soon
expend all its ammunition, if it long continued such a tremendous
cannonading; but then we remembered that long before it could be
exhausted, we should be in a condition to know or care very little
about it.
Under such circumstances, men who have any coolness, or inclination to
speculate, are very apt to become fatalists, irrational as fatalism is.
“I don’t believe,” said one of my companions, “that I am destined to
die here.” And the other remarked, “If my time has come, it might as
well be here as anywhere else.”
[Sidenote: A TERRIBLE EXPLOSION.]
Our speculations were cut short by an explosion, not so loud as, and
altogether different from, any other that had taken place; and almost
at the same instant there was a rush of steam, with a great deluge of
live coals and cinders all about us. “What the devil is the matter
now?” asked one correspondent. “This seems to be a new sensation!”
exclaimed the second; while I solved the mystery by declaring that the
boiler of the tug had exploded.
That I was right, was proved by the immediate cessation of the regular
puff, puff, puff. A large shell had fallen upon the little steamer,
and, bursting, a fragment had penetrated the boiler, causing the
explosion, and throwing the fires of the furnace upon the dry hay
covering the upper part of the barges. The loose hay caught at once.
We ran to extinguish it; but our effort was vain. The fire blazed up
before and behind us, and not having any means of putting it out, we
abandoned further endeavor. On looking around, we discovered that
a number of the soldiers, and those of the crew of the tug who had
not been killed outright, were very severely scalded. Others, as we
knew, had been badly wounded by shot and shell. At least half of the
thirty-five men with whom we had set out were either dead or badly
hurt, and our first thought was to help the poor fellows that could
not help themselves.
Those who were sound began pushing the bales of hay into the river,
and putting the wounded upon them. The barges burned like tinder,
and in a few minutes after they had been ignited, two thirds of them
were wrapped in flames. The rebels, strangely unmindful of their
much boasted chivalry, continued their fire, though they must have
seen that our expedition was utterly wrecked. Having gotten off the
wounded, we who were unharmed jumped overboard, and secured a bale
apiece, designing to float down the river beyond the city, and then
those of us who were expert swimmers, at least, strike out for the
Louisiana shore, and try to get back to our camp at Young’s Point.
Alas for the vanity of human expectation! One of my journalistic
associates and myself had arranged this programme to our
satisfaction, when, hearing the sound of rowlocks, we knew the enemy
must be out in small boats to capture the survivors of our ill-fated
expedition. Consequently we left our bales, and floated,—nothing but
our faces out of the water,—believing that by so doing, we should
remain unnoticed. We had not floated quite a minute before a yawl,
filled with armed men, was rowed up to us, and we were seized and
drawn into the boat, with the remark from a rebel captain, “We will
get you d——d Yankees once in a while.”
[Sidenote: IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY.]
We did not like our capture, but we took it good-naturedly, though it
seemed rather hard that, after escaping shot, shell, steam, fire, and
water, we should have the bad luck to fall into the enemy’s hands.
The old pilot had proved a prophet. There was not a single Yankee left
to tell the tale. The expedition was reported a total loss, with all
on board, and some of us had the pleasure, long after, of reading our
own obituaries in the northern journals. They were very kind; so kind,
indeed, that we had some hesitation in declaring ourselves alive,
lest, when we should really shuffle off this mortal coil, we might
not be spoken of so generously. General Sherman, who then had, and
may still have, a tender affection for war journalists, expressed his
sympathy that night with our reported death by saying, “We shall have
despatches from h—l now before breakfast.”
Even we correspondents, who had had glowing visions of the highly
rhetorical accounts that we had intended to furnish to the New York
journals, were deprived of the privilege of putting a word on paper.
Our career of imprisonment began, and a very dreary career it was.
We were thrust into two places of incarceration in Vicksburg; were
then transferred to Jackson; then to Selma; then to Atlanta; then
to Richmond, and finally to Salisbury; having in that time been the
inmates, as I have said, of eight different prisons, each one of which
was, if possible, more repulsive than that immediately preceding.
[Sidenote: PLANS FOR ESCAPING.]
At the famous Libby Prison we made our earliest efforts to escape;
for at the other places we had not remained long enough to perfect
any plans for freedom. We all had more faith in tunnelling than in
anything else; but being kept on the upper floors of the old tobacco
house in Richmond, we had no opportunity to put our faith into the
form of works. If we could only have tunnelled the air, we should have
come out in the camp of the army of the Potomac before we had spent a
month in the Libby.
Numerous efforts were made by the Union officers, while we were
with them, to have their quarters changed to the ground floor, on
the score of comfort; but their southern keepers were too shrewd to
put them there, knowing full well that the prospect of escape by
tunnelling would be vastly increased. The northern invaders, as they
were denominated, could get down to one of the lower floors, a few at
a time; but these were not enough to do the digging, and the other
hard work required, within any safe period. They did not, however,
surrender their plans, and frequently at night we used to discuss at
length the most available means for securing our freedom.
Months after, when one of my fellow-scribes and myself (the second
had been duly exchanged at Richmond) had been sent farther south as
“hostages for the good conduct of the Washington government,” we were
delighted to learn that the gallant officers we had left behind in
Libby had at last succeeded in digging the long-contemplated tunnel,
and, what was better, getting their liberty once more.
The ground floor in the most western of the three adjoining warehouses
composing the Libby Prison was devoted, during the winter of 1863-4,
to storage and lumber, and was seldom visited by the rebel officials.
This was very fortunate for the Yankees, who had been prevented
before from commencing operations in that quarter, in consequence of
the occupation of the floor by some of the southern subordinates. As
soon as the prisoners learned that they could operate to advantage,
they sawed a hole through the floor of the second story, carefully
concealing it by the piece of plank they had sawed out. This story
was part of their quarters, and they could readily determine when
the coast was clear, and let down some of their number, who were not
long in removing enough of the first floor to begin their digging.
They worked like beavers, relieving each other every two hours, and
performing all their labor at night. They began their tunnel just
inside of the outer wall, went below the foundation of the building,
and then dug laterally to a point where they deemed it safe to come up.
[Sidenote: WORKING IN A TUNNEL.]
I have had so much experience in tunnels that I regard myself as an
authority thereon. They are generally only large enough to admit the
body of a good-sized man, who creeps into them, and, lying nearly
flat, digs as hard as he can with any instrument he may procure.
After the tunnel has been extended thirty or forty feet, lack of
ventilation prevents the burning of lights, and anything like freedom
of breathing. The Libby tunnel was some seventy feet long; and to
remedy this defect, the officers made a large pair of bellows, much
resembling those used by blacksmiths, with tacks, blankets, and
boards. With this rude but ingenious instrument, they supplied with
oxygen the two men employed in the tunnel, one in advance digging,
and the other behind, carrying out, or rather backing out, with the
dirt in a haversack. Progress, under such adverse circumstances, is
necessarily slow, the digging generally being done with a pocket or
case knife. Sometimes not more than two feet is made by twelve hours
of hard labor, and no one works more than an hour at a time, as the
foul air is very exhausting.
[Sidenote: THE GREAT TUNNEL AT LIBBY PRISON.]
The Libby tunnel was not completed in less than a month, the officers
being in constant dread lest it should be discovered. But it was not
even suspected, and on a certain morning everything was pronounced
ready for the test of its practical availability. Those who had done
the most work and been the longest in confinement had precedence.
About ten o’clock the prisoners began crawling into the tunnel
one by one, while the entire number, including those who had no
expectations of freedom, lay anxiously awake, awaiting the result of
the undertaking. When daylight came, nearly a hundred and twenty, if I
remember rightly, had gotten out; after that hour all further attempt
had to be abandoned. A few poor fellows in the mouth of the tunnel
were obliged to creep back and surrender the prospect of freedom for
which they had so earnestly longed.
At the Libby, as in most prisons, the roll was called and the men
counted every morning and evening, for the purpose, of course, of
seeing if anybody had escaped. That particular morning at the Libby,
the absence of the one hundred and twenty rendered the existence of a
tunnel so highly probable that the rebels at once set about finding
it, and in less than an hour they succeeded. They were angry enough,
especially as one of the missing was Colonel A. D. Streight, who
had been captured with a number of his men on a raid into Georgia,
and whom the rebels so cordially detested, that they refused to
exchange him, or the officers with him, thus interrupting the cartel
until nearly the close of the war. I knew Streight very well in
captivity,—he fell into the enemy’s hands in Georgia on the same date
that I had a similar fortune in front of Vicksburg,—and I was rejoiced
at his getting away, because his foes were so anxious to retain him.
The officers who escaped had a very severe experience. Long
confinement and wretched food, not to speak of the poisoned air they
had breathed, had rendered them weak and incapacitated for exertion.
They had not more than seventy-five miles to go to reach our camp,
but many of them could not march, others lost their way, and others
again lacked the nerve and will to push steadily on. At least half of
them were retaken, and those who arrived within our lines were in a
pitiable condition. They had suffered from want of food and shelter;
were excessively fatigued, and so foot-sore that in numerous instances
their toe-nails came off, and they were unable to walk any distance
for weeks after.
[Illustration: OUR QUARTERS IN LIBBY PRISON.]
The second prison in Richmond to which we were consigned was the
notorious Castle Thunder. There was no more opportunity for digging
tunnels there than there had been at the Libby; and yet we had,
if not expectations of escape, a settled determination to employ
every possible means in our power. We plotted and plotted by night
and by day; had secret communications with Unionists in Richmond; had
rendezvous appointed in the event of our getting out; had the guards
bribed; had our programme fully arranged; indeed, had everything
complete except our escape. The fault certainly was not ours; for
prisoners were never more prudent, never more watchful, never worked
harder than we. Fate seemed to be against us. There was always a
hitch, a tangle, a broken link, for which we were not in any way
responsible. Having three of the guards properly bribed, one of them
on the particular night when we intended to get out would inevitably
become intoxicated; some agent whom we had trusted for a certain
emergency would fall ill; a highly important message would miscarry
at the critical moment; and thus were we cheated of our exertion
and enterprise so repeatedly that it is singular we did not despair
altogether.
[Sidenote: HOW PLANS WERE FRUSTRATED.]
We were betrayed once by a contemptible Marylander, who, himself a
prisoner, and pretending to be excessively loyal, imparted to the
authorities what he had suspected, in the hope of gaining their favor.
The result was, that we were thrust into a noisome dungeon, and kept
there for two weeks, with half a dozen deserters from the rebel
army, who had varied their military life by forgery, burglary, and
assassination. Having been returned to our old quarters, and having
just formed a new project for emancipation, which we felt assured
would fulfil its purpose, we were ordered off to Salisbury.
I remember that three or four desperate rebels in the condemned cell
adjoining the apartment in which we were confined, freed themselves in
an audacious manner, that entitled them to my admiration. They sawed
through the floor, keeping up such a rattling of their chains while at
work, that nobody could hear them, got down to the first floor, seized
each a loaded musket from one of the racks, dashed out of the front
entrance, shot one of the sentinels through the head, knocked another
down with the butt of a gun, ran by the third, and disappeared in the
darkness. The third sentinel fired his piece after them, and a general
alarm was given; but, in spite of the fact that the Castle was in a
much frequented part of the city, the bold fugitives got clearly away,
and were never seen after in Richmond. They deserved a prosperous
issue for their reckless courage; but there was something of luck in
it, and I doubt, had I made the same attempt, if I should have been
able to reach the outer door.
[Sidenote: TREATMENT AT SALISBURY.]
At Salisbury we were kept like cattle (except that we were not nearly
so well treated), in a large enclosure, sleeping, or rather lying
down, in an old building formerly used as a cotton factory. This
building, with a number of miserable out-houses, was employed as the
prison quarters, until some thousands of enlisted Union men were sent
down there, when a system of freezing, starving, and murder seemed to
be deliberately established by the rebel commandant.
Things soon became so bad that they could hardly get worse. It was
death to remain, and even if an attempt to escape proved to be death
also, we thought we should have the satisfaction of dying in an effort
to obtain freedom, instead of perishing like rats in a hole.
Salisbury was the most hideous prison-pen, not even excepting
Andersonville, in the entire South. Its one redeeming feature was,
that it was not without facilities for tunnelling. These did not
amount to a great deal, for the reason that we had spies in camp; the
captives being made up of deserters from both armies, professional
ruffians, and miscreants of every sort. Moreover, so intense was the
suffering that not a few men, naturally loyal, but not of heroic
stuff, could not resist the temptation to treachery, when they knew
that their treachery would be rewarded by the food and raiment for the
want of which they were perishing.
Tunnels were digging constantly, and were as constantly failing
for the reasons I have mentioned. As my friend and myself were the
only war correspondents at Salisbury, we were individualized to our
fellow-captives, and having been longer in prison than anybody else,
they were not only willing, but glad, to do anything which would aid
us to escape. Consequently, we were informed of any and all plans,
and given an interest in every tunnel that was projected, begun, or
partially constructed. After one had fairly gotten under way, we
would be invited to, and we would, examine it. Creeping on our hands
and knees through its length, and then retreating in the fashion of
a crab, we would pronounce the tunnel good, with the simultaneous
instinct that it could not long remain undiscovered after we had made
its acquaintance.
[Sidenote: RIGID SEARCH OF PRISONERS.]
No wonder we often thought we were destined to breathe our last in
durance vile. Every scheme, contrivance, or device for our deliverance
appeared doomed to an untimely nipping. I can recall a dozen occasions
when I entered tunnels in the evening just ready to be tapped, and
through which I intended the next night to take my departure. The
first thing I would learn, the following morning, would be, that
somebody had turned informer, and that we must have recourse to still
another enterprise.
I never did much work myself. I was as willing as Barkis; but I had
little skill in that species of practical engineering, and was so
much excelled by my companions in captivity that I did not insist on
performing my share of the labor. So many of our tunnels had exploded,
as we used to style it, that the authorities put on double lines of
sentinels, compelling us to carry a tunnel so far that the obtainment
of oxygen became impossible. Sixty or seventy feet, or even eighty or
ninety, may be managed; but one hundred and forty or fifty feet cannot
be accomplished without a ventilating apparatus, and at Salisbury we
were absolutely without implements of any kind. It was quite common
there for our custodians to draw us up in a line, and compel us to
surrender, not only our valuables, on pretence that we might bribe
the guards, but also our pocket-knives, and anything that might in
any way aid us in our liberation. Old scraps of iron, and whatever
might be converted into a sharp instrument, were, therefore, in active
demand, and the supply entirely inadequate. I recollect that I was
hailed with joy, on a certain afternoon, when I exhibited an ancient
case-knife that I had contrived to conceal, and which not the neediest
rag-picker in Paris could be persuaded to throw into his basket.
How the poor unfortunates at Salisbury did toil at tunnels, and how
perverse fortune always proved! I make no question that scores of
the captives, at the rate of three dollars a day, would have earned
hundreds of dollars each in digging, and all, alas! to no purpose. The
fabled industry of the Trojans was not to be compared to theirs. No
sooner was one tunnel discovered than they set about making another,
and when that blew up, they turned to a third, and a fourth, and a
fifth, and a sixth, as if they were incapable of discouragement. Hope
springs eternal in the human breast, especially when the human breast
is famishing by slow degrees, and freedom smiles never so faintly in
the far-off distance.
[Sidenote: SEVERE LABOR IN TUNNELS.]
If there be any severer labor than tunnelling, I am unacquainted with
it. The first time I became a digger was on a hot summer day. Armed
with an ordinary jack-knife, the blade of which was broken, I attacked
the firm earth, and, for nearly two hours and a half, strove, like
Hercules, against one of the original elements. The work would have
been nothing in the open air, even with the noonday sun blazing down;
but in that narrow, underground channel, where half a respiration was
impossible, every movement of the muscles, every throb of the pulses,
every beat of the heart, resembled a spasm, and the slightest exertion
appeared like the greatest. The perspiration started from all my
pores, my head ached, my lungs grew painful, my breath became hot and
stertorous. The man behind me, who was engaged in removing the dirt,
insisted on my stopping, saying that I was overworking, and that an
hour at a time was quite as much as anybody ought to endure.