nerved by the yet bright hope of liberty, he once more went his weary
way in the direction of Williamsburg. Finally he came to a place where
there were some smoking fagots and a number of tracks, indicating it to
have been a picket post of the previous night. He was now nearing
Williamsburg, which, he was inclined to believe from such meager
information as had reached Libby before his departure, was in possession
of the Union forces. Still, he knew that this was territory that was
frequently changing hands, and was therefore likely to be under a close
watch. From this on he avoided the roads wholly, and kept under cover as
much as it was possible; and if compelled to cross an open field at all,
he did so in a stooping position. He was now moving in a southeasterly
direction, and coming again to the margin of a wide opening, he saw, to
his unutterable joy, a body of Union troops advancing along the road
toward him.
Thoroughly worn out, Rose, believing that his deliverers were at hand,
sat down to await their approach. His pleasant reverie was disturbed by
a sound behind and near him, and turning quickly he was startled to see
three soldiers in the road along which the troops first seen were
advancing. The fact that these men had not been noticed before gave Rose
some uneasiness for a moment; but as they wore blue uniforms, and
moreover seemed to take no note of the approaching Federal troops, all
things seemed to indicate that they were simply an advanced detail of
the same body. This seemed to be further confirmed by the fact that the
trio were now moving down the road, apparently with the intent of
joining the larger body; and as the ground to the east rose to a crest,
both of the bodies were a minute later shut off from Rose's view.
In the full confidence that all was right he rose to his feet and walked
toward the crest to get a better view of everything and greet his
comrades of the loyal blue. A walk of a hundred yards brought him again
in sight of the three men, who now noticed and challenged him.
In spite of appearances a vague suspicion forced itself upon Rose, who,
however, obeyed the summons and continued to approach the party, who now
watched him with fixed attention. As he came closer to the group, the
brave but unfortunate soldier saw that he was lost.
For the first time the three seemed to be made aware of the approach of
the Federals, and to show consequent alarm and haste. The unhappy Rose
saw before the men spoke that their blue uniform was a disguise, and the
discovery brought a savage expression to his lips. He hoped and tried to
convince his captors that he was a Confederate, but all in vain; they
retained him as their prisoner, and now told him that they were
Confederates. Rose, in the first bitter moment of his misfortune,
thought seriously of breaking away to his friends so temptingly near;
but his poor broken foot and the slender chance of escaping three
bullets at a few yards made this suicide, and he decided to wait for a
better chance, and this came sooner than he expected.
One of the men appeared to be an officer, who detailed one of his
companions to conduct Rose to the rear in the direction of Richmond. The
prisoner went quietly with his guard, the other two men tarried a little
to watch the advancing Federals, and now Rose began to limp like a man
who was unable to go farther. Presently the ridge shut them off from the
view of the others. Rose, who had slyly been staggering closer and
closer to the guard, suddenly sprang upon the man, and before he had
time to wink had twisted his gun from his grasp, discharged it into the
air, flung it down, and ran off as fast as his poor foot would let him
toward the east and so as to avoid the rest of the Confederates. The
disarmed Confederate made no attempt at pursuit, nor indeed did the
other two, who were now seen retreating at a run across the adjacent
fields.
Rose's heart bounded with new hope, for he felt that he would be with
his advancing comrades in a few minutes at most. All at once a squad of
Confederates, hitherto unseen, rose up in his very path, and beat him
down with the butts of their muskets. All hands now rushed around and
secured him, and one of the men called out excitedly, "Hurry up, boys;
the Yankees are right here!" They rushed their prisoner into the wooded
ravine, and here they were joined by the man whom Rose had just
disarmed. He was in a savage mood, and declared it to be his particular
desire to fill Rose full of Confederate lead. The officer in charge
rebuked the man, however, and compelled him to cool down, and he went
along with an injured air that excited the merriment of his comrades.
The party continued its retreat to Barhamsville, thence to the White
House on the Pamunkey River, and finally to Richmond, where Rose was
again restored to Libby, and, like the writer, was confined for a number
of days in a narrow and loathsome cell. On the 30th of April his
exchange was effected for a Confederate colonel, and on the 6th of July,
1864, he rejoined his regiment, in which he served with conspicuous
gallantry to the close of the war.
As already stated, Hamilton reached the Union lines safely after many
vicissitudes, and did brave service in the closing scenes of the
rebellion. He is now a resident of Reedyville, Kentucky. Johnson, whose
enforced confinement in Rat Hell gave him a unique fame in Libby, also
made good his escape, and now lives at North Pleasantville, Kentucky.
Of the fifteen men who dug the successful tunnel, four are dead, viz.:
Fitzsimmons, Gallagher, Garbett, and McDonald. Captain W.S.B. Randall
lives at Hillsboro, Highland County, Ohio; Colonel Terrance Clark at
Paris, Edgar County, Illinois; Captain Eli Foster at Chicago; Colonel
N.S. McKean at Collinsville, Madison County, Illinois; and Captain J.C.
Fislar at Lewiston, I.T. The addresses of Captains Lucas, Simpson, and
Mitchell are unknown at this writing.
Colonel Rose has served faithfully almost since the end of the war with
the 16th United States Infantry, in which he holds a captain's
commission. No one meeting him now would hear from his reticent lips, or
read in his placid face, the thrilling story that links his name in so
remarkable a manner with the history of the famous Bastile of the
Confederacy.
A HARD ROAD TO TRAVEL OUT OF DIXIE
BY W.H. SHELTON
It was past noon of the first day of the bloody contest in the
Wilderness. The guns of the Fifth Corps, led by Battery D of the 1st New
York Artillery, were halted along the Orange turnpike, by which we had
made the fruitless campaign to Mine Run. The continuous roar of musketry
in front and to the left indicated that the infantry was desperately
engaged, while the great guns filling every wooded road leading up to
the battle-field were silent. Our drivers were lounging about the
horses, while the cannoneers lay on the green grass by the roadside or
walked by the pieces. Down the line came an order for the center
section, under my command, to advance and pass the right section, which
lay in front of us. General Warren, surrounded by his staff, sat on a
gray horse at the right of the road where the woods bordered an open
field dipping between two wooded ridges. The position we were leaving
was admirable, while the one to which we were ordered, on the opposite
side of the narrow field, was wholly impracticable. The captain had
received his orders in person from General Warren, and joined my command
as we passed.
We dashed down the road at a trot, the cannoneers running beside their
pieces. At the center of the field we crossed by a wooden bridge over a
deep, dry ditch, and came rapidly into position at the side of the
turnpike and facing the thicket. As the cannoneers were not all up, the
captain and I dismounted and lent a hand in swinging round the heavy
trails. The air was full of Minie balls, some whistling by like mad
hornets, and others, partly spent, humming like big nails. One of the
latter struck my knee with force enough to wound the bone without
penetrating the grained-leather boot-leg. In front of us the ground rose
into the timber where our infantry was engaged. It was madness to
continue firing here, for my shot must first plow through our own lines
before reaching the enemy. So after one discharge the captain ordered
the limbers to the rear, and the section started back at a gallop. My
horse was cut on the flanks, and his plunging, with my disabled knee,
delayed me in mounting, and prevented my seeing why the carriages kept
to the grass instead of getting upon the roadway. When I overtook the
guns they had come to a forced halt at the dry ditch, now full of
skulkers, an angle of which cut the way to the bridge. Brief as the
interval had been, not a man of my command was in sight. The lead horse
of the gun team at my side had been shot and was reeling in the harness.
Slipping to the ground, I untoggled one trace at the collar to release
him, and had placed my hand on the other when I heard the demand
"Surrender!" and turning found in my face two big pistols in the hands
of an Alabama colonel. "Give me that sword," said he. I pressed the
clasp and let it fall to the ground, where it remained. The colonel had
taken me by the right arm, and as we turned toward the road I took in
the whole situation at a glance. My chestnut horse and the captain's
bald-faced brown were dashing frantically against the long, swaying gun
teams. By the bridge stood a company of the 61st Alabama Infantry in
butternut suits and slouch-hats, shooting straggling and wounded Zouaves
from a Pennsylvania brigade as they appeared in groups of two or three
on the road in front. The colonel as he handed me over to his men
ordered his troops to take what prisoners they could and to cease
firing. The guns which we were forced to abandon were a bone of
contention until they were secured by the enemy on the third day, at
which time but one of the twenty-four team horses was living.
With a few other prisoners I was led by a short detour through the
woods. In ten minutes we had turned the flank of both armies and reached
the same turnpike in the rear of our enemy. A line of ambulances was
moving back on the road, all filled with wounded, and when we saw a
vacant seat beside a driver I was hoisted up to the place. The boy
driver was in a high state of excitement. He said that two shells had
come flying down this same road, and showed where the trace of the near
mule had been cut by a piece of shell, for which I was directly
responsible.
The field hospital of General Jubal Early's corps was near Locust Grove
Tavern, where the wounded Yankees were in charge of Surgeon Donnelly of
the Pennsylvania Reserves. No guard was established, as no one was
supposed to be in condition to run away. At the end of a week, however,
my leg had greatly improved, although I was still unable to use it. In
our party was another lieutenant, an aide on the staff of General James
C. Rice, whose horse had been shot under him while riding at full speed
with despatches. Lieutenant Hadley had returned to consciousness to find
himself a prisoner in hospital, somewhat bruised, and robbed of his
valuables, but not otherwise disabled. We two concluded to start for
Washington by way of Kelly's Ford. I traded my penknife for a haversack
of corn-bread with one of the Confederate nurses, and a wounded officer,
Colonel Miller of a New York regiment, gave us a pocket compass. I
provided myself with a stout pole, which I used with both hands in lieu
of my left foot. At 9 P.M. we set out, passing during the night the
narrow field and the dry ditch where I had left my guns. Only a pile of
dead horses marked the spot.
On a grassy bank we captured a firefly and shut him in between the glass
and the face of our pocket compass. With such a guide we shaped our
course for the Rapidan. After traveling nearly all night we lay down
exhausted upon a bluff within sound of the river, and slept until
sunrise. Hastening to our feet again, we hurried down to the ford. Just
before reaching the river we heard shouts behind us, and saw a man
beckoning and running after us. Believing the man an enemy, we dashed
into the shallow water, and after crossing safely hobbled away up the
other side as fast as a man with one leg and a pole could travel. I
afterward met this man, himself a prisoner, at Macon, Georgia. He was
the officer of our pickets, and would have conducted us into our lines
if we had permitted him to come up with us. As it was, we found a snug
hiding-place in a thicket of swamp growth, where we lay in concealment
all day. After struggling on a few miles in a chilling rain, my leg
became so painful that it was impossible to go farther. A house was near
by and we threw ourselves on the mercy of the family. Good Mrs. Brandon
had harbored the pickets of both armies again and again, and had
luxuriated in real coffee and tea and priceless salt at the hands of our
officers. She bore the Yankees only good-will, and after dressing my
wound we sat down to breakfast with herself and daughters.
After breakfast we were conducted to the second half-story, which was
one unfinished room. There was a bed in one corner, where we were to
sleep. Beyond the stairs was a pile of yellow ears of corn, and from the
rafters and sills hung a variety of dried herbs and medicinal roots.
Here our meals were served, and the girls brought us books and read
aloud to pass away the long days. I was confined to the bed, and my
companion never ventured below stairs except on one dark night, when at
my earnest entreaty he set out for Kelly's Ford, but soon returned
unable to make his way in the darkness. One day we heard the door open
at the foot of the stairs, a tread of heavy boots on the steps, and a
clank, clank that sounded very much like a saber. Out of the floor rose
a gray slouch-hat with the yellow cord and tassel of a cavalryman, and
in another moment there stood on the landing one of the most astonished
troopers that ever was seen. "Coot" Brandon was one of "Jeb" Stuart's
rangers, and came every day for corn for his horse. Heretofore the corn
had been brought down for him, and he was as ignorant of our presence
as we were of his existence. On this day no pretext could keep him from
coming up to help himself. His mother worked on his sympathies, and he
departed promising her that he would leave us undisturbed. But the very
next morning he turned up again, this time accompanied by another ranger
of sterner mold. A parole was exacted from my able-bodied companion, and
we were left for another twenty-four hours, when I was considered in
condition to be moved. Mrs. Brandon gave us each a new blue overcoat
from a plentiful store of Uncle Sam's clothing she had on hand, and I
opened my heart and gave her my last twenty-dollar greenback--and wished
I had it back again every day for the next ten months.
I was mounted on a horse, and with Lieutenant Hadley on foot we were
marched under guard all day until we arrived at a field hospital
established in the rear of Longstreet's corps, my companion being sent
on to some prison for officers. Thence I was forwarded with a train-load
of wounded to Lynchburg, on which General Hunter was then marching, and
we had good reason to hope for a speedy deliverance. On more than one
day we heard his guns to the north, where there was no force but a few
citizens with bird-guns to oppose the entrance of his command. The
slaves were employed on a line of breastworks which there was no
adequate force to hold. It was our opinion that one well-disciplined
regiment could have captured and held the town. It was several days
before a portion of General Breckinridge's command arrived for the
defense of Lynchburg.
I had clung to my clean bed in the hospital just as long as my rapidly
healing wound would permit, but was soon transferred to a prison where
at night the sleepers--Yankees, Confederate deserters, and negroes--were
so crowded upon the floor that some lay under the feet of the guards in
the doorways. The atmosphere was dreadful. I fell ill, and for three
days lay with my head in the fireplace, more dead than alive.
A few days thereafter about three hundred prisoners were crowded into
cattle-cars bound for Andersonville. We must have been a week on this
railroad journey when an Irish lieutenant of a Rochester regiment and I,
who had been allowed to ride in the baggage-car, were taken from the
train at Macon, Georgia, where about sixteen hundred Union officers were
confined at the fair-grounds. General Alexander Shaler, of Sedgwick's
corps, also captured at the Wilderness, was the ranking officer, and to
him was accorded a sort of interior command of the camp. Before passing
through the gate we expected to see a crowd bearing some outward
semblance of respectability. Instead, we were instantly surrounded by
several hundred ragged, barefooted, frowzy-headed men shouting "Fresh
fish!" at the top of their voices and eagerly asking for news. With rare
exceptions all were shabbily dressed. There was, however, a little knot
of naval officers who had been captured in the windings of the narrow
Rappahannock by a force of cavalry, and who were the aristocrats of the
camp. They were housed in a substantial fair-building in the center of
the grounds, and by some special terms of surrender must have brought
their complete wardrobes along. On hot days they appeared in spotless
white duck, which they were permitted to send outside to be laundered.
Their mess was abundantly supplied with the fruits and vegetables of the
season. The ripe red tomatoes they were daily seen to peel were the envy
of the camp. I well remember that to me, at this time, a favorite
occupation was to lie on my back with closed eyes and imagine the dinner
I would order if I were in a first-class hotel. It was no unusual thing
to see a dignified colonel washing his lower clothes in a pail, clad
only in his uniform dresscoat. Ladies sometimes appeared on the
guard-walk outside the top of the stockade, on which occasions the
cleanest and best-dressed men turned out to see and be seen. I was quite
proud to appear in a clean gray shirt, spotless white drawers, and
moccasins made of blue overcoat cloth.
On the Fourth of July, after the regular morning count, we repaired to
the big central building and held an informal celebration. One officer
had brought into captivity, concealed on his person, a little silk
national flag, which was carried up into the cross-beams of the
building, and the sight of it created the wildest enthusiasm. We cheered
the flag and applauded the patriotic speeches until a detachment of the
guard succeeded in putting a stop to our proceedings. They tried to
capture the flag, but in this they were not successful. We were informed
that cannon were planted commanding the camp, and would be opened on us
if we renewed our demonstrations.
Soon after this episode the fall of Atlanta and the subsequent movements
of General Sherman led to the breaking up of the camp at Macon, and to
the transfer of half of us to a camp at Charleston, and half to
Savannah. Late in September, by another transfer, we found ourselves
together again at Columbia. We had no form of shelter, and there was no
stockade around the camp, only a guard and a dead-line. During two hours
of each morning an extra line of guards was stationed around an
adjoining piece of pine woods, into which we were allowed to go and cut
wood and timber to construct for ourselves huts for the approaching
winter. Our ration at this time consisted of raw corn-meal and sorghum
molasses, without salt or any provision of utensils for cooking. The
camp took its name from our principal article of diet, and was by common
consent known as "Camp Sorghum." A stream of clear water was accessible
during the day by an extension of the guards, but at night the lines
were so contracted as to leave the path leading to the water outside the
guard. Lieutenant S.H.M. Byers, who had already written the well-known
lyric "Sherman's March to the Sea," was sharing my tent, which consisted
of a ragged blanket. We had been in the new camp but little more than a
week when we determined to make an attempt at escape. Preparatory to
starting we concealed two tin cups and two blankets in the pine woods to
which we had access during the chopping hours, and here was to be our
rendezvous in case we were separated in getting out. Covering my
shoulders with an old gray blanket and providing myself with a stick,
about the size of a gun, from the woodpile, I tried to smuggle myself
into the relief guard when the line was contracted at six o'clock.
Unfortunately an unexpected halt was called, and the soldier in front
turned and discovered me. I was now more than ever determined on getting
away. After a hurried conference with Lieutenant Byers, at which I
promised to wait at our rendezvous in the woods until I heard the
posting of the ten-o'clock relief, I proceeded alone up the side of the
camp to a point where a group of low cedars grew close to the dead-line.
Concealing myself in their dark shadow, I could observe at my leisure
the movements of the sentinels. A full moon was just rising above the
horizon to my left, and in the soft, misty light the guards were plainly
visible for a long distance either way. An open field from which the
small growth had been recently cut away lay beyond, and between the camp
and the guard-line ran a broad road of soft sand--noiseless to cross,
but so white in the moonlight that a leaf blown across it by the wind
could scarcely escape a vigilant eye. The guards were bundled in their
overcoats, and I soon observed that the two who met opposite to my place
of concealment turned and walked their short beats without looking back.
Waiting until they separated again, and regardless of the fact that I
might with equal likelihood be seen by a dozen sentinels in either
direction, I ran quickly across the soft sand road several yards into
the open field, and threw myself down upon the uneven ground. First I
dragged my body on my elbows for a few yards, then I crept on my knees,
and so gradually gained in distance until I could rise to a standing
position and get safely to the shelter of the trees. With some
difficulty I found the cups and blankets we had concealed, and lay down
to await the arrival of my companion. Soon I heard several shots which
I understood too well; and, as I afterward learned, two officers were
shot dead for attempting the feat I had accomplished, and perhaps in
emulation of my success. A third young officer, whom I knew, was also
killed in camp by one of the shots fired at the others.
At ten o'clock I set out alone and made my way across the fields to the
bank of the Saluda, where a covered bridge crossed to Columbia. Hiding
when it was light, wandering through fields and swamps by night, and
venturing at last to seek food of negroes, I proceeded for thirteen days
toward the sea.
In general I had followed the Columbia turnpike; at a quaint little
chapel on the shore of Goose Creek, but a few miles out of Charleston, I
turned to the north and bent my course for the coast above the city.
About this time I learned that I should find no boats along the shore
between Charleston and the mouth of the Santee, everything able to float
having been destroyed to prevent the escape of the negroes and the
desertion of the soldiers. I was ferried over the Broad River by a
crusty old darky who came paddling across in response to my cries of
"O-v-e-r," and who seemed so put out because I had no fare for him that
I gave him my case-knife. The next evening I had the only taste of meat
of this thirteen days' journey, which I got from an old negro whom I
found alone in his cabin eating possum and rice.
I had never seen the open sea-coast beaten by the surf, and after being
satisfied that I had no hope of escape in that direction it was in part
my curiosity that led me on, and partly a vague idea that I would get
Confederate transportation back to Columbia and take a fresh start
westward bound. The tide was out, and in a little cove I found an
abundance of oysters bedded in the mud, some of which I cracked with
stones and ate. After satisfying my hunger, and finding the sea rather
unexpectedly tame inside the line of islands which marked the eastern
horizon, I bent my steps toward a fire, where I found a detachment of
Confederate coastguards, to whom I offered myself as a guest as coolly
as if my whole toilsome journey had been prosecuted to that end.
In the morning I was marched a few miles to Mount Pleasant, near Fort
Moultrie, and taken thence in a sail-boat across the harbor to
Charleston. At night I found myself again in the city jail, where with a
large party of officers I had spent most of the month of August. My
cell-mate was Lieutenant H.G. Dorr of the 4th Massachusetts Cavalry,
with whom I journeyed by rail back to Columbia, arriving at "Camp
Sorghum" about the 1st of November.