AGAIN IN LIBBY PRISON
THE BOLD BREAK FOR FREEDOM ENDS IN RECAPTURE.
HOW THE CONFEDERATE AUTHORITIES WERE PUZZLED BY THE ESCAPE - COUNTING THE MEN
LEFT - DAYS IN A CELL AND THE HOSPITAL.
Copyright, 1891, by the New-York Times.
When Capt. Martin hear the
pickets announce themselves as belonging to the Twenty-first Virginia, he knew
that the end had come to our flight. He was too lame and too much exhausted to
think of getting away after he saw I was held at the muzzle of a rifle, so he
came from behind the shield afforded by the uprooted tree and limped over to the
fire.
“It’s d-d hard luck,
gentlemen,” said a young officer, who suddenly appeared from the darkness and
the two bars on whose collar told me he was a First Lieutenant. “You made a fine
fight for it, and it’s rough that you didn’t get through.”
“Have many of the escaped
prisoners been recaptured?” I asked, as I sat down on a log beside the fire.
“A hundred and ten got out,
and so far I believe forty have been retaken. Your people are giving you all the
help they can. Yesterday we had to get back in a hurry from their cavalry, and
the chances are you may have a peep at them in the morning. But you both look
hungry and played out.”
“And that’s just how we feel,”
groaned Martin.
The Lieutenant ordered the men
to get us something to eat, and they obeyed with a cheerfulness that showed they
had kind hearts and the promptness of veterans.
Seeing how eager they were to
recapture us, it was surprising, and might have been amusing, if anything could
have amused us at that time, to hear their expressions of sympathy and regret.
One of them washed and bandaged up Martin’s bleeding foot and told him that he
would try to find him a pair of shoes in the morning. “The chances are,” he
said, when he had finished, as far as he could, the role of good Samaritan,
“that we’ll have a tussle with your folks to-morrer, and, if so, some one won’t
want shoes after it. I’ll watch out for you.”
I had heard of “waiting for
dead men’s shoes,” but I doubt if ever the question was discussed before this in
such a calmly-benevolent way.
The soldiers broiled some meat
on the ends of sticks and emptied their haversacks to supply us with bread. We
were so hungry and exhausted that we could not fully realize the failure that
had followed our attempt to reach our own lines. We had certainly done our best,
and this comforted me if it did not reconcile me to the situation. After we had
eaten, the pickets spread their blankets for us, and we lay down and were soon
fast asleep.
We were aroused by Lieut.
Brown, the officer in command. When we got up we found the sun was about an hour
high, and, looking off to the east, we could see the light reflected from the
arms of moving horsemen.
“Those are your people,” said
the Lieutenant, “and we’ll have to get out of this neck of woods.”
“Where are going to take us?”
asked Martin.
“Back to Richmond,” he
replied.
“Well, Lieutenant, I don’t
want to bother a man that means to treat me like a soldier; but look at our
feet, and ask yourself if we are in a condition to march to Richmond,” I said.
“If you can hobble back for a
mile, I can send you in a supply wagon that returns to-day. But you must hurry
gentlemen,” said the Lieutenant, nervously.
“If you are in a hurry,” I
said, “you can leave us to follow at our leisure,” but Mr. Brown did not think
it wise to trust us.
One of the men gave poor
Martin his arm, and, after a quick march of a mile, we came to an old colonial
farmhouse on the Williamsburg road, and here we found a four-mule wagon into
which we were helped by the two guards detailed to take us back. These men, like
all old soldiers on both sides, were god men and as kind as they well could be
in the circumstances. They fixed us up a bed in the bottom of the wagon with
their own blankets, and Martin and myself, completely played out, but far from
feeling “licked” or disheartened, sank to sleep.
When we woke up it was night
and the wagon was halted in front of a building whose patched windows showed
that the glass had been badly damaged and never replaced. This was the old Cold
Harbor tavern, which was the centre of much fierce fighting in the seven days’
battle in the Summer of 1862, and was destined to be the scene of a more
desperate struggle within a few months. The place was filled with soldiers, a
here were two of the escaped prisoners, Lieut. Von Klodt and Capt. Dawn, the
latter one of my mess. Martin and myself were taken into the building, where we
met our ragged comrades in misfortune. We were all placed in one room on the
upper floor, where a fire was lit, and we were served with a ration of hard
bread and bacon.
The experience of Von Klodt
and Dawn was much like that of Martin and myself, except that they were caught
while fast asleep in a barn not far from Savage Station. While we were condoling
each other and vowing that we would try it again the first chance that offered,
a Sergeant came into the room for a chat. He was a bronzed, middle-aged man,
with the frank, open manner that comes to those who have grown familiar with
danger. He told us to get all the sleep we could, as he had charge of the party
and had orders to start us into Richmond at 4 in the morning, which would be two
hours before daylight. He was sympathetic and communicative, and, turning back
from the door, just as he was to go out, he began to laugh, and he explained the
reason for his hilarity in the following words, as nearly as I can recall them:
“I was in Richmond day before
yesterday and saw that tunnel. It’s a big thing, I can tell you, and you gents
deserved to win. But in love and war we’ve got to take the bitter with the
sweet. Why, it wasn’t till away in the afternoon of the day after you got away,
that Turner discovered the tunnel and sent a little nigger through. When it
became known in Richmond that so many Yanks had got out of Libby, every one,
from President David down, reckoned at once that the guards had been bribed to
let the prisoners out, and the fact that some of the boards had been knocked off
one of the sinks and a rope let down strengthened this notion. Well, all the
officers and the whole two companies of guards were put under arrest, and the
more they swore they were innocent the more folks didn’t believe them, till the
tunnel was discovered, and then, as is usual, all the wise men wondered why they
hadn’t thought of that before,” and the Sergeant laughed very heartily and
continued:
“Of course, you gents will
hear all about it when you get back, but it’ll interest you to know how they
discovered the exact number missing, and how your fellows tried to mix Turner
up, which they did succeed in doing pretty bad for awhile. You know that roll
call is made by counting the prisoners from the upper east into the middle room,
and that Little Ross stands at the entrance and keeps tally of the men as the
pass through?”
We assured the Sergeant that
we knew all about the process of roll call.
“Well,” he went on, “it seems
Ross kept a sort of euchre tally, making four strokes and then crossing it for
every five that came through,, so when the works was over and he added the list
up, lo and behold there were a hundred and ten prisoners short. He reported this
to Turner, but the Major couldn’t and wouldn’t believe it. ‘You’ve made a
mistake in the tally,’ he said. ‘The missing number is divisible by five, and
that proves it.’
“But, to make sure, Turner
ordered another roll call, and this is where the Yanks got in their fun and came
near sending the Major to the insane asylum as a howling, gray-headed lunatic.
The prisoners learned there were over a hundred men missing, and so they
determined to make up the loss in the second roll call, and this is how they
worked it. You know any two of the Yanks of the same age in Libby look as if
they were twins; so hen the second count began, a lot of the younger men hurried
into the west room and out of sight of the guards. Then they climbed up the
posts and got out on the roof, through a skylight. They sneaked along the roof
and dropped into the east room through another skylight, and were counted over
again. Well, sir, they kept this blamed game up till Ross wore out his pencil in
keeping tally. Then he took himself to one side to add her up, and he nigh
fainted at the result, for this time, by the jumping Jupiter! instead of having
110 Yankees short he had 137 Yankees too many. Oh, it was rich!” and the
Sergeant laughed till the tears came, and, despite our misery, we had to laugh
with him.
“Well, when Turner heard the
result of the second count, he just stood up on his hind legs and howled and
foamed at the mouth. He swore that it was possible for a lot of Yankees to get
out without being aware of the fact at the time, but he’d be everlastingly
dog-goned if 137 could steal a march on him and get in, for he’d made it his
business ever since he’d had charge of the prison to count and search every man
who went in
“Well, to make a long story
short, as they used to say when I was a boy, Major Turner doubled the guards,
ordered another count, and, as by this time his confidence in poor Little Ross
was powerfully shaken, he decided, so as to make sure, to keep the tally
himself. Then, when the last Yank was counted out, the Major withdrew to the
seclusion of his own private office to figure up the grand total. The result
paralyzed him. This time the footing showed that there were 213 Yanks more on
hand than the ration requisition or the prison books called for. After damning
the Yanks and everybody else, including himself, light began to glimmer through
the Major’s befogged head, so he ordered another count, but this time he forced
every man jack of the prisoners into the cook-room, where there was no show for
repeating, and then he counted them up the steps one at a time. The result
proved the accuracy of Ross’s first figures. Oh, everybody in Richmond is
laughing about it, and I can assure you, gentlemen, it’s the first laugh the
Yanks have given us since this cruel war began. Good night, and remember you
start before day in the morning.”
The Sergeant went out, still
laughing. After learning that there was a guard outside the door and guards
about the building, we lay down before the grateful fire and went to sleep. The
man outside awoke us by hammering on the door with the stock of his gun.
Following this, another man brought us in some bread and meat, which we had not
finished when the Sergeant appeared to take us back to Libby.
Von Klodt and Dawn were placed
with Martin and myself in the wagon in which we had come to Cold Harbor, and
with four guards and the driver we started off. The roads were very bad, and the
mules were very slow and lean, so that it was nearly noon before we halted
before the gloomy walls of Libby. On the way in we passed over the scene of
Porter’s battle at Gaines’s Mill and crossed the Chickahominy by what was known
as the “Lower Trestle Bridge,” then on to Old Tavern and into the city by the
Nine-mile Road. Stiff, sore, and with hearts far from light, we clambered out of
the wagon and were led into Turner’s office, the memory of my first visit to
which was still very vivid. It would seem that Turner was not in the prison at
the time, for Adjt. Latouche, fat and florid, appeared to take our records and
to question us, and, strangely enough, we were searched, but why I cannot
imagine.
“Gentlemen,” said Adjt.
Latouche, after these preliminaries were concluded, “my orders are to send you
to the cells.” Ten, as if to exculpate himself, he hastened to add: “I am simply
obeying orders. As soldiers you can appreciate my position.”
“Certainly,” replied Dawn;
“but why should we be sent to the cells?”
“I suppose it’s for trying to
escape,” said Latouche.
“But that was our right. A
prisoner of war is not a culprit, and if he can escape, he is right in doing so,
and it is contrary to the rules of war and to the dictates of humanity to punish
him for it. It is your privilege to take every precaution to keep him from
getting away, but it is simply infamous to send him to a cell if he fails.”
Latouche was evidently ashamed
of his part in this cruel business, for he again protested that he would rather
not do it, and that he was simply carrying out orders; and, as he had never been
disagreeable to the prisoners, we believed him.
The cells were in the cellar
under the cook-room and in the Carey Street front. We were led down by a guard
and conducted into a walled-in room, so very dark that it was some minutes
before our eyes grew so accustomed to the less than twilight gloom as to enable
us to look about the place and to note that there were already six persons in
the cell, all men who, like ourselves, had failed to get through. The cell door
was bolted and locked, and then, for the first time in my life, a feeling of
helplessness, despair, and degradation came over me.
The cell was about ten feet
square, light, such as we had, coming through a little grated window from the
street. The floor was wet and slippery, and, I need not add, very cold. The
walls were damp and exuded a green slime. There was a wooden bench, also damp
and rotting, against the wall, and a bucket in one corner gave a clue to the
sickening stench that pervaded the atmosphere. There was an aperture at the top
of the door intended to act as a ventilator, but it did not take us long to
discover that it did not answer its purposes.
Among the men we found in the
cell was Lieut. Manning of the Second Massachusetts Cavalry, a fine, soldierly
fellow who had come o from California at the first of the war to enter the army.
As the bench was not large enough to permit of more than five sitting down at
one time, the last arrivals were given whatever advantages it afforded. Looking
back at the cell now, the wonder to me is that we did not become silent, gloomy,
or desperate in that wretched place. I know that the philosophical cheerfulness
of the others raised my spirits till I found myself taking part in the talk and
exchanging experiences with the other unfortunates.
There was at least one more
cell to the west of us, for we could hear the low murmur of voices. Some of the
men who had been recaptured the first or second day after the escape had already
been sent up stairs to make room for the new arrivals. Manning and his friends
had been down here for forty hours, in which time they had been given a little
corn bread and water; there was not even a vessel for water left in the cell. To
keep warm, it was necessary to be on the move, so we circled around and around
that loathsome cell till we got giddy going in one direction and then circled
back again, with the dim notion that it would enable us to collect our senses.
Late in the afternoon I heard
three regular raps, evidently a signal, on the cookroom floor directly overhead.
On the instant one of the men leaped on the bench and answered with three like
raps. I glanced up and to my great surprise I saw a piece of the board about
four inches square lifted out and the greater light coming down through this
made the opening look like a star. Then a face appeared at the opening and a
voice called down:
“How are the boys that came in
to-day?”
“Living, but not lively,” was
the response.
“There’s no use in praying
down there, boys,” said the man at the opening, “but just damn the Johnnies and
have patience. Were a-thinking of you up here, and we’ve saved a little more
grub to help you out. If we can make the opening wider we’ll try to get you down
some blankets. We can do without ‘em better than you can. But keep a stiff upper
lip and ease yourselves with cuss words.”
The face was withdrawn, and
then a hand, holding a chunk of corn bread, appeared through the hole; then more
corn bread; then a tin cup was passed down. This cup was held up to the hole
again and again, and Confederate coffee, grateful because it was warm, was
poured into it from above till we had all drank. Then the voice shouted down
more words of encouragement, and the piece was reset in the floor overhead. On
myself the moral effect of this incident was more beneficial than even the bread
and coffee. Hatred for the men who had placed us here gave place to a feeling of
affection and admiration for the comrades who had not forgotten us, but who,
though starving themselves, spared from their scanty food that we, who were in a
worse plight, might be saved some of the intended suffering.
Our friends could not get us
down a blanket that night, for then and as long as we continued in Libby a guard
was stationed in the cookroom after dusk. The only way the ten men in the cell
could sleep was by taking the old overcoats of half the party and using them for
a bed in the corner furthest removed from the stench while the others paced back
and forth through the inky darkness to keep from being chilled to death. We
regulated the time for the men to sleep by the cries of the guards on Carey
Street, who assured us every half hour that “all was well.”
I was four days and nights in
this cell, but of the last forty-eight hours I have only the dimmest
recollection. I know, however, that there came a time when I ceased to be cold
and I talked a great deal, and the others wrapped me in their coats and laid me
on the bench. Then I recall that two men were bending over me, one holding a
lantern; the other was Dr. Sabat. I remember that Dawn was examined at the same
time, and the doctor, who, apart from his uniform, was one of the most humane
men I ever met, said something about “the hospital.”
I was able to walk; indeed,
all the fatigue and languor had left me, and the fevered delirium gave me a
fictitious strength. We were taken out of the cell - the others were sent up
stairs at the same time - and Dawn and myself were led into the hospital. I
recall that when we came up to the daylight the change from the cell was so
sudden and so great that I had to look through half-closed eyelids to keep from
being blinded. I was placed on a cot, stripped, and wrapped in a blanket. The
wild dreams of the next ten days I can distinctly recall, but I have no memory
of an actual incident.
“Typhoid pneumonia” was what
Dr. Sabat called my trouble, and to him I am indebted for my recovery. The Libby
hospital, compared with the hospitals for our own sick and wounded in the North,
or even on the field, was far from being a model, but, in contrast with the
cold, bare rooms overhead, it was quite luxurious and palatial. The walls were
whitewashed. There were cots to sleep on. There was a stove in the middle of the
room that heated the place, and lights were kept burning all night. The upstairs
ration was supplemented by beef, lean to be sure and not so abundant as to
satisfy the wounded men whose appetites had not been impaired, yet a decided
addition to the regular prison fare.
Pneumonia and rheumatism began
to tell on the prisoners up stairs, so the strongest men in the hospital, and
this does not mean well men, were sent up to make room for them. Wounded
officers were brought in from Averill’s raid, and these encouraged us with the
assurance that before long a large cavalry force would be dispatched from the
Army of the Potomac to take Richmond and release the prisoners in Libby and on
Belle Isle. This was actually attempted, and if properly managed it might have
been made one of the most brilliant achievements of the war.
On the 2d of March, although
far from well, I was again returned to my old quarters in the Upper Chickamauga
room.
