GETTING AWAY FROM LIBBY
SOME OF THE RUSES TRIED BY DESPERATE PRISONERS.
DREAMING BY DAY AND NIGHT OF EXCHANGES WHICH NEVER CAME - THE OLD NEWSMAN -
RECEIVING LETTERS FROM HOME.
A few days after my arrival in
Libby a number of doctors and army Chaplains, who, being non-combatants, were
not long detained as prisoners of war, were sent down to the flag-of-truce boat
in charge of Commissioner Ould, to be forwarded to Fortress Monroe. One of these
was Chaplain McCabe, a genial and energetic gentleman, who for twenty-seven
years has been lecturing on “The Bright Side of Libby Prison.” In the course of
his short detention supplies were received from the North, and his stay was
brightened by the certainty that he would soon be sent home; but, as a matter of
fact, he left Libby with as little knowledge, from his own experience, of its
dark side as he had of the topography of the other side of the moon.
Every one who remained was
heartily glad to see some one getting away. The doctors, Chaplains, and other
special exchanges left their blankets behind, which was something. But in this
batch there was one Chaplain - not Mr. McCabe, who was and is a most generous
man - who not only carried his blankets North with him, when so many were
suffering every night for such covering, but who actually carried away a lot of
condemned food that had come through for him under flag of truce. He may have
had shipwreck or a return in his mind, but certain it is that he had neither
patriotism nor Christianity in his heart.
In striking contrast with the
conduct of this Chaplain on this occasion was that of a young Assistant Army
Surgeon, whose name, to my regret, has escaped my memory. Middle-aged persons
will recall that in the Fall of 1863 Major Harry White, now Judge White of
Pennsylvania, was elected to the Senate of that State. Either immediately before
or immediately after this election Major White was captured in the valley and
sent on to Libby. Without him the Pennsylvania Senate was a tie, and to break
this the Republicans made every effort to have him speedily exchanged, and the
Confederates, fully aware of the situation and exceedingly anxious to add to the
political complications in the North, held stubbornly on to him. For this reason
Major White became, like Sawyer and Flynn, one of our famous prisoners.
Whether the young doctor
proposed it himself, or whether he accepted the suggestion of others, I do not
know, but certain it is that he agreed to stay in White’s place, while White
went through as an Assistant Surgeon. The plan was feasible. The men were taken
from the prison early in the morning and twenty-four hours must elapse before
another roll call, when, if the Major’s flight was discovered, he would be
safely under the protection of our flag. To insure safety the Major’s hair and
beard were cut, I gave him my old slouch hat, and after his disguise was
completed every one declared that his own mother would not know him if she met
him on the street - which was highly probable - and that he looked much more
like a doctor than he did like a lawyer or a soldier.
A majority of the prisoners
were Republicans, but the Democrats were just as eager to help White off and
were equally rejoiced at the prospect of his escape. He answered to the young
Surgeon’s name when taken to Turner’s office, passed the ordeal without
suspicion, and when we saw him marching down Casey Street in the direction of
the steamboat landing we felt sure that the dead-lock in the Pennsylvania Senate
would be broken within a week. But alas! for the vanity of human wishes and the
futility of human plans, Major White’s identity was discovered just as he was
about to step on the flag-of-truce boat, and he was marched back to prison. The
young doctor paid for his pluck and self-denial by a long stay in Libby, but
subsequently he and Major White were specially exchanged.
While this elaborate plan for
escape failed so disastrously, one of the simplest efforts of the kind made in
the course of the war was a grand success. This was the case of Lieut. Kupp, or
Cupp, of the Eighty-eighth Pennsylvania, and a resident of Bucks County, in that
State. In the boxes received from the North the Confederates permitted citizen’s
clothing, but any other garment of a blue shade was at once confiscated. In this
way Kupp, who was a tall, lank young fellow, got a suit of clothes that
transformed him from a ragged Yankee into a slab-sided, butternut clad North
Carolinian.
Kupp “hung out” in the Upper
Potomac Room, among the roysterers who persisted in making hideous nights
already sufficiently wretched, and after he had got the clothes he assured his
friends that he had made up his mind to “light out and go to God’s land.” But
they laughed at him. Those Upper Potomac men never took anybody seriously,
particularly one of their own crowd. One morning, after roll call, and when the
guards had formed and were going down the stairs leading to Turner’s quarters,
Kupp, to the dumb amazement of every one who saw the act, fell in behind them
and caught step.
The guard passed through
Turner’s office without halting, but Kupp came to a stop, and, looking about
him, found that he was the sole occupant of the prison office. He was about to
walk out, when Major Turner appeared and in his peremptory way demanded:
“Who the devil are you, Sir?”
“I’m Tom Jackson,” was the
sheepish reply.
“A soldier?”
“Yes, Sir, a kinder one.”
“Where are you from?”
“Noth Caliney. Teenth
Regiment.”
“And what in blazes are you
doing here?” asked the now indignant Turner.
“Ain’t this har house Libby
Prison?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Waal, so they told me up the
street, an’ I reckoned as I was handy I’d kinder peek in an’ take a look at the
Yanks - if you don’t object,” said the unabashed Kupp.
“Have you never seen Yankees?”
“Only ‘long way off in the
deesance, an’ them ‘uns had guns.”
“D- you, Sir!” shouted Turner.
“Go to the front and you can see lots of Yankees; lots of ‘em, Sir. Now, get out
of here or I’ll have you sent to the guardhouse.”
And so Lieut. Kupp was kicked
out of Libby by the very man who was responsible for his safe keeping.
Most men on finding themselves
in Kupp’s position would have made “a bee line for cover” the instant they were
outside the prison and the surrounding guards, but not so this imperturbable
young gentleman. He deliberately crossed to a vacant lot facing the prison, and
picking up a piece of wood he began to whittle, stopping every few minutes to
survey his late companions in the Upper Potomac Room. Satisfied with this
exterior inspection, he kissed his hand gallantly to the men behind the bars and
started for home. Of course Kupp got through to our lines in safety; he was just
that kind of a fellow.
About this time Sanderson and
Skelton, who were in the hospital, made their escape by bribing a guard. What
makes this escape the more remarkable is that Sanderson was a sick man and
Skelton was severely wounded, besides which the latter had only one eye, the
other having been shot out in the attack on Fort Donelson.
The Confederate authorities
seemed to be more particular about the spiritual than the physical welfare of
the prisoners. Every Sunday Bishop Lynch or some other Roman Catholic clergyman
came to Libby and held religious services, and an Episcopal minister appeared
about the same time to comfort the weary souls that were of his way of thinking.
In addition to these services, some of the prisoners had been clergymen, and so
prayers and prayer meetings were not uncommon, and even those who were not
church members listened with respectful attention to the services.
One of the prisoners, who had
formerly been a preacher, was Lieut. Col. McMackin of the Twenty-first Illinois.
This was Gen. Grant’s old regiment, the one which he commanded at the beginning
of the war. McMackin was Major of the regiment when Grant was Colonel, but while
Grant rose to the head of the army, his Major, though a brave, patriotic man,
never got beyond the active rank of Lieutenant Colonel. He was a man at that
time over fifty. He was captured at Chickamauga and remained a prisoner till the
close of the war. I recall Lieut. Col. McMackin with feelings of great respect.
He was a personal friend of Abraham Lincoln. They had stumped and slept
together, and McMackin had the humorous faculty and the ability to tell a story
better developed than any man I ever met.
Capt. Bohannan of the Third
Middle Tennessee Volunteer Cavalry was another most interesting character. Just
here it may not be amiss to explain to non-military readers the peculiar way in
which the Tennessee regiments in the Union army were numbered. A majority of the
East Tennessee mountaineers were stanchly loyal to the old flag, and thousands
of them “refugeed” into Kentucky in the early days of the war, and were there
organized into regiments that took the distinctive names of First East Tennessee
Cavalry, Second East Tennessee Artillery or Infantry, and so on. When Andrew
Johnson became provisional Governor of Tennessee in 1862, the loyal men - and
there were many of them in Middle and West Tennessee - were organized without
any regard to the East Tennessee regimental numbers, so that we had in our
service the First East Tennessee Cavalry, the First Middle Tennessee Cavalry,
and the First West Tennessee Cavalry, and so this peculiar numbering was kept up
with other regiments, causing no little confusion at times.
Capt. Bohannan was a native of
Middle Tennessee. At this time - January, 1864 - he was about forty-five years
of age, and a fine soldierly-looking man. He had been in the Mexican war, and
after the annexation of California he went West and accumulated a fortune. He
was unmarried, and all his relatives were in the South, and when the war broke
out, all of them, with the exception of a nephew, sided strongly with the
Confederacy. Bohannan was too positive a man to remain long in doubt. At
Lincoln’s first call, he disposed of most of his property and started East. He
helped to raise his own regiment, and it was with difficulty that he could be
prevailed on by Gov. Johnson to take a commission. Heart, soul, and fortune this
gallant man gave to the war, and he was ready to give his life. When he told me
his story as we lay side by side one night, I did not dream that he would be
called on to make the sacrifice before the week passed.
The wet floors gave him a bad
cough and one morning when the guards came in to “roust” the men out for roll
call, Capt. Bohannan staggered to his feet and fell back again. No uncommon
occurrence this. Dr. Sabal, a Confederate Surgeon, and as noble a man as ever
wore blue or gray, came in after roll call and said” “He has pneumonia; both
lungs are affected. He must go to the hospital.”
“Both lungs, doctor?” gasped
the Captain.
“Yes, my poor fellow, but
don’t lose heart,” said Sabal.
“Thanks, doctor, but I know
what that means. I am called.”
Poor Bohannan shook hands with
his friends and messmates and was taken to the hospital, under the Lower Potomac
Room. A few days afterward, a cart backed up to the hospital door, and we could
see a form wrapped in a blanket placed therein. The cart drove off and
Bohannan’s name was dropped from the list of the living.
Since my Libby experience I
have never attempted to trace out the origin of a rumor, no matter how reliable
or wild it might seem. There was a very general belief that the rumors that
daily excited the prisoners originated with the wilder spirits in the Upper
Potomac Room, but I will not vouch for this. There were rumors of battles, in
which, of course, our side was brilliantly victorious. There were frequent
rumors that Lee’s army was in revolt, but these found no believers. “Exchange!
An immediate exchange!” When this was shouted through the prison every one was
credulous, for it was the one thing which every heart craved. Our dreams by
night and our thoughts by day were about exchange; no wonder, then, that we were
all so ready to believe that our yearnings were to be gratified and our prayers
answered. But unlike the false cry of “Wolf! Wolf!” there never came a time,
except to a favored few, when the alarm proved true.
Some men - they were
principally the married officers who had wives and little ones at home - would
talk about nothing but exchange. They were sad to have “exchange on the brain,”
and I recall, with a feeling of pity, how intense the desire became with these
men when the supplies from the North were cut off and the forms grew thinner ad
the eyes more hollow in the bitter cold months of early ‘64. I think now that
these constant rumors and the ceaseless talk about exchange did the men good.
Could they have known that there was to be no more exchange and that the
majority must face rags, filth, and famine for another year and a half, I am
quite sure that many more of the brave fellows would have gone down to prison
graves.
The desire for news was
intense. Now and then we succeeded in getting copies of the Richmond papers,
generally the Inquirer and Whig, both strongly Confederate and
very hopeful of their cause, but we could read between the lines and tell pretty
well the true state of affairs. The editorial articles were pleas for furloughed
volunteers to return or exhortations to those who owed “tax in kind” to settle
up with the Government. But while thus exposing the weakness of their own side,
these papers basely tried to comfort their readers with pen pictures of the
“desolation, destitution, and discontent” prevailing throughout the North. The
editor of the Whig said in one number that he had had an interview with a
lady who had just come through under flag of truce. He said in effect: “This
lady is intelligent and trustworthy. She assures us that if Lincoln does not
disband his army and acknowledge the Confederacy before Spring the people will
swarm to Washington and drive him from the White House, if they do not hang him.
As an illustration of the stagnation existing in New York City, this lady showed
us a bunch of grass which she had plucked in one of the principal streets.”
Now and then these papers
would have something to say about Castle Thunder, Libby, the Pemberton Building,
or Belle Isle; in the last two our enlisted men were confined. The Pemberton
Building was on the south side of Casey Street, about fifty yards to the east of
Libby, so that we could see the poor fellows without being able to communicate
with them.
Every morning just about daylight an old colored man who
sold papers would come down past the prison, and reserving his strength for this
special occasion, he would shout out the news to the best of his knowledge and
belief, and although he seldom proved to be a trustworthy contraband, every
prisoner eagerly listened for his coming, even though much of his matter
appeared to be stereotyped and much battered by long usage. I can hear him still
- I think we decided to call him “Jake” - I can hear old Jake’s voice now,
though it must be long since hushed in the grave, calling out, as it did when it
roused us into wakefulness in those dark, cold mornings:
“Gerrait new! All de news from de front! Gerrait news from
de Potomac! Gerrait battle yesserday! No side won! Gerrait raiden bime Yanks in
de mountains! Hunreds kilt!” and so on, till his voice died out in the direction
of sunrise.
Ordinary notepaper was selling in Richmond at this time for
25 cents a sheet - when sold to the prisoners it came as high as 30 cents,
envelopes to match. The authorities allowed us to write whenever a flag-of-truce
boat was ready to go down the river, but the amount was limited to one page of
notepaper, and every letter had to remain open for inspection - the latter a
proper provision in the circumstances. But the writing of letter was nothing to
the receiving of them.
Naggs, Adjt. Naggs of Detroit, Mich., was the man who
acted, if not by selection, by universal consent, as our Postmaster. He gathered
up the letters that were to be sent off and turned them over to the
Confederates. And to him was given the mail that had come in under flag of truce
for the homesick prisoners. To see Naggs standing on the head of a barrel, with
a swarm of ragged, dirty, and eager-faced men round him, while he called out the
names of the fortunate, was something not to be forgotten soon. The man who got
a letter from home would start off, try to find a quiet spot, and devour the
letter very fast, and then take it in very slowly to get all the good of it.
After which he would read it over for days, nor cease hen he knew it by heart
and it came to pieces at the folds.
The men would watch Naggs till the last letter in the bag
was drawn out, and then the ones who had not been favored, who had not received
the expected letter from wife, mother, sweetheart, or friend, would turn sadly
away, and for a long time after they would feel colder, hungrier, and more
forsaken than before the mail came. As the Confederates read all our letters
before they sent them off, so they read every letter that came from the North
before they delivered it. Northern papers, everything indeed but actual letters
from friends, were confiscated.
It must not be imagined that the prisoners sat down and
moped. There were 1,300 men in Libby at this time. Officers, all intelligent,
some even scholarly, and every man of them plucky and patriotic. The simplest of
them knew that to give way to the blues meant death, and that to keep the mind
and body as active as possible was not only a duty but a necessity.
The men who carved bones into distorted crucifixes and
doubtful napkin rings were not as one in ten, so that other means must be
adopted to employ the minds of the majority who had not “bone on the brain.” We
had debating societies in every room, and I have heard some as excellent
speeches there as I ever listened to outside of Libby, and some more broadly
humorous than any I ever heard anywhere; indeed, they would have been impossible
outside of that place and that audience.
We had chess and checkers; some men would lie down on their
faces for hours at a time playing the latter game with white and black bone
buttons and on a board marked off on the floor with a knife, but the
aristocratic game of chess was played with some dignity and it aroused more
interest. Match games between the different rooms, which meant between men from
the different armies, were of constant occurrence. The men from the Lower
Potomac Room, or, rather, their best player, would formally challenge the best
players of the Upper Chickamauga, who would as formally accept. The players
always remained in their own rooms, and lines of couriers were established to
shout the moves from one to the other. Back and forth along this animated
telegraph line the orders would go for hours at a time, and, when at length one
or the other was checkmated, such a cheer would go up from the victors and their
partisans as would make the rafters of the old building ring again, while the
guards would halt and ask each other: “What in thunder is up with the yankees
now?”
