Transcriber's Note:
Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.

CAPTURE AND ESCAPE

JOHN AZOR KELLOGG

Wisconsin History Commission: Original Papers, No. 2

CAPTURE AND ESCAPE

A NARRATIVE OF ARMY AND
PRISON LIFE

BY JOHN AZOR KELLOGG

Colonel of Sixth Wisconsin Volunteer Infantry and Brevet
Brigadier-General

WISCONSIN HISTORY COMMISSION
NOVEMBER, 1908

TWENTY-FIVE HUNDRED COPIES PRINTED

DEMOCRAT PRINTING CO., STATE PRINTER

Contents

Illustration

Wisconsin History Commission

(Organized under the provisions of Chapter 298, Laws of 1905, as amended by Chapter 378, Laws of 1907)

JAMES O. DAVIDSON

Governor of Wisconsin

FREDERICK J. TURNER

Professor of American History in the University of Wisconsin

REUBEN G. THWAITES

Secretary of the State Historical Society of Wisconsin

HENRY E. LEGLER

Secretary of the Wisconsin Library Commission

CHARLES E. ESTABROOK

Representing Department of Wisconsin, Grand Army of the Republic

Chairman, Commissioner Estabrook

Secretary and Editor, Commissioner Thwaites

Committee on Publications, Commissioners Legler, Thwaites, and Turner

PREFACE

John Azor Kellogg, author of the Commission's Original Narrative No. 2, was born on the 16th of March, 1828, at Bethany, in Wayne County, Pennsylvania, the son of Nathan and Sarah (Quidor) Kellogg. Nathan's father was an American soldier in the Revolutionary War; he himself a tavern-keeper, stage proprietor, and general contractor. The Kelloggs moved to Wisconsin Territory about 1840, settling at Prairie du Chien.

John's early youth was spent in farm work, his education being confined to three winters at a private school. When eighteen years of age, he began reading law; at first taking a correspondence course with George W. Woodward, later chief justice of Pennsylvania, but completing his studies with S. S. Wilkinson of Prairie du Sac. Mr. Kellogg was one of the founders of the Republican Party, being a member of the Madison convention of September 5, 1855.

Admitted to the bar in 1857, in his twenty-ninth year, he opened an office at Mauston. In November, 1860, he was elected district attorney of Juneau County, but resigned in April, 1861, to enlist in the Union Army. His earliest military experience was as First Lieutenant of the Lemonweir Minute Men, an organization that became Company K of the Sixth Wisconsin Volunteer Infantry—his commission being dated May 3. The several companies composing this regiment were mustered into Federal service at Camp Randall, in Madison, on the 16th of July, and twelve days later left for the front. On December 18 following, Lieutenant Kellogg was promoted to be Captain of Company I. He served actively with his company until January, 1863; but was then appointed adjutant-general of the famous Iron Brigade (of which the Sixth Wisconsin was a member), holding that position until the following January, when he returned to duty with his regiment.

Captain Kellogg participated in the battles of Gainesville, Second Bull Run, South Mountain, Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Rappahannock Station, Mine Run, and Gettysburg. It was during the great Fight in the Wilderness, while the Iron Brigade was of the Army of the Potomac, that our author was captured (May 5, 1864) by Confederates, while he was doing skirmish duty on special detail. Imprisoned successively at Lynchburg and Danville (Virginia), Macon (Georgia), and Charleston (South Carolina), he escaped on October 5 by jumping from a rapidly-moving railroad train while he and his fellow prisoners were being transported to Columbia.

The story of his depressing experiences in Confederate prisons, and of his curious adventures while a fugitive after the escape, is told in the present volume. A man of acute intellect, resourceful, and courageous in an unusual degree, Captain Kellogg's narrative is a document of great human interest. His literary style is as vivid as his experiences were thrilling, and the modest tale is certain to hold the attention of the most jaded reader of war-time reminiscences. The Commission considers itself fortunate in being able to include in this series so admirable a paper.

While Captain Kellogg was absent in captivity, or before his safe return to the Union lines at Calhoun, Georgia (October 26), he was twice promoted—September 1, to be Major of his regiment; October 19, to be its Lieutenant-Colonel. Soon after assuming the last-named office (November), he was made Colonel of the regiment. Being assigned to the command of the Iron Brigade in February, 1865, he led that redoubtable organization in the battles of Hatcher's Run, Boydon Plank Road, Gravel Run, Five Forks, High Bridge, and Appomattox. On the 9th of April he was deservedly brevetted brigadier-general, "for highly meritorious service during the campaign terminating with the surrender of the insurgent army under General Robert E. Lee," and on July 14 following was mustered out.

Being appointed United States Pension Agent at La Crosse, General Kellogg removed to that city in the spring of 1866, remaining there until July, 1875, having resigned his position in April of that year. He now settled in Wausau, successfully resuming the practice of his profession, and in 1879-80 represented his district in the State Senate. His death occurred at Wausau, February 10, 1883, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. Married on October 5, 1852, to Miss Adelaide Worthington of Prairie du Sac, he left three children of the five born unto them.

General Kellogg published a narrative of the adventures herein related, in a series of articles in the La Crosse Leader, between September 25, 1869, and January 15, 1870. In its present amplified and improved form, the story appears, from internal evidence, to have been written in 1882, a year before his death. We are indebted for our manuscript copy to his widow, now living in Faribault, Minnesota. The portrait of the author, given as our frontispiece, is from a photograph taken in Madison while he was Colonel of his regiment—probably quite soon after his return from captivity.

The purpose of the Commission is merely to select and publish such material bearing upon Wisconsin's part in the War of Secession as, from considerations of rarity or of general excellence, it is deemed desirable to disseminate. Opinions or errors of fact on the part of the respective authors have not been modified or corrected by the Commission—save as members may choose to append thereto individually-signed foot-notes. For all statements, of whatever character, the author alone is responsible, whether the publication be in the form of Original Narratives or of Reprints.

The Commission is indebted to Miss Annie A. Nunns, of the Wisconsin Historical Library staff, for supervising the reading of the proof.

R. G. T.

WISCONSIN HISTORICAL LIBRARY
November, 1908

CAPTURE AND ESCAPE

The Iron Brigade in Camp

On the morning of the third of May, 1864, the Army of the Potomac confronted the Confederates on the banks of the Rapidan.

The consolidated First and Fifth Army Corps was commanded by Major-General George G. Warren.[1] To this corps was attached that part of the Army of the Potomac known as the Iron Brigade, then under the command of General Lysander Cutler, one of the ablest of our volunteer generals. To this brigade was attached the Sixth Wisconsin, commanded by Colonel (afterwards General) Edward S. Bragg. I commanded Company I in this regiment.[2]

Fearing a repetition of the long, cold winter of 1863-64, the army, under the immediate supervision of that thorough soldier, General George G. Meade, had been re-organized, completely equipped, and fitted for the stern duties of the next campaign.

The hills around Culpeper were dotted with the white tents and rude yet more comfortable cabins of the patriot soldiers. All along the banks of the Rapidan, at regular intervals, curled the smoke of the picket fires. Beyond them trod the weary sentinels, whose watchful eyes and stalwart arms had for twenty-four hours guarded their comrades in camp from surprise and consequent disaster. But now the allotted time for relief had come, and they stole an occasional impatient glance toward the long blue column winding its way along the turnpike toward the reserve post, knowing that it was the relief guard that was to take their place in the tedious, irksome, and sometimes dangerous outpost duty.

In camp, here and there, might have been seen a regiment executing the beautiful evolutions of battalion drill, and perhaps a camp guard being mounted, the air meanwhile resounding with the martial music so inspiring to the soldier. To the civilian all would have seemed confusion; but to the soldier the scene simply represented an army at rest; his eye could only see the monotonous details of camp life, the every-day life of the soldier. Such had been the daily routine through weary months of waiting, until all were eagerly anticipating the order to move.

As the sun disappeared that night, behind the western hills, its last beams shone upon an army whose banners floated from every hillside and valley as far as the eye could reach; and as the camp fires came out in the deepening twilight, they glimmered and sparkled like the lights of some great city.

The camp guards paced their well-trodden beats. The confused murmur of thousands of voices mingled together, conversing of home and friends; occasionally a merry laugh would arise, as some wag related a droll story, or, more frequently, perpetrated a practical joke upon a comrade, until "taps" sounded, and the lights went out as if by magic. Gradually all sounds died away, and the army was at rest. Dreams of wife, children, and home blessed the sleeping hours of the patient, waiting soldier, cheating him into a few minutes of bliss.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Although General Warren never did and probably never will be able to arouse an army corps, in the middle of the night, from the deep sleep that follows the exhaustion of a battle, build a bridge thirty feet long over a brawling stream swollen by a twelve hours' rain, and march five miles over muddy roads, in an hour from the time he receives the order, it is quite doubtful whether more than one general officer could be found in the United States who would require it or imagine it could be done; and I assert that no more efficient and patriotic officer than Warren ever wore a star.

[2] The Iron Brigade was at first composed of the Second, Sixth, and Seventh Wisconsin, and the Nineteenth Indiana. In October, 1862, was added the Twenty-fourth Michigan. The heaviest loss by brigades, in the entire Union army, fell to this command.—Editor.

On the Skirmish Line

Hark! a horse comes galloping up to the Colonel's quarters, a few hurried words are spoken, and then come the quick, sharp words of command: "Adjutant, go to the commanding officers of companies; tell them to have their commands under arms at once, and report them on the parade ground in heavy marching order. Make no noise; no drums will be beaten, nor alarms sounded."

Soon from out the darkness, upon the chill night, sounds again: "Orderly, see that the company is at arms at once, in heavy marching order!"

"Strike tents and pack knapsacks!" cries the orderly; and all along the line is heard the busy stir and bustle of striking tents and packing knapsacks, accompanied now and then by a suppressed yawn or muttered curse from the sleepy soldier thus rudely aroused from pleasant dreams and comfortable blankets to pack up his bed, tear down his house, and travel he knows not, and in many cases cares not, where. The sun next morning looked down upon a solitude where last evening a city stood. The army is crossing the Rapidan.

Surprised at the celerity of the movement, the enemy made but feeble resistance at the fords, and fell back to its retrenchments at Mine Run.

That night, weary and foot-sore, we lay waiting for the rising of the morning sun, whose beams were to be obscured by the sulphurous battle cloud.

Early on the morning of the 5th, we were aroused from our slumbers by the command: "Turn out! Ten minutes to cook coffee and prepare for marching!"

Staff officers and orderlies were galloping hither and thither, the ammunition wagons were ordered to the front, general officers could be seen inspecting the ground, and all those grim preparations were being made that to the soldier were recognized as the precursor of battle.

Soon our line was formed, and the old soldiers scarcely waited for the order to throw up breastworks. This done, we threw ourselves along the ground, waiting for the enemy to show themselves. But, so far as I was concerned, alas for human expectations! At this moment an excessively polite orderly came up to me, and, touching his hat, said: "Captain, Colonel Bragg directs that you report with your company to General Cutler, for skirmish duty."

Around Colonel Bragg there was a group of officers, who were evidently pleased that this unwelcome message should have come to some one besides themselves. Concealing my distaste for the duty assigned me, I sent them a cheerful "Good bye! I expect you fellows will all be wiped out before I get back."

"Good-by!" was returned. "Better 'shake' before you go, for it's the last we'll ever see of you."

"Shake them up lively, my boy!" said the Colonel.

"Never mind me," I replied. "Look out you don't get run over by the line of battle, when they follow me in." And so the badinage went on. Major Plummer and Captain Converse of that merry group were both destined to fight their last battle that day.

Upon reporting to General Cutler, I found him pacing up and down before his quarters, evidently laboring under some excitement. I had at one time served on his staff, and we were familiarly acquainted. He invited me into his tent, and extending his hand said: "Captain, your work this morning will not be play. Out in front—I do not know exactly how far, but probably within a mile—you will find the sharp-shooters deployed as skirmishers. You will join them. Use your own company as you think best; take command of the line, and advance until you raise the enemy and bring on an engagement."

Just as I was leaving him, he added, "Take along plenty of orderlies, and report frequently."

Those of my readers who have had actual experience in skirmishing, can readily understand how distasteful it is to the soldier. It is a duty that furnishes the best opportunity in the world for getting "wiped out," with but slight chance of achieving military glory. It is a duty that requires your best efforts, all of which are sure to be overshadowed by the more momentous events to follow, and sure to be forgotten in the official reports.

Somewhat reluctantly, I will confess, I obeyed the order, found the line deployed, and immediately ordered an advance.

Our progress was necessarily slow, the ground being broken and heavily timbered with a kind of scrub pine. After advancing about a mile, I discovered a long line of "graybacks" moving slowly forward in line of battle, without the precaution of throwing forward a skirmish line. My men were immediately halted, and the command to commence firing given.

If ever a set of men were astonished, those Confederates were the men. The nature of the ground was such that neither party saw the other until within thirty-five or forty yards of each other. We had the advantage. They were in line of battle, while my men were deployed and behind trees, stumps, stones—anything that might afford concealment and protection.

The rattling, scattered firing from my line told fearfully upon the enemy, and they at once replied with a volley. Whew! How the bullets sung and whistled around us! The only thing I feared was, that they would discover our weakness and charge us, for my men were sheltered. But the Confederates simply held their ground, replying to our skirmish fire from line of battle.

Soon word reached headquarters of the position of the enemy, and a cracking and roar at the rear gave notice of the advance of our line of battle. Hurrah! Here they come on, double quick! "Cold steel, boys! Give 'em the bayonet!" I heard General Cutler say; and over us they came.

My own men caught the inspiration, and gladly obeyed the order to move forward with the line. At the first shock the enemy's line was broken. Two miles we drove them, and then the programme changed.

In moving a long line over broken ground at double quick, intervals are bound to occur; connections to be lost. The enemy, taking advantage of this, had thrown a force into our rear, and bullets began to come from behind us. At first this caused confusion, then panic. Our line, vigorously pressed in front and rear at the same time, became demoralized. Officers made desperate efforts to rally the men, but it was of no use; they could not endure the bullets coming from the front and rear at once, and away they went.

About this time I had a sensation akin to being struck by lightning. Upon recovering consciousness, I found myself with a badly-swelled head and great confusion of ideas, and I was bleeding profusely from ears and nose. On all sides were the maimed, the dying, and the dead. There was no enemy in sight save those killed and wounded. This was consoling; but unfortunately, if I had no enemies to fear, I was equally destitute of friends.

Which way was north, south, east, or west, I was wholly unable to determine. I was equally at a loss to decide which was front and which rear. Hearing firing in one direction, I came to the sage conclusion that by going in the direction of the sound I should at least be able to determine where our forces were.

But what was the matter with the trees? They were cutting up all sorts of antics—advancing, retreating, bobbing up and down, actually waltzing about me. Around and around they went, until they made me dizzy. In trying to catch one of them, the ground suddenly flew up into my face, and, not satisfied with that, tried to roll me off; but I held on like a tick, grasping the twigs with all my might. The exertion was too much, and I fainted outright. Upon recovering my senses, I concluded to make my way to the rear. I found it difficult to travel, however, because of the giddiness and partial blindness caused by my wound. When I had progressed about a quarter of a mile, I found myself looking down the barrel of a musket.

Captured

A Confederate regiment, the Thirteenth Georgia, had, in the mêlée, become detached from its brigade, and was lost in the dense forest. The commanding officer had ordered the men to lie down in a thicket, and unfortunately I had surprised them. Not being in the humor just then to "surround them," like the Irishman, I surrendered at discretion, and was immediately disarmed and conducted to the commander, when the following conversation took place:

Confederate Officer. Captain, were you in the skirmish line out yonder?

Yank. I am a prisoner, sir, and must decline to answer any questions touching our position or forces.

Confederate. That's all right, Captain, but I would like to know whether you have any skirmishers in there. Do you know where Gordon's brigade is?

Yank. Gordon's brigade! Why, I don't know where I am myself.

Confederate. Then there are two of us in the same fix. To tell the truth, I am lost. I got through an interval in your lines, I think; at all events, I found myself in your rear without knowing how I got there, and was trying to get back when you uns run over us. We just lay still, and the Yanks passed us.

Yank. In which direction did they go?

Confederate. Out yon.

Yank. Then it strikes me that your rear is in an opposite direction.

Confederate. Well, yes, I reckon so. Corporal, take this officer to the rear and find the Provost Marshal and report him.

En Route to Lynchburg

I found myself traveling toward Richmond in quite different company and under less favorable auspices than I had ever imagined would be my lot. After running about an hour we at length found the Provost guard of the Confederate army, and to my chagrin about twelve hundred of my companions in misfortune. Some, like myself, were wounded. Some expressed impatience and mortification. Others evidently accepted their condition as inevitable and determined to make the best of it, expressing more concern for the success of our arms than solicitude for themselves.

At a little distance from the prison corral were the badly wounded, awaiting the ministrations of a surgeon. There, under a large tree, on a blanket, lay the gallant Captain Converse, a prisoner, wounded and dying; by his side, with one leg already amputated, Corporal Frank Hare, with cocked revolver, kept at bay a couple of the enemy's surgeons who were desirous of experimenting upon the yet breathing body of his leader. The heroism of those two men was sublime. The Captain had been shot through the body and both thighs. It was utterly impossible for him to recover. He knew that his moments were numbered, and the end was nigh. He only asked to be permitted to die in peace, but the surgeons were desirous of experimenting upon him by what is known as the "hip amputation."

Converse had overheard their conversation, and directed Hare to put his hand in a certain pocket and get his revolver, which had been overlooked when his captors took his side-arms, and, armed with this, to prevent them from torturing him. Hare did as his officer directed; and when they attempted to remove his Captain he cocked the revolver, and in quiet, yet firm tones, warned them that he would shoot the first man that laid a hand on him. Weapons were pointed at him, with threats to kill him if he did not surrender the pistol. Hare only laughed at them, asking them what they supposed he cared for life, with one leg gone?

Struck with admiration for his bravery, the guard was withdrawn. A Confederate officer, standing near, filled with admiration of his heroism, said, "I would like a regiment of such men!"

This aroused the dying Captain, who, his eyes flashing with patriotic fire, told him that he had the honor to lead a hundred just such men, and added: "The North is full of them. Sooner or later we shall triumph, and your rebel rag will be trampled beneath their feet."

With these brave, prophetic words he breathed out his young life, a willing sacrifice upon the altar of his country. At the instant he expired the sun broke through a rift in the battle cloud, and glancing down through the shimmering foliage of the forest tree, illumined the face of the dead. I thought it the pathway of the angel that bore aloft the released spirit of my comrade and friend.

I have seen men in the mad excitement of a charge perform reckless deeds of bravery, facing death with apparent nonchalance, and admired them for their soldierly bearing and courage; but this was something different. It will be difficult to find an instance in either ancient or modern history, of greater fidelity, love, confidence, courage, and fearless patriotism than was displayed by these two wounded heroes. High up on the list of those made deathless by heroic deeds, should be inscribed the names of Captain Rollin P. Converse and Corporal Frank Hare.

Before I witnessed the death of Converse, I had felt despondent, but now the sight of his calm courage determined me to bear my own lot with philosophy. As a matter of fact, I was no worse off than thousands of others, and vastly better off than many. Even then, I began to plan some way for escape.

A short time only was allowed us to rest and recuperate. All able to march at all were soon en route for Orange Court House, under the escort of a strong guard. There were several hundred of us. Among others I recollect Colonel Grover, a gallant officer of the Seventh Indiana. Although the distance could not have been more than eight or ten miles, perhaps less, it was about 10 o'clock before we arrived at our destination for the night. During the march in the darkness several of the prisoners made their escape, but I believe that all these were eventually recaptured.

No rations had been issued to us, and many were ready to faint from hunger and fatigue, but the "bitter cud" of our disappointment was all we then had to chew. So far, we had been in the hands of soldiers, and our treatment had been as good as we had any reason to expect. But upon our arrival at Orange Court House we were turned over to a squint-eyed, knock-kneed Provost-Marshal and his home guard, and with the change of guard came a most decided change in our treatment.

Cowards are always tyrants, and this redheaded commander of the home guard was no exception to the rule. The enlisted men were separated from the officers and driven into a dirty back yard, where they bivouacked quite comfortably, for they had their rubber and woolen blankets and could on ordinary occasions sleep as well without shelter. But they were aroused at an early hour in the morning, and under the directions of the squint-eyed Provost Marshal systematically robbed of their blankets, both rubber and woolen, also their knapsacks. One poor fellow, indignant at such robbery, tore his blanket into strips. This act being observed by the delectable specimen of Confederate chivalry, he sprang upon him with a club and knocked him down, striking him several blows while he lay on the ground, senseless and bleeding. Some of our officers remonstrated against such plain violation of civilized warfare, and were coolly told they had better keep their sympathy to themselves, as they would probably need it all for home consumption.

On inquiry we learned that no rations could be obtained, but were kindly permitted to purchase from a sutler a corn-dodger and cup of coffee each, for which we paid two dollars apiece, in greenbacks. Soon after breakfast, we were formed in column for marching, and started for Gordonsville.

If some of us had been with our commands, instead of being prisoners, we probably would not have thought we could endure the march in the hot sun. My head was badly swollen and pained me greatly; this, together with the heat, insufficient food, and depression of spirits consequent upon the situation, almost unmanned me. Keep up with the column I could not. Finally, two or three of us cripples were permitted to fall behind under the guard of one man, and never in my life did I feel the need of money so badly, for if we could have raised only fifty dollars in greenbacks we had reason to believe our guard's cupidity would have easily overcome his sense of duty. But alas! The money was not to be commanded; so, a few rods at a time, we continued our march.

Just as it was getting dark we reached Gordonsville. Although the distance traversed was comparatively short, yet I venture to say the day's march will be remembered by that little squad of cripples longer than many another of double the distance. One of the things that discouraged us was the reports concerning the battle of the day before, received from Confederate sources. We were informed that our forces were in full retreat to Washington, that our loss was about one-half our effective force, and the like.

Immediately upon our arrival at Gordonsville we were corralled in a railroad excavation and closely guarded. The next morning we were loaded upon freight cars, and to our surprise found that Lynchburg, not Richmond, was our destination.

Upon this slight foundation we immediately began to build great hopes. If we had lost the battle, what was the reason we were not shipped to Libby and Belle Isle? We had not then heard of a great man's famous expression, "I propose to fight it out on this line if it takes all summer." The celebrated flank movement that placed the army south of Richmond and bottled up the Confederate army, existed only in the prolific brain of the greatest soldier of the age.

The Army of the Potomac had so many times marched up the hill, only to march down again, that we began to look upon this performance as the regular thing. We did not realize that this army was then under the guidance of a man who knew no such word as fail; who, if whipped on one day, only fought harder the next.

Our trip to Lynchburg was relieved of its monotony by one circumstance. The bottom of one of the cars was mined, a plank was cut out, and when a halt was made to take on wood and water, one or two adventurous fellows crawled through and dug the dirt from between two of the ties, so as to allow them room to escape collision with the bottom of the cars, lying there while the train passed over them. The ruse was successful, so far as escaping from the train was concerned; but unfortunately the fugitives were discovered as soon as the train passed by, and recaptured. The attempt was a foolish one, but indicative of the general disposition to attempt any manner of escape that had the slightest chance for success.

Arrival at Lynchburg

The next morning we arrived at Lynchburg, and were taken from the cars. Here occurred a ludicrous scene, that, notwithstanding their situation, furnished our boys a hearty laugh. Some philosopher has said, "Man is an animal that laughs." Man is the only animal that laughs. This, as distinctly as speech, marks the distinction between reasoning beings and brute instinct. Show me a man who never laughs, and I will show you one whose instincts are brutish and cruel. These thousands or more prisoners, surrounded by enemies, cut off from all that makes life endurable, deprived of liberty, laughed heartily, and it did them good.

A militia company had been improvised to act as our guard and escort us from the cars to the prison. They were not uniformed, being dressed in everything from swallow-tailed coats and slippers to home-spun butternut, and armed with everything that could shoot, from a carbine to a flint-lock musket. The members were of all ages, from school boys to decrepit old men. They were commanded by a young fellow in a nondescript uniform. His sword and scabbard were the only really soldierly things about him, and were handled about as awkwardly as we had handled ours, when first transformed from citizens into officers, two or three years before.

This amateur officer wanted the prisoners formed into four ranks, faced in the proper direction, but how to do it was a problem to him. After several abortive attempts, our folks obeying every order strictly, which only demonstrated the fact that his orders failed to convey his meaning, he at last lost patience and roared out: "G—— d—— it! I want you Yanks to git in four ranks, faced yon way!"

This direction, though not in strict accordance with military parlance, was at least intelligible; and after much pulling and hauling, the desired result was accomplished, every man merrily repeating the order, and pushing and pulling his fellows. Then he attempted to form his guard on either flank of the column. He had great difficulty in bringing this about, for our boys insisted on obeying every order given to the guard. At last, out of patience with us, he exclaimed: "See here! I want you Yanks to stand still, when I give orders! I'm speaking to the company, not you uns!"

When at length he had formed the order of march, he commanded, "Forward, march!" The guard started, and we stood still. This was not observed until about half of the guard had passed us. This necessitated a halt, and he then explained that now he wanted us to "git up along with the balance."

Thus, laughing and jesting, we passed up the street and into our first prison pen, an old tobacco warehouse situated on the principal street, but rather small for the company it was expected to entertain. Here we commenced our prison life.

Attached to the building was a small yard, which at certain hours we were permitted to visit, for the purpose of supplying ourselves with water, washing clothes, exercise, etc. Our prison proper was a room about twenty by fifty feet. Into this space were crowded nearly two hundred officers; for prior to this time the enlisted men had been separated from us, while additions of officers from other sources had been added to our squad.

Treatment at Lynchburg

The floors of the building were filthy, and the ceilings swarmed with vermin. The only ventilation was from two windows at one end of the room. The building was only a fit habitation for the rats that infested it. Very few of us had blankets, and none were issued to us. At night we were obliged to lie on the floor, so closely packed that every inch of space was occupied; and if necessity required one to leave the room during the night, he was compelled to travel over his comrades to accomplish his purpose. Before morning the air would become almost poisonous, through lack of ventilation.

Our rations here consisted of bread and a small quantity of meat. They were good in quality, although rather limited in quantity; but our experience as soldiers, sometimes on short rations, would have accustomed us to such hardships, if we could only have divested ourselves of the intense longing for liberty. Compared with other Southern prisons, our condition here was quite tolerable.

The officer in command of this prison was humane. Only once did he show any temper, and that was one night when we all began to sing patriotic songs, ending with "Old John Brown." When we got to

"We'll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree."

he came into the room and ordered us to stop singing; but we only sang the louder, telling him that our tongues were our own, and we should sing if we wanted to.

"Well," he replied, "sing, if you will, but you shan't eat, for I'll stop your rations."

This had the desired effect. Our sonorous chorus soon sank to a feeble quaver and faded away. Some of us consoled ourselves with the memory of one occasion when the Iron Brigade entered Warrenton, every man singing "John Brown," the column keeping time to the music. But we did not sing any more on this occasion.

For a time we kept up our courage by cheerful conversation or practical jokes. Sometimes an amusing incident would serve to break the monotony, and was eagerly seized upon and made the most of. Many obtained nick-names, such as "Lengthy," "Shorty," "Whitehead," etc. One, a Lieutenant Wetterville, obtained the nickname of "Rats" in this way: One night, after all had retired, and the cheerful snore began to enliven the sleepless hours of the restless, this young officer was roused from his slumbers by a huge rat gnawing his toes. He sprang to his feet in affright, and ran the length of the room, shouting: "Rats! Rats!" arousing all the sleepers, to the indignation of some and the mirth of others. The scene ended with three cheers and a tiger, for "Rats." This light-heartedness was but the foam on the surface, and only ill concealed the troubled under-current that was gradually mining away the better feelings of our natures.

The mind of man is so constituted that he cannot be deprived of his liberty for any considerable time, without there being generated an inordinate desire to be free. Actual physical ills become secondary to this acute desire:

"The wish which ages have not yet subdued,

In man to have no master but his mood."

This feeling at length becomes morbid, the gay laugh becomes hollow and forced, the eye loses its fire, and a hopeless expression settles over the countenance like a pall.

The novelty of our situation had not yet worn away. We had been comparatively well treated, and, besides, we were planning an escape. Some negroes had contrived to communicate with us, and through them we had concocted a scheme for crossing the river. We had started a tunnel out of the yard from a closet, and were to be harbored by a negro family until we could procure some Confederate clothing. Two of the prisoners had formed the acquaintance of some women by talking through the fence, and through them had secured a suit of Confederate clothes. Clad in these, they had boldly walked out past the guards in open daylight, escaped across the river, and never were recaptured.

At Danville

Before we had perfected our tunnel, we were removed to Danville. There we were confined in a two-storied brick building that had been used as a prison for deserters, and was filthy beyond description. The floors were covered with dirt and grease, and literally swarmed with vermin. Our rations here, consisted of pea soup and corn bread. Such bread, and such soup! The very recollection is nauseating. Guards were stationed around the building, with orders to shoot any person seen looking out of the windows. The first knowledge we had of the existence of such an order was, by a bullet whistling through the room, and grazing an officer's head. The official in charge of the prison apologized for this occurrence, telling us that he had forgotten to notify us of the standing order given the guard, a slight omission that might have proved fatal to some of us.

Removed to Macon

We remained here but a few days, when we were again packed in freight cars and started for Macon, Georgia. Every change in our place of imprisonment thus far had been for the worse, yet we hailed this news almost with rapture. We thought, poor fools! that anything was better than our present situation. Alas! We had not yet tasted the dregs of the bitter draught before us. We had not conceived the idea that such a brute as "Hog Winder" could exist, or that men wearing the human form could be so debased as to serve as the willing agents of such a demon. We had not even heard the names of Tabb and Wirz. We were then miserably dirty, covered with vermin, and half starved; but we had yet to learn the horrors of starvation.

Happily ignorant of the future, we gladly started for our new destination. A rumor of an exchange in progress filled us with new hope, and although standing room was scarce and a chance to sit down at a premium in our crowded cars—seventy-five men being packed into each small-sized freight car—once more the song and jest went round. We could even laugh, as we told and retold each other that we should certainly be exchanged now; the more sanguine being sure that we were even then on the way to a general rendezvous established on the coast for that purpose.

While the train halted at Augusta to take on wood, a crowd gathered around to see the show—among others a boy about twelve years old, who carried a large market basket filled with sandwiches. We looked longingly at the food and tried to purchase, but he refused to sell to "Yanks," and the guard seemed highly pleased at his spirit, allowing him to approach near to the train.

Ours was the last car, and he lingered around the rear of it, talking with us, always in the most defiant manner; only it seemed to me that his countenance did not denote him to be the ferocious rebel his language seemed to indicate, and I could not help thinking it strange that he should refuse to sell to the guards, who tried to buy of him. At last the train began to move. He waited until we were fairly under way, then tossed the basket to us and ran back into the crowd.

In the basket was a note from his mother, a Union woman, filled with brave, hopeful words, saying that she trusted to the native shrewdness of her son to secure to us her offering. The note was handed round, and many a thankful heart blessed that woman, not so much for the timely offering of food, as for the words of sympathy and kindness that accompanied the gift.

After a long and exceedingly tiresome journey, we arrived at Macon. I can not even now repress a shudder as I pronounce that name. It is associated in my mind with suffering, misery, starvation, death.

Near a beautiful grove of trees, about twenty rods from the railroad, was an enclosure of about five acres, nearly square in form, surrounded by a fence constructed of pine boards twelve feet long, fastened perpendicularly to rails in the same manner we sometimes see tight-board-fences made in the North. Four feet from the top, on the outside, a walk was constructed. On this sentinels were stationed at intervals of about fifty feet. Near the entrance, on the outside, was the office of the commander of the prison, a small wooden structure.

Upon our arrival we were passed into the office, one at a time, and from there into the prison yard. We could not imagine why so much caution should be used in passing us in. Some suspected that the Provost Marshal wanted to examine our passports. At length my turn came, and I passed in. Before me stood a thing in uniform. I cannot describe his personal appearance. Imagine, if you can, an excessively vicious baboon, dressed in gray, half drunk, and you have him—Captain Tabb!

Upon my entrance he looked me over and observed to a subordinate, "No pickin's here!" Then he walked up to me, and with the dexterity of an expert pickpocket inserted his hands in my pockets. He seemed intuitively to know the exact location of each one. If my life had depended on keeping silence, I could not have refrained from telling him, as I did, when he found nothing to reward his industry, that another thief had forestalled him.

I expected that he would be very angry at hearing this, but he only laughed, remarking: "I kind o' reck'ned from your looks that you'd been cleaned out. You can git." Filled with indignation and disgust, I left his presence, and was ushered into the Macon prison pen.

The Prison Pen

What a sight! Who were these gaunt skeletons, clothed with rags, covered with dirt, who crowded up to the gate, yelling, "Fresh fish! Fresh fish!" Long skeleton fingers were already inserted into our haversacks, eagerly searching for the crumbs at the bottom; wild, eager eyes were peering into our faces—eyes from which had departed all expression except that of hopeless misery.

One pressed through the crowd and called me by name, and listlessly held out his hand. I looked at him in astonishment. There was not a feature that I could recognize. His hair and beard were long and neglected, he was barefooted, a coarse blue shirt and a pair of overalls were his only clothing. The expression of his face, like that of his companions, was indescribable. It mirrored the soul of a man from whom hope had forever departed.

"I don't know you!" I cried in horror.

He laughed a bitter, mocking laugh. "I used to be Captain Rollins," he said.

"Can it be possible!" I exclaimed.

I thought of the last time I had seen him, on the first day of July, 1863, at the battle of Gettysburg, a man noble in appearance and in character, a lawyer by profession, who had formerly served on General Cutler's staff, and who had been my own intimate friend. He had been captured on that day, and this was the sequel.

"Who are these men around you? Who and what are they?" I asked.

"Old Libby prisoners," he replied. "Officers, all of them. We only arrived a few days since. No hope of exchange, I suppose?"

I told him of the rumor we had heard on starting from Danville. He laughed. "That's an old ruse," said he. "We are always told that when being moved, to prevent our trying to escape."

My heart sank within me. Hungry and tired, we began to look around for a place to sleep, or at all events to lie down and rest. There was a long frame building in the yard, that had formerly been used for a fair building. Three or four wooden sheds had been erected, open at the sides, but everything in the shape of a building was already crowded to its fullest capacity.

At length a few of us dug a hole under the structure first described, and burrowed there. We were fortunate, for the larger proportion of our comrades were compelled to camp in the open air, without either fire or blankets, subjected to the heavy dews at night and the scorching sun by day.

On the inside of the pen, about ten feet from the high fence already described, was a picket fence, about five feet high. This was the "Dead Line." All were forbidden to approach within three feet of it, under penalty of death, and the sentinels were judges as to distance.

A small stream ran through one corner of the pen. Over this were the sinks, and by the side of it the spring, from which we obtained water. This spring was about ten feet from the "Dead Line." There were two or three trees scattered through the yard, that, for a favored few, afforded shade from the sun's burning rays, and a partial protection from the dew.

There were about twelve hundred old Libby prisoners in this pen when we arrived, and with the accession of our squad it was crowded to its fullest capacity. It was easy by the expression of their faces alone, to distinguish the "Fresh fish" from the old prisoners. Those of the latter had a starved, hopeless look, that must have been seen to be realized. Long confinement and starvation have the effect of deadening all the finer feelings. They are brutalizing. All the selfish propensities are developed. The mind becomes gangrened. Long brooding over the deplorable situation, with hunger constantly gnawing at the vitals, gradually saps away all that is noble and God-like, leaving active only the animal nature.

I saw two Lieutenants belonging to the regular army, snap, snarl, and actually fight over the distribution of a tablespoonful of corn meal; yet these men were educated gentlemen, and under ordinary circumstances would have resented as an insult the imputation that they could ever be guilty of such conduct. I looked at them, and wondered if we too would become like the pitiable objects around us.

With these thoughts came visions of the longing, waiting hearts at the North. These men represented homes, scattered through every loyal State, in which sat the patient wife or mother, anxiously watching for tidings of husband or son. In the reports she had read with sinking heart the fearful words, "missing in action," or "wounded and missing," and the cry had gone up from quivering lips, "Oh God, let me not be left a widow and my children fatherless!" Then had commenced the long agony of suspense, of waiting, waiting, waiting—how drear an ordeal, only those who have passed through it can tell.

I thought of a certain little cottage home, wherein was gathered my own little flock, and pictured to myself the anguish they were then enduring. I had been reported killed, as I had ascertained from an officer captured later. For the first time I realized the full horror of the situation.

Appetite was already clamorous, and we began to make inquiries about rations. We were told that these would be issued in the morning. That would be twenty-four hours without food.

Slowly the first long night in our new prison passed away. Early in the morning we were turned out for roll call. Captain Tabb had appeared with his guard, a line was formed across the centre of the yard, and we were all driven to one side of it, and then commenced the roll call, or rather the count. One by one we were passed through a particular part of the line and counted, Tabb making a practice of heaping upon us every insult his debased mind could invent. How our fingers itched to get hold of him as we passed!

The count over, came the issuing of rations. These consisted of a pint of corn meal and a teaspoonful of salt to each man, and once in two or three days a slice of bacon, or a handful of black peas in lieu of the bacon. This was to last us twenty-four hours. Ought we not to feel grateful to our Southern brethren for the sumptuous manner in which they entertained us? We no longer wondered at the starved, cadaverous look of the old prisoners; we only wondered that they were alive.

Our former prisons had been comfortable, in comparison with this. We realized that long confinement in this situation meant slow but certain death by starvation and exposure, and we began to cast about us to see if there were no hope of speedy release.

An exchange became the topic of conversation. It was last in our thoughts at night, and first in the morning. Every morsel of news with reference to it was eagerly discussed and repeated; but with us, as with the old Libby prisoners, came the conviction that a speedy exchange was not to be hoped for. We were tauntingly told by Tabb that our government would not exchange us unless their government would exchange the negro troops, and that we were thus placed on a level with the niggers by our own government, and that this was all that stood in the way of exchange.

I thank God that I can truthfully say, that not a corporal's guard of these starving men could be found, who did not say that if that were the case, and we could by our own votes determine the question, rather than that the government should abandon to their fate any of her soldiers who had worn the blue and fought under the stars and stripes, be they black or white, they would stay there and starve.

Tunneling

With the death to our hope of exchange, was born the hope of escape. Various plans were discussed and abandoned. An organization was attempted to revolt—overpower the guard, and fight our way through to our lines with such weapons as we could capture from the guards. But when we came coolly to reflect upon the project, and considered the desperateness of the attempt on the part of fifteen hundred unarmed, unorganized men, to overpower about an equal number, well-armed and supported by a battery, we abandoned the project.

Then we planned to escape by tunneling out. We found that prior to our arrival a party had been organized for this very purpose, and that a tunnel had already been started. After considerable finesse, a few of us were admitted to the confidence of the conspirators, and permitted to participate in the digging.

The greatest secrecy was observed in this enterprise. Not more than twenty or thirty of the prisoners knew of the tunnel's existence, and they were by a solemn oath bound not to reveal their knowledge. One would suppose that there could have been no danger from the prisoners themselves; but subsequent events proved that these precautions were only too necessary.

This tunnel was started in one of the sheds, under a bank, about twenty feet from the Dead Line, and it had progressed about ten feet when I first transformed myself into a woodchuck.

Our mining tools consisted of a strap hinge, fastened to a stick about two feet long, a tin dipper, and some sacks. The manner of digging was to lie upon the side, and with the hinge work out the hard clay. This was loaded into the sacks by means of the cup. A confederate, holding a cord attached to the sack, would draw it back and empty it, and then crawl back to the digger, who by this time would have another sack of dirt ready.

After getting about thirty feet from the mouth of the tunnel, the air became so bad that a candle would not burn for a second, and the number of diggers who could endure this atmosphere was reduced to two or three. The sensation on first getting back to the mouth end of the tunnel, was that of suffocation; the perspiration would start from every pore; but after a few moments this would partially pass away. It was, however, nothing unusual for the digger, after his work in the tunnel, to faint away upon getting to fresh air.

The natural inquiry will arise: What became of the dirt? The negroes took care of it for us. Every morning the ground in the pen was nicely swept up, and the dirt hauled away by negroes. We piled up the dirt taken from the tunnel, and when the negroes came with their cart, they would take great pains to put the red dirt on the bottom of the cart, and cover it with the black. They knew what we were doing, by the appearance of this fresh earth; but when they came to one of our red piles, it was only by a wink of the eye or a broad grin that they indicated their knowledge.

We had progressed about ninety feet with our tunnel, and were outside the guards. We only needed to make thirty feet more to come out behind a brick wall across the street.

Betrayed

We had then been working on it for about a month but at this juncture we were betrayed by one of our own men, a Lieutenant of a cavalry regiment, by the name of Silver.

The first intimation we had of our betrayal, was one morning at roll call. I think it was on the first day of July, after we had been driven to one end of the pen, after the custom I have described. We saw the Confederate officer and a guard inspecting the ground in the vicinity of the tunnel. This they did by stabbing a bayonet into the ground, as no one could detect the existence of the tunnel by the eye, the mouth being covered and dirt swept over it, so as to make it resemble the surface.

Imagine our feelings as we saw them approach the mouth of the hole. That tunnel, to us, was the door to liberty. It was the telescope through which we could see wife, children, and friends. Men who never prayed before, prayed now that it might not be discovered.

But alas! these prayers were vain. All our labor and our suffering in this direction had been for naught, and I am not ashamed to say that some of us wept like children over our disappointment. We did not then know by what means the enemy had discovered our plan of escape, for we could not imagine that we had been betrayed. At first we were disposed to lay the blame upon ourselves, believing that in some way the guard had discovered something suspicious from the fact that a day or two before unusual excitement had, for the following reason been manifested by those interested in the scheme.

It had been agreed between the parties engaged in digging, that while engaged in work during the daytime, we would submit to the follow regulations: Each should perform an equal amount of labor in the tunnel, and in case the authorities came into the yard, or if from any cause there should be danger of discovery, the watchman should immediately cover the mouth of the tunnel. The person digging should submit to this necessity, and take his chance for life. What that chance was, may readily be inferred, from the fact that with the mouth of the tunnel open, air of any kind was a scarce commodity, and the quality nothing to boast of.

It so happened that while I was busily engaged at work in the tunnel that day, the air was suddenly darkened, and a rattle at the mouth end notified me that the emergency had arrived, upon which we had agreed to risk life itself. I was buried alive.

To attempt to describe the sensations of a person at such a moment, is simply impossible. Within a minute from the time the mouth of the tunnel was closed, the air was exhausted. And here let me describe the manner of closing it: First, about four inches from the surface, a flange or offset received a covering of boards; over this an old shirt was spread, to prevent the dirt from sifting through the cracks, and over this about three inches of dirt were placed. Then a few whisks of the brush broom, and the eye could detect nothing to denote the existence of a cavity beneath.

It is said that necessity is the mother of invention. I was not ready to die just then; to live, I must have air. To attempt to get back to the mouth and open it, even could I succeed in doing so, would betray the existence of the tunnel, and forfeit a solemn pledge.

All this flashed through my mind with the rapidity of lightning. As by an inspiration, the means of preserving my life was suggested to me. Rolling upon my back, I commenced boring for air. Inserting the point of the hinge in the roof of the tunnel, and turning and pushing it with the energy of despair, I worked at the hard clay two feet or more above my head. Slowly but gradually, inch by inch, the improvised drill worked its way to the air and life. Just as I thought my very last energy expended, and when the handle of the drill lacked an inch of being inserted its entire length, the end broke the surface of the ground over my head, and air, blessed air, came rushing into the aperture. Withdrawing the drill I placed my mouth to the hole, and breathed. Oh, the ecstacy, the supreme comfort of that moment is indescribable! I was saved.

In the meantime, on the outside, I had a friend—not in name only, but a friend in deed—one of the noblest men the sun ever shone upon: L. G. Billings, Paymaster in the United States Navy. Billings and I were among the very few who could bear the bad air in the tunnel. He knew I was in there when the mouth was closed, and it took the united efforts of the initiated to keep him away from it. As soon as the investigating officer had left the yard, he tore open the mouth of the tunnel and plunged in.

I heard my name called, but I kept quiet, thinking I would see what he would do. Hearing no response, and believing me dead, I heard him groan, "My God, he is dead!" and then he commenced crawling to where I was. I waited until he had nearly reached me, but when I heard him sobbing like a child, I could hold out no longer.

"Billings, my friend," I said, "I am all right, thank God."

"Thank God!" he rejoined; "but how did you live?"

"Look here," I said, pointing to the hole I had drilled.

Therefore, when our tunnel was discovered we thought that the excitement caused by my imprisonment in the ground had led to our detection. But the following morning one of the negroes, while loading the dump cart, informed us that "Massa Lieutenant Silver told Massa Captain all about it." We immediately organized ourselves into a detective force for the purpose of ascertaining the facts, and in a short time became convinced of the truth of this statement. But while we were contriving ways and means to procure a rope, the Confederate authorities intervened and took Silver out of prison, and that is the last we ever saw or heard of him. What price was paid for his treachery we never knew. We realized only the fact that we were again hopeless prisoners.

Prison Life

By this time our clothing was ragged, and it was only by the greatest care that it could be kept even tolerably clean.

Our rations I have before described. Oh, ye epicures, think of it! A pint of corn meal to last you twenty-four hours! As you sit down to your tables, covered with substantial food, imagine it swept away, and in its place a pint of mush, or in lieu of that a corn dodger, but little larger than your two hands, to last you twenty-four hours. There were at this time about fifteen hundred officers confined in this pen, literally starving. It was only a question of time. The result was as certain death, eventually, as it would have been had we been entirely deprived of food.

One day, by some means, a cat got into the yard, and caught a rat. When I saw the feline, she had the rat, and the idea immediately struck me that there was no great difference between a rat and a squirrel. I remembered also the customs of the antipodal Chinese, as related and illustrated in old school geographies, and immediately gave chase. As good fortune would have it, I succeeded in capturing the cat and the rat before my companions in misery had got the idea through their heads that rats were fresh meat. Like a fool, I let the cat go, and commenced skinning the rat.

A hungry officer, looking on, instantly caught the idea, and made for the cat. Good gracious, how foolish I felt! The cat was so much larger than the rat, and although poor and skinny was much the more valuable, for there was more meat there. But I was too late.

I felt fortunate in securing my share of the spoils, and immediately cast about for the best method of serving my dainty dish, so as to make it go the furthest. After long consideration I determined to have a soup. I looked over my stock of peas and found I had about two-thirds of a cupful. Many of them, probably about a half, were wormy. If I threw these away, there would not be enough left, so I concluded that if the worms could stand it I could. I then recollected seeing a beef bone that had been thrown away by some officer who was so fortunate as to have enough money to purchase it and had used it once. I picked it up, and found, on close inspection, that the marrow was still left almost intact. I washed the bone and cracked it. I also found some dried onion peelings, and with these, the peas, the bone, and the rat, I made my soup. Oh, ye gods! How I feasted!

But rats were scarce. We were starving. We must be exchanged, escape, or die. We had lost all hopes of the first. The most of us did not feel prepared for the last, and so a few of us concluded to start another tunnel. This time we decided to limit the membership of the tunneling party to a select few, and these were sworn to secrecy. We started operations under the bunk of Colonel O. H. La Grange,[3] and succeeded in sinking a shaft to a depth of about five feet, whereupon we commenced tunneling.

FOOTNOTE:

[3] Afterwards General. In after years General La Grange became the Superintendent of the San Francisco Mint, and died in California in 188-, universally mourned by the community in which he lived, and to which he had endeared himself by his high character and winning personality.

Removed to Charleston

Before we had progressed more than six feet, we were informed that six hundred of our number were to be sent to Charleston, to be placed under the fire of our own guns. This news at once changed our plans of operations. A secret society was started, called the "Council of Ten," the object of which was to capture the train when we arrived at the Pocotaligo River, and to make our way to our lines at Port Royal.

Our leader was Captain David McKibbin, of the Fourteenth Wisconsin Infantry, a good, cool-headed man. Although the scheme was a failure, it was through no fault of his, as subsequent events demonstrated.

While we were perfecting our plans for the capture of the train, and awaiting the order for our removal, time, which waits for no man, again brought around the anniversary of our National Independence. The Fourth day of July, 1864, is a day that will never be forgotten by the inmates of that prison yard.

The sun rose that morning, clear and bright. The leaves on the forest trees that lined our prison were sparkling with bright dewdrops, which, shaken by the morning breeze and falling to earth, seemed weeping over our misfortunes. The air resounded with the musical voices of feathered songsters, vying with each other in chanting their morning hymns of praise to the Great Giver of all Good. In imagination we could hear the church bells pealing at the North, calling the people as of yore, to celebrate the Nation's natal day. Suddenly the prison gates were thrown open, and the voice of a Confederate officer rudely awakened us from our pleasing day dreams, with "Turn out, Yanks, for the roll call!"

As we passed through the line of our jailors, we discovered a group of officers, seemingly a good deal excited. Upon approaching them we discovered that one had constructed a miniature national flag. It was only about four by six inches, but it was the stars and stripes, the national emblem. How dear that old flag is to every man who deserves to be called an American, can only be appreciated by one deprived of its protection. How the eye of a traveler in a foreign land will sparkle and his bosom heave, when the stars and stripes unexpectedly meet his eye, flaunting proudly to the breeze! To the soldier and sailor, that flag is the representative of his and his country's honor. On the battle field he will defend it with his life. When defeated and flying, at the sight of his ragged colors he will rally, and under its folds do and dare all, and even die for its protection.

To us that little flag was the emblem of the cause for which we were then suffering imprisonment and facing death, and for which our comrades were then struggling on the field of battle; and for which so many poor fellows had already rendered up their lives. As one by one we gathered around it, manly tears were dropped from eyes unused to the melting mood. With hands clasped we sang the "Star-spangled Banner," and then one of our number (a chaplain) raised his voice in prayer. A stillness, like that of the grave, settled down on the whole vast assemblage, broken only by the voice of the man of God, asking Heaven's blessing upon us and the flag.

When he had finished his prayer, all joined in singing "Rally 'round the Flag," ending with three times three cheers for the Union and the President of the United States. Speakers were called out and responded, and better speeches I never heard in my life.

The excitement became intense. The Confederates, alarmed by the unusual stir, doubled the guard, manned two pieces of artillery bearing upon the camp, and then advised us to desist from further demonstrations. But notwithstanding this order, we kept up our celebration until nearly dark, and as we composed ourselves to sleep that night, it was with intensified feelings of loyalty to our country.

A few days later six hundred of our number were selected to be sent to Charleston. Afterwards, all the Macon prisoners, myself included, were added to the number. It was amusing to see the anxiety displayed by the prisoners to go to Charleston, for the purpose for which we were sent was well understood. Any onlooker might have supposed from the eagerness exhibited by the prisoners, that they expected to be exchanged at once, rather than to become targets for our own gunners to shoot at. Yet in this anxiety I fully shared; not that I was particularly anxious to be shot, but because I had made up my mind that we would capture the train. I had full faith in our ability to do so; and still believe that we should have succeeded, had not our plans been suspected by or become positively known to our captors.

The plan was this: The means of transportation used, was common freight cars. From sixty to seventy of us were loaded into each. There were usually four guards stationed inside, and about five on the top of each car. We had it so arranged that from eight to ten of the Council of Ten should be apportioned to each car, under the command of an officer selected by ourselves. When the designated point should be reached, at a signal from Captain McKibbin, who was in the first car in the rear of the tender, we were to seize, gag, and bind the guard on the inside, while the party in the Captain's car would stave a hole through the end and uncouple it. When the train stopped, we were to rush from the train and overpower the guards on top of the cars, and with muskets force our way to the coast. But

"The best laid schemes o' mice an' men

Gang aft agley."

Just before we reached the designated point, the guards were all withdrawn from inside the cars, and about thirty of them placed upon the top of the Captain's car, with instructions, at any unusual noise, to fire through the roof. By this arrangement we were deprived of the chance to capture four muskets inside each car, and besides incurred the certainty of having many men killed or wounded by the guards on top. Under these circumstances, our leader became convinced that the attempt would be a failure, and did not give the signal.

Escape from the Train

As soon as we became assured that our plan had failed, six of us determined to attempt to escape by leaping from the train. It required but a few moments to perfect our arrangements. The night was not quite so dark as we could have wished, there being a bright moon, only occasionally obscured by a passing cloud. But, waiting until the train was running on a down grade, at its maximum speed, we sprang from the car.

As good fortune would have it, we struck in a soft sand bank. The train passed on without our being observed by the guard, and none of us were injured. The place was near Adam's Run, about twelve or thirteen miles from Charleston. We were without compass or map. A council was called, and all the pros and cons of the situation discussed. We concluded that by traveling east, we would, at all events, strike the coast, and if we failed in finding our troops, we might possibly run across one of our vessels.

Calculating our direction by the moon and stars, as near as we could, we left the railroad and plunged into a South Carolina swamp. Of all the doleful places on the face of God's green earth, I do not think there is another so hideous. The timber is a species of cypress, from which hangs a gray moss, from three to twenty feet in length. When it is high tide, the water is from two to six feet deep. At low tide the surface has the appearance of solid earth; but in fact there are only a few inches of soil, supported by the cypress roots, which spread over, or rather just under the surface, and form a network, through which the unwary traveler is liable to break at any moment, and find himself unceremoniously seated on a root with his feet hanging either in water, or in space below, as the case may be. Every few rods there is a bayou, or slough, frequented by alligators. All kinds of vines and hanging plants interlace the spaces between the trees, and render it tiresome and difficult to penetrate. Several kinds of birds with mournful cries, and myriads of frogs, make night hideous, while the air is fairly alive with mosquitoes and gnats, and every tussock of grass seems tenanted by the poisonous moccasin snake. Occasionally a huge alligator will flop into a neighboring slough with a splash, and the snap of his hungry jaws can be heard for rods.

Altogether, the traveling is neither pleasant nor swift; but through it all we toiled on. Starvation and imprisonment were behind us, and liberty and the dear old home to the front. Our progress was necessarily slow, and before we were fairly started, the sun began to gild the east with his rosy beams. As nearly as we could calculate, we had traveled in the neighborhood of five miles since leaving the railroad. By the rise and the fall of the tide, we knew that we could not be far from the coast. We had no provisions; we must either reach the shore or starve. Safety dictated that we should seek a thicket and hide during the daytime, but necessity commanded us to travel while we had strength, and so we toiled on.

At length we came to a ridge running through the swamp, at about a right angle to our line of march. While crossing it we suddenly saw two horsemen moving leisurely along over what we discovered to be a well-traveled road. Fortunately seeing them before they saw us, we threw ourselves on the ground among the scrub pines. They proved to be a Confederate officer and his negro servant, and passed within perhaps three or four rods without discovering us. It was a narrow escape. We carefully reconnoitered the ground, crossed the road, and again plunged into the swamp.

After traveling a mile or two farther, we again met with an obstruction that compelled us to come to a halt. We had reached an outpost of the enemy. Peering through the underbrush we reconnoitered the ground. Before us, in a ridge running through the swamp, was a squadron of Confederate cavalry. There was but one thing for us to do, and that was to keep quiet until night.

Throughout the whole long summer afternoon we lay in a thicket, within a quarter of a mile of the enemy's cavalry. Occasionally the long-drawn-out note of a horn was heard, followed by the baying of hounds. We had read of the famous "negro dogs," and had been told by friends who had escaped and been recaptured, that they were used by our enemies to hunt down fugitives, so that these sounds did not serve to lessen our disquietude, or to render our situation more pleasant.

The sun at length disappeared, however, without our being discovered, and darkness almost immediately followed the setting of the sun. Unfortunately, the night was cloudy. The moon and stars, which had been our guides the night before, were obscured. We could only guess our course by the direction of the wind, and an occasional glance at the heavens through a break in the clouds. We were nearly exhausted by fatigue and want of food.

The enemy's pickets were in our front, and must be passed that night or never. Watching, crawling, now through quagmire and slime, now over fallen trees and through creeping vines, our eyes blinded by the stings of poisonous gnats and mosquitoes, we toiled on.

Hark! What is that? A human voice in our front! It must be the picket line. No chance to pass it here. The ground is dry, and the snapping of a twig might betray us. Back—silently, stealthily, and then by the left flank, to the swamp. Wading out into it, we found a slough. Getting into the middle of that, we waded down in the direction of the picket line. If we made an occasional splash, we knew it could do no harm; alligators were plenty, and the noise might be attributed to them.

Silently, scarcely breathing, we trudged through the water—stagnant and poisonous with malaria, among the alligators, lizards, frogs and snakes—and at last, thank God! past the pickets. Then working our way through a mass of tangled vines, we were again out on a dry ridge, with the enemy behind us, and Old Ocean and Liberty not far distant.

A few moments of rest and whispered congratulations, and then again on. On—yes, but in what direction? The wind had ceased to blow, thick clouds obscured the sky, we had no guide to direct us. A few moments' reflection convinced us that the attempt to travel farther that night would result in the useless expenditure of our little remaining strength. So, crawling into a thicket, we huddled together like swine, to save a little warmth to our bodies, while as patiently as we could, we waited for daylight.

Morning at last, and no clouds to obscure the sun. At our feet, all around us, glittering and sparkling in the dewdrops, kind Providence had provided us with a breakfast—whortleberries by the handsful. Eagerly gathering them, we satisfied the cravings of appetite.

Refreshed and invigorated by our breakfast, with our direction secured, and with renewed energy we again pushed on to the coast. It was past noon. We knew that we must be within a few miles of the ocean. Hark! What is that? Away back of us, at regular intervals, came the long-drawn-out yell of a pack of hounds. For several minutes we looked in each others' faces, and listened. Were they after us? The sound came from last night's camp. A short time sufficed to make our fears a certainty. The hounds were on our trail.

Now again for the bayou! A half-mile would take us to the swamp again. Can we reach it in time? Now, boys, keep together if you can! Like greyhounds, away we started. Our intelligence was matched against brute instinct. Which would succeed?

We had heard that water would baffle the keen scent of the dogs. The friendly bayou was at last reached, and into it we plunged, now unmindful of the lazy alligators, quite regardless of the dangerous moccasin snakes that infested it. We floundered along, now in mud and mire, now stumbling over logs, for perhaps a mile. Then, fainting and exhausted, we left this morass and started on our course. Ever and anon, however, we could hear the baying of the hounds, sometimes farther, sometimes nearer.

Prisoners Again

Would our ruse be successful? Could the beasts follow us through the water? At intervals we stopped and listened. We could easily tell when they struck the bayou. For a short time there was a cessation of their regular bay, and then it broke out again, accompanied by the sound of horses. Nearer and nearer they came. They were following our trail through the bayou.

Billings had that courage that never failed. He had been the life of the party. When it became evident that we must be overtaken, he selected the feeblest of us, directed them to crawl through a thicket of willows, one after the other, himself bringing up the rear, leaving but a single track for the brutes to follow; and then, under his direction, we armed ourselves with clubs and awaited the attack. Imagine, if you can, the feelings of that group of officers.

We had all been reared at the North, in a land of schools and churches. We were men of ordinary intelligence, accustomed to mingling in the society of our fellows, men who at home or in the army were qualified by education and character to be called gentlemen, and possessed at least the ordinary feelings of manhood. Yet there we were, run down and standing like brutes at bay, to defend ourselves from a pack of hounds. One glance at the faces of my comrades revealed more of their feelings than could printed pages.

With noses to the ground, on came the dogs, at a slow gallop, once in a while lifting their heads to emit their infernal howls. Behind them were a few cavalry men. At last the thicket was reached, and one after another the bloodhounds plunged in. Now could be seen the wisdom of Billings's plan. The dogs were compelled to follow each other in single file, for the track we made was but wide enough to admit one at a time.

With our clubs firmly grasped, standing on either side of the path, we awaited the appearance of the leader. Before his head appeared in sight, however, we were discovered by the hunters, who comprehended the situation at a glance. One or two sharp toots of the horn, and the dogs stopped.

Bringing his carbine to bear on us, the fellow called out: "Well, Yanks, do you surrender?"

We were unarmed, surrounded. "We can do nothing else," we replied.

"Throw down your clubs, then."

"But how about the dogs? We do not surrender to them. If they attack us we shall defend ourselves."

"I won't let the dogs bite you," he replied.

With this assurance we threw down our clubs, and were again prisoners. The dogs paid no further attention to us, except to smell about, acting very much like other hounds.

"Would those dogs have bitten us, if you had not called them off?" I asked.

The fellow grinned as he replied: "I reckon they might; right smart, too. I've seen them hounds eat niggers, and I reckon they wouldn't know the difference atween them and you uns. You uns wuz green to take to the bayou," he again remarked.

"Why?" I asked.

"Well, if you traveled there for fun, it wuz all right; but if you did it to throw the dogs off the scent it wuz d——d green, for dogs will follow the scent in stagnant water as well as on dry land."

"How would it be in a running stream?" I asked.

"Well, ef you are in a running stream, ef you travel up and the dogs are close on your trail, they kin foller; but ef you travel down, they can't. But," he added, "ef you go down, and the dogs is throwed off the scent, then I kin foller, fer then I know you've gone down."

"How about rain?" I asked.

"A rain gits us," he replied. "It kinder washes out all the scent."

"Are you a soldier?" I asked.

"I suppose so," he answered. "I draw pay as a soldier; but my business has allers been catching niggers, and that wuz the business of my father before me. Me an' the dogs has done nothin' but hunt niggers, deserters, an' sich, ever sence the war."

"What pay do you draw?" I asked.

"Oh, just common pay," he said. "Pay don't amount to much anyway; but I draw a ration for each of them dogs."

"What kind of a ration?"

"Just the same as a soldier's. But I sell the rations and feed the dogs mostly on alligator meat an' scrapin's. I tell you, stranger," exclaimed he, waxing enthusiastic, "them dogs has catched more niggers an' deserters than all the Provost Marshals in South Carolina."

"But," said I, "have you no compunctions about making a business of hunting down human beings this way?"

"To be honest," said he, "it does go agen the grain to hunt white men, but I do as I'm ordered."

"Then the Confederate government recognizes the use of hounds for this purpose as legitimate warfare, does it?"

"Certainly it does, or how could I draw rations for the dogs?"