The Bright Side of Prison Life Part 2

Late in the afternoon we were marched about three miles out in the country, and there we camped for the night, being well fed for the first time, but it being the first opportunity of the rebels to feed us well.

Our meal was of ash cakes, made of dough rolled in leaves and baked in the ashes of the fires by the negroes. This was the first food given to the negroes with us, and, during the march, I saw a colored woman walking painfully along with a child in her arms and two small ones holding to her skirts, the fear of being killed if they fell behind having kept them up.

The next morning we were separated from the negroes and marched to Camden, which place, in the meantime, had been evacuated by General Steele, reaching there on Sat.u.r.day morning.

Several days were spent here in arranging for a guard and in registering the prisoners.

The soldiers were all sent to an old cotton press, and there were robbed of what few things the admirable effort already made in this direction had allowed to remain in their hands, or, rather, concealed in their clothing.

Colonel Polk was provost marshal, and the officers and citizens were taken before him for registration. He asked the names, regiment, etc., of each, entering the replies in a large book. At last he came to a tall, fine-looking fellow, who stood on my right, and this young man gave his name--"J. J. Jennings, 5th Kansas Cavalry."

Colonel Polk laid down his pen and looked up, with a flushed face and swelling veins, blurting out:

"You're one of the d--d gang that burned my house and cleaned out my plantation; I've a notion to hang--no, you're a prisoner. Next!"

He resumed his pen and returned to his writing, but one could see that he harbored much resentment for a legitimate act of warfare which had happened to come home to him.

After we had been duly examined and registered we were sent to the cotton press, where the men were, and here we remained for several days, our promised parole not being forthcoming.

Finally, a sufficient guard was secured, and we were started off for Shreveport, the talk of the parole, having served its purpose, now being forgotten.

The march to Shreveport occupied about a week, and attempts to escape were numerous. Each night several men would get away by having comrades cover them up with leaves so that they would be left behind in the morning. I devised a scheme to capture our guards and liberate ourselves in a body, but most of the men were fearful of failure, and sufficient co-operation could not be secured.

One night, four men dug a hole beside the road and concealed themselves in it, being covered over with leaves and brush. The guards had missed so many by this time that they had resolved to investigate; so, when we had marched just clear of our camp, we were halted, and a couple of officers went back, with drawn swords, and commenced prodding all piles of leaves and likely places of concealment. Soon the point of a sword penetrated through the boughs and leaves over the hole and to the fleshy portion of the anatomy of a man beneath them. A smothered yell and a convulsive spring revealed the place of concealment, and the poor fellows were hauled out and escorted with scant ceremony back to the crowd. Not a man of us but who wished that they had escaped; but the desire to forget our own misery was too great for our sympathy, and the crestfallen men were greeted with shouts, yells, laughter and all sorts of jokes. The guards viewed these attempts good-naturedly, but they had their duty to perform, and their vigilance put a stop to further attempts of this sort. Just before we reached the Red River a young fellow suddenly made a magnificent leap, clearing the fence by the side of the road, and ran like a deer toward a neighboring clump of timber and underbrush. Several shots were fired at him, but he dashed on and gained the timber, two guards following him into it. A short time after the guards came back and said they had killed him, but I afterwards learned of his escape and return to his home.

It is worthy of note that I had become rather popular with our rebel guards, and that by an apparently strange method.

When we were first captured I had made up my mind to make the best of a bad job, and had, therefore, lost no opportunity to be sociable with our captors, while my natural tendencies led me into conversations of raillery and criticism whenever a chance was offered. The desire to forget unpleasant reflections increased both my desire to talk and my ability to do so, and, during the march, I was constantly moving about among the prisoners, interviewing the guards, finding out all I could learn and discussing the situation of the country with every rebel who would talk to me. It had soon become apparent to me that nearly all our guards were not only sociably inclined, but rather disposed to enjoy my comments upon the Confederacy, and the daily talks and discussions, in which I freely gave vent to my ideas, were at once the cause of many fears for my safety, among my comrades, and of increasing popularity among the rebels. The boys held their breath on many occasions, expecting me to be shot for my impudence and candor, reproving me for it as they had a chance; but, whether because the rebels liked criticism, or liked the way in which it was made, I was sought out by them and encouraged in my talks, receiving many tokens of friends.h.i.+p.

One day, as we were wearily plodding along, a strange-looking figure rode up beside me and opened up a conversation. The rider was an ungainly, poorly-dressed, ugly specimen of a country doctor, and his mount was one of the sorriest-looking steeds to be seen in a day's journey among many poor specimens of horseflesh. This man rode along the line, examining the prisoners with an air and look which were gall and wormwood to us. For some reason best known to himself he selected me as his intended victim, and, as he rode up beside me, I was saluted with some remark about d----d Yankees, which brought forth a tirade of raillery from me, in which I expatiated very fully upon stay-at-homes, and negro equality as I knew it to exist in the South. The man was furious, but the several guards within hearing nodded and grinned when I looked toward them, and one of them got close enough to murmur:

"Go it, Yank! Give him h----l!"

The man finally rode off, and I forgot all about the matter, until at noon, when we halted, and one of my fellow-captains came up to me, in a flutter of excitement, and gave me the pleasant intelligence that he had heard them talking of hanging me to the next tree. I did not believe it, and, as the next tree was out of sight ahead, my reception of the information was of a careless nature. It turned out later that the doctor had demanded that I should be hung as one of the blackest-hearted villains he had ever heard talk, and that an investigation had caused him to be sent about his business. This is mentioned as an ill.u.s.tration of the fact that our guards were not looking for chances to shoot prisoners.

We finally reached the Red river, on the bank of which we stood in the rain for over two hours before we were ferried across, and marched through the main street of Shreveport on an old plank road. The whole town turned out to see us, but we were a hard-looking crowd to put on exhibition, yet they halted us for a much longer time than was desirable, while the citizens satisfied their curiosity about Yankee prisoners.

Here I met a rebel major, Lazwell, _from Iowa_.

After our inspection by the natives we were marched beyond the town to a place called Four Mile Springs, where we camped for the night in the rain, and rested as well as we could upon the soil of white clay, which ornamented our persons and showed many evidences of attachment.

When we again started it was with the knowledge that our destination was a stockade at Tyler, Texas, and all hopes vanished save those based upon the prospect of a long imprisonment.

During the march all our boys were constantly regretting that we had made no attempt to escape, and calling themselves idiots for being hoodwinked by the clever Colonel Hill and his talk of parole.

To show the current ideas of Confederate money it will be appropriate to relate an incident of this journey to Tyler:

One day, while we were halted for rest and water, two rebel officers commenced to talk "hoss swap." After each had made a careful examination of the other's horse, one said: "Well, Captain, you'll have to boot me."

"All right, Kunnel," said the captain; "how much do you want?" The "kunnel's" answer made me gasp for breath. "Give me a thousand dollars, Captain, and it's a go." "No, that's too much," said the captain; "I will give you five hundred." "All right," said the "kunnel," who evidently thought five hundred "dollars" a small matter of difference in a "hoss swap," "strip your hoss." In the meantime I, with others, had looked the horses over with considerable care and could see but little difference in value between them; they were both very much alike--stout, pony-built sorrels, and in Iowa would have sold for from $75 to $80 in greenbacks.

Just at this time a rebel officer rode by on a beautiful little dapple "dun" pony; he was pacing along at a fine rate, and called forth many expressions of admiration. One of the officers remarked: "The kunnel got a big bargain in that hoss; he done paid only $5000 for him." This horse may have been worth $100 in greenbacks. I had never seen the relative values of the two moneys so well ill.u.s.trated before.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LIEUTENANT WALTER S. JOHNSON.]

CHAPTER IV.

BRIGHT SPOTS.

Lieut. Walter S. Johnson, of Company I, my regiment, now of Lincoln, Neb., was captured with me, and was one of our number on the march from Mark's Mills, Arkansas, the scene of our undoing, to Tyler, Texas. He was afterwards one of my comrades in an attempt to escape. A couple of his experiences are well worthy of record here, and, while one of them occurred during our absence without leave from the stockade, it is related in this chapter because neither incident came to my knowledge until a recent date, and, both being ill.u.s.trative of kind treatment received, it seems right to place them in a chapter which may be said to be Lieutenant Johnson's, especially as neither of them otherwise needs particular location in my narrative.

The balance of this chapter is to be understood, without quotation marks, as coming from my comrade:

After we had been on our weary march for a number of days, a man came among the prisoners for the purpose of buying up all greenbacks that were for sale. He did not need much help to carry off his purchases, as we had been previously interviewed by others on the same subject, but without the offer to give an equivalent or even the courtesy to ask whether we had a superfluous quant.i.ty. This man, therefore, made a favorable impression, and we became curious to learn his object. He was a genteel, una.s.suming fellow, and spent two or three days with us, talking to individuals as the opportunity offered. At last I asked him why he was giving $5 of Confederate money for one of ours, when he told me frankly that he expected to go to Vicksburg--then within our lines--to buy medicine for the use of their army.

"Do you think it possible to do this?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," he responded; "I have done so several times already, and there is no trouble about it."

In a moment it flashed across my mind that here was a chance to get a letter through to my loved ones at home, and I said to him:

"Would you have the kindness to take a letter through for me and mail it to my wife when you get to Vicksburg?"

"Oh, certainly," he said; "I can do that just as well as not."

With bounding heart I tore a leaf out of my pocket diary and wrote a few lines to my wife, saying that I was all right, telling her to keep up her courage and that all would yet be well.

I gave the precious sc.r.a.p of paper to the gentleman--without an envelope, as a matter of necessity--_and my wife received it all right_ from Vicksburg, where it had been enclosed in an envelope and mailed.

I remember this kind-hearted gentleman with much grat.i.tude, and, as the receipt of the letter would indicate that he got through as expected, the fact has always been to me a source of satisfaction beyond that of personal benefit.

This experience, as well as the one to follow, is recorded all the more readily because the kindnesses received during our sojourn in Rebeldom were not expected, at least by me.

On our return to the stockade, after an escape elsewhere described, an incident occurred which gave me greater faith in human nature than I had possessed up to that time.

We were pretty well used up by our constant traveling, were having little to eat, and I was not feeling very well; perhaps looking even worse than I felt.

Thinking that a cup of milk would be at once a benefit and a positive luxury to me, one morning, just after daylight and before we had broken camp for the day's march under our guards, I made up my mind to visit a house near our resting place and ask for the drink to which my palate had been a stranger for about two years. I was scarcely a presentable object, being barefooted, my pants frayed out up to my knees and hanging in shreds below, my coat-tails cut off at the waist, my feet wrapped in the detached fragments of my coat, and I wore a white wool hat, given me by the "Johnnies," as the best they had, that drooped so much as to necessitate doubling it up like a "turnover" pie. In this plight I mustered up the courage to present myself at the house, after having secured permission from the guards. Knocking at the door, with some misgivings, I was answered by a sad-looking, yet sweet-faced, middle-aged lady, whose appearance so confused me that I could only stammer my request.

She, with a calm, gentle demeanor, so mother-like that the tears almost started from my eyes, invited me to a seat in a neat and tidy, yet comparatively bare room. This courtesy I acknowledged and declined as respectfully as I knew how, thinking I would only be there a moment. She retired at once to an adjoining room.

The minutes kept slipping away, until I feared that our kind guards would have their patience tried and their suspicions aroused to an extent which would invite an investigation of my whereabouts, especially as we were to move before long. Just as I was beginning to think myself forsaken by the old lady, and was trying to forget the imaginary taste of that expected milk, she reappeared, when, to my surprise and almost consternation, she invited me _to breakfast_ with the family in the next room, where the table was ready and bountifully loaded with a substantial meal.

Oh, that breakfast! The sight fairly took my breath for a moment, and I no longer regretted the delay as I feasted my eyes upon the clean and inviting table, with its plentiful supply of creamy biscuit, golden yellow b.u.t.ter, ham and eggs, baked potatoes and steaming coffee; but, as I gazed, even though hungry, worn out and reduced in flesh, a full sense of the kindness exhibited almost caused me to break down utterly and my appet.i.te failed me for the moment. However, my kind hostess, in her gentle, una.s.suming manner, quietly motioned me to a seat and bade me make myself at home. With the family of four persons I sat at the table throughout the meal. Very few words were spoken. My eyes kept filling with tears and my heart was too full to permit my saying more than "Thank you, and may heaven bless you."

Even at this late day the remembrance of the unpretentious kindness of that dear old lady brings the tears to my eyes.