The Bright Side of Prison Life Part 7

We reached Boston about dark and were lodged in a room of the courthouse, on the ground floor, the jail having been recently burned.

The town was soon all excitement over our capture, and we had many callers, who were admitted to see and talk with us, while very many more wanted to see us, but could not. We enjoyed a sumptuous meal of bacon and white bread, which was brought to us by citizens, and during our repast we were holding a genuine reception, the citizens taking us in turn and asking many questions about ourselves, the war, our opinions of the situation and future, and, in short, acting as if we were a bureau of information about the outside world. Our guards introduced us, and I heard one of them telling a small crowd about the fish and hay stories.

We could not have been treated better if we had been guests instead of prisoners.

Seeing a boy standing near the door and watching us, with his eyes and mouth wide open, I went up to him and asked if he could not go out and get us some b.u.t.termilk. He grinned and disappeared like a shot, returning shortly with a quant.i.ty of the desired article, and it was keenly relished. Having full stomachs and comfortable quarters, we were all in good humor and laughed and joked with our friends until late at night.

The town was a hard place, and shooting sc.r.a.pes and rows were numerous, but they were regarded as a matter of course, while our coming was a novelty; so our stay was a source of interest and entertainment to the people, while a matter of good living and comfort to ourselves. Boston was then the county-seat of Union county, but the name did not suit the people, and the t.i.tle of the county was changed to Davis.

Late at night we retired, making our beds on the soft sides of several bundles of sole leather which were stored in the room, and slept soundly until we were called for breakfast by the guards. This was the first decent sleep we had had since our escape, and we could not have put in our time to better advantage had our resting places been feather beds.

Our breakfast was plentiful and substantial, although plain. The citizens began to gather around before we got started with our meal, and, when we sat down to eat, the room was filled with a curious crowd.

Just as we began to eat, the enrolling officer, Captain Payne, came in to see us. He was a typical Southerner, of the long, lean, affable and insincere species, and he approached us with great dignity, rubbing his hands and smiling blandly, exclaiming in an unctuous tone:

"Good morning, gentlemen. I hope your breakfast is satisfactory. What!

dry bread! Really, gentlemen, if I had known this before I left my house I would have brought you some mola.s.ses. Sorry; very sorry."

Now, mola.s.ses was a rare luxury in those days in that section of the country, and I sized the man up in an instant as a smooth liar, who said what he did partly to aggravate us and partly for effect; so I promptly arose and replied, with a bow:

"Captain, your courtesy is overwhelming. This breakfast stands adjourned until you can send one of these n.i.g.g.e.rs to your house for that mola.s.ses."

He turned all colors of the rainbow, and several smothered laughs were heard in the crowd, but he could not well back down, and so we had mola.s.ses for breakfast.

The mola.s.ses incident seemed to make me popular with many of the rebels, and I was the recipient of many attentions. During the day one of them asked permission to take me out, and our guards permitted me to go in his charge. He took me all over the town, introduced me to many people, insisted upon my getting shaved at his expense, and in every way treated me right royally. Everyone I met seemed curious to learn all he could of the Yankees, and I was questioned and cross-questioned as to all imaginable views of the situation and prospects of the Confederacy. My replies were very frank, and I made no attempt to conceal my thoughts, but they were clothed in good-natured raillery, and my hearers seemed to like my plain speaking. I have very pleasant recollections of that day in Boston, and I scarcely realized that I was a prisoner until it became time for me to return to our quarters.

We had another jolly evening, and it may as well be said here that during our stay of several days in the town we duly entertained scores of callers, from the most aristocratic citizens to the lowest, and were kept in almost constant conversation from early morning until late at night.

The guards were compelled to move the crowd away at times, and then, after having talked to us for hours, we could hear them on the outside of the building, discussing the Yankees and their views, all crediting us with being honest in speaking our sentiments.

The next day it developed that we were likely to be delayed several days, on account of the fact that there was no competent person available to take charge of us and the necessary guard.

During the day we were much entertained by the appearance of an outfit in which we became much interested. An old wagon was driven up and stopped before our quarters, and before long everybody knew all that was to be known about it. The owner was a young man in a Confederate uniform, and he claimed to be a captain on leave of absence because of a wound. One of his feet was bandaged and he limped badly. He said that he belonged to a Georgia company, and had been shot through the ankle in a skirmish. His wagon was loaded with Confederate hats, which he had brought to Boston for sale, and he had a carpet-sack full of Confederate money, while his princ.i.p.al companion was a five-gallon demijohn full of "pine-top" whiskey. A second companion was a negro boy, named Joe, who was evidently very much afraid of his master. The officer and the demijohn were seen to be inseparable, as he kept up a continuous drain upon its capacity for entertainment, the result being that he was as near drunk all the time as a man can be who seems to have no limit to his capacity for stowing away liquor. The efforts of the man to seem entirely sober and business-like, and his evident dependence upon Joe, caused much amus.e.m.e.nt to all.

In the course of four or five days, during which time our confinement was uncertain as to duration, this young man disposed of his hats, and, professing a desire for such service as he could perform, he volunteered to take charge of the guard which might be detailed to take us back to our prison.

We were not over-anxious to go on, as our stay in Boston had been as pleasant as it could be for prisoners, but this offer was accepted, and the time was fixed for our departure.

After necessary preparation, we made a start for the first station, about thirty miles distant.

On the day following our farewell to Boston we stopped for dinner in an open spot adjoining a farmhouse.

Our friend, the captain, was, as usual, on the verge of being blind drunk, and yet so far from actually being so as to be able to know, in a general sort of way, about what he was doing. While eating our meal our leader learned that I was a Marylander. He swore that I ought to be shot for being a Yankee, and that my comrades were deserving of a like treatment, saying that he would do the job himself if he had not promised to treat us as prisoners of war. I ridiculed the idea of his shooting anybody, especially as several of his prisoners were Masons like himself, and told him that he did not dare to shoot one of them. He swore that they were not Masons whom he would recognize, but that there was his carpet-sack, out of which we could help ourselves to what money we needed.

The negro servant had been sent for a pail of water, and he now returned with it from the nearest farmhouse. The water was not cool enough to suit the captain, and he made the boy throw it out and go for some more.

When Joe brought the second supply he received an artistic cursing because he could not bring it quickly enough to avoid a rise in its temperature. Between the bibulous officer and Joe, who was a good-natured fellow, we were provided with considerable amus.e.m.e.nt during the lunch hour.

During the next afternoon we reached a combined church and schoolhouse, called "Ka.s.seder" by the natives, where was kept a courier station.

The corn which had been wasted in feeding the horses had attracted the hogs owned by the proprietor of the neighboring farmhouse, and they came within a short distance of us, when the captain called for a gun, which was handed to him by one of the guards. The aim of the half-drunken man was very uncertain, and, as the gun was pointed by him in the direction of the hogs, its muzzle swept over a s.p.a.ce occupied by several guards and the prisoners, who scattered in a hurry as the threatening instrument swayed to and fro in a hesitating way, at which the officer dropped the gun and laughed boisterously, calling for Joe and his demijohn. Sitting in the door of the church, our inebriated leader interviewed his friend the demijohn, and then ordered Joe to "round up them d----d hogs and shoo them" in his direction, threatening to shoot the first hog that attempted to bite his wounded ankle. Joe laughingly obeyed.

Again partaking of some liquid refreshments, the captain took up the gun, following the hogs in their movements, with an uncertain aim, which again and again caused a scattering among us and much amus.e.m.e.nt to him.

Finally the gun went off in an apparently accidental way, but the finest hog in the lot was killed, and we had roast pork for supper. The farmer did not learn of his loss until one of the guards was sent up to the house to report the death of the hog and ask for some salt. The guards being fearful of punishment for such foraging, the slayer of the animal sent word that we would pay for the hog, but Mr. Floyd, the owner, refused to receive pay, and he furnished the salt to make the pork palatable.

CHAPTER XII.

THE RETURN TO THE STOCKADE.

Our leader had been half sick when he left Boston, and he now became quite ill, soon becoming so much worse that we thought he would die. The drinks which had preceded the killing of the hog had been about the last left in the demijohn, and he had emptied it before the pig was dressed.

The march in the intense heat, with the bad whiskey, seemed to have a bad effect, and the next morning we halted to see what the result would be. Seeing that the man would surely die if not relieved, I got permission to hunt up a wagon and take the captain to a doctor, who, as I learned by inquiry, lived a few miles away.

Most of the men were "down upon" their commander, and all were indifferent to his sufferings, simply doing what he asked of them, and that, for the most part, with reluctance.

I got him in the wagon, and, with a guard to accompany me, took him to the doctor, who gave him medicine and got a neighboring farmer to take him into his house.

The sick man stuck to his carpet-sack throughout the trip, and, when he was taken to the house, he had his money with him. After he was put to bed, he pointed to his bank and told me to help myself, seeming to be very grateful for what I had done. Of course, I could not take money for any such service, and he would not have offered it had I not been a prisoner and in a position where the possession of money might avoid much hardship. He told the doctor that he would have died if it had not been for that d----d Yankee, and that he was very glad he had kept his promise by not killing us. He dwelt on the idea that, being a Marylander, I should not have forgotten myself so far as to be found on the wrong side.

We saw no more of the captain, but learned from the doctor that he was improving and would be all right as soon as the effects of the "pine-top" whiskey had been neutralized.

We were delayed for several days, and I got permission to go where I pleased, on the promise that I would not run away.

There was something inviting about the house near our camp, the home of the man named Floyd, whose hog our leader had killed, and one day Captain Fee and I went up to see if we could get some b.u.t.termilk. Our personal appearance was not prepossessing, as the entire apparel of each consisted of an old hat, a shirt which was much the worse for wear, a ragged pair of trousers and a well-worn pair of shoes. We had dressed up as well as we could, by washing our faces and hands, before starting for the house, but a modern tramp would have disdained our society, and the young girl who came to the door of the house in response to my knock was inclined to shut the door in our faces. We soon convinced her that we were harmless, and she then invited us to take our seats on the back porch in company with a crippled Confederate soldier, Mrs. Floyd and herself. We spent about half an hour in pleasant conversation, when we made known our errand.

Mrs. Floyd promptly offered to fill our canteens with b.u.t.termilk, requesting us to enter the parlor in the meantime and talk to her husband, who was confined to the room by sickness. This we did gladly, and found that Mr. Floyd had been a very sick man, but was now convalescent.

The sick man was quite glad to see us and hear what we had to say. The visit was being enjoyed very much when, looking through the open window, he saw the doctor coming, and advised us to leave the room and not let it be known that we had talked together, the doctor being a very strong Southerner and he a Union man. Accordingly, we slipped out of the back door as the doctor approached the front entrance.

The next day the wounded Confederate soldier came down to our camp with a bundle and a note from the young lady. The bundle contained a couple of shirts, and the note read as follows:

"These two shirts are from a friend, and are to be worn by the two who are the most dest.i.tute."

It is perhaps superfluous to add that I appropriated one of the garments, but the shirt was not superfluous.

The next day one of our guards, a boy about fifteen years of age, entered into conversation with me. After talking some time, he invited me to go with him to his father's house for dinner. Securing permission, I went.

His father's name was McMichael, and again I found a Union man, who was forced to be a Confederate or lose all he had in the world. We had a good dinner and an enjoyable chat. I learned that he had three boys in the Confederate service, the youngest, who had given me the invitation to dine, being in the home guard. His daughter was a school-teacher. The wife and this girl ate with us, and all seemed very anxious and joyous to learn of the successes of the Union forces, although the mother's eyes frequently filled with tears as something was said which recalled to her mind the risk run by her boys at the front. I cannot recall the memory of a meal which I enjoyed any better than the one I ate in that old farmhouse with those agreeable people.

While at dinner the parents seemed disturbed by thoughts of the possibility that their last boy would also be sent to the front, and it was then and there agreed between us that if such should be the case he would desert at the first opportunity and go to my home at Blakesburg, Iowa, where he should attend school until the war was ended. The proposal affected the parents and sister strongly when I made it, and in agreeing to it they united in thanking and blessing me for the happy thought and accompanying offer.

When the time came for me to leave it seemed like a parting with dear friends, and I often recall and see again that dear old lady's face, as, with tears in her eyes, she bade me "G.o.dspeed."

By the time our march was resumed we had become very familiar with our guards, and, in fact, it was more of a picnic excursion than a march of guards with their prisoners.

Each of us slept at night with one of the soldiers, and we went on several midnight expeditions in company. One night we raided a farmhouse and stole a sack of sweet potatoes, sitting up half the night to roast them. Another night we confiscated a beehive and secured some delicious honey. We were continually playing jokes upon each other, and all hands were sorry when the time came to separate.

We fooled along, taking things very easily, and finally reached Camp Ford about thirty days after leaving Boston.

Our reception by the boys in the stockade was characteristic of men continually seeking to find something to do which would serve to kill time and prevent despondency.