The life record of H. W. Graber / A Terry Texas Ranger, 1861-1865; sixty-two years in Texas

After remaining in this prison about a month, a roll was called and the prisoners whose names were called, were ordered to get ready for exchange. We started next morning for City Point, as we were told, but when we reached Columbus, Ohio, we were ordered to march to Camp Chase, where we were quartered in barracks, partitioned into mess rooms of twenty-four in a mess. While here I was very uneasy, expecting to be called for at any time, to be returned to Louisville, as several of the prisoners had been so returned, to meet charges against them, hence concluded perhaps my name appeared on the roll through mistake, but I was fortunate enough to escape this fate and got along fine until I was taken sick with flux. While confined in this prison I was furnished a New York paper, I think it was the Tribune, giving an account of the hanging of one of our comrades of the regiment by the name of Dodd, who was captured near Knoxville, Tennessee, having had his horse killed in an engagement near there, and was ordered to make his way out as best he could. He was raised in Sevier County, and decided to visit his home, while there, and when captured, was taken to Knoxville, there tried as a spy by a court martial, convicted and sentenced to be hung. His conviction was secured on a pocket diary, which he had kept, recording his every-day work.

A correspondent of the New York Tribune, who visited him in the jail just before his execution, claimed he found him a very intelligent, educated gentleman, in fact, believed him to be a grand character, and his execution, which he witnessed, proved such a horrible affair that it elicited the following expression from him: “In the name of humanity and all that is decent, if the terrible exigencies of war require the deliberate taking of human life, let the prisoner be shot or give us the merciful guillotine.”

Satisfied if the members of the regiment heard of Dodd’s execution they would certainly retaliate, and in return the Federal Army would also retaliate, and as I was the only member of the Eighth Texas, their prisoner, they would certainly call for me for such purpose.

After remaining in this prison for a month I agreed with one of Morgan’s men to tunnel out under the fence, and prepared to go to work that night. The fence was only about twenty yards from our mess room, the identical place where one of Morgan’s officers had dug out a few months before and effected his escape. During this day we were suddenly called on to move and were again promised that we should be sent to City Point for exchange. All the sick in the hospital were furnished conveyances to carry them to Columbus, where we took train. As stated heretofore, I had a severe case of flux, which weakened me a great deal, and I was rendered unable to walk soon after we started on our march to Columbus, a distance of about four miles. We were marched by fours with a heavy advance and rear guard and a single file guard on each side of our column. After having marched about a mile I gave out completely, and my comrades reported my case to a lieutenant, marching by the side of us, who instructed me to sit down by the roadside and wait until the rear guard came up; then to tell them to make a detail to stay with me until I reached Columbus. Very soon after the main body had passed, one of the rear guards called out: “Hike out, you d—— Rebel,” which, of course, made me resentful and I refused to hike out, telling him that I had orders to stop and tell some of the rear guard to bring me up to Columbus. By this time he had got pretty close to me and I happening to look around found him charging on me with a bayonet, which made me jump, and proved the best medicine I could have taken for flux. It simply infused new strength and enabled me to hike to Columbus.

At Erie, Pennsylvania, we were put in coal cars with the bottoms pretty thickly covered with coal dust, in which we were carried to Philadelphia, being marched through Chestnut Street to a boat landing.

Their object in moving us in these coal cars we construed to be a policy to make us look as dirty as possible. Many of our men, of course, were somewhat ragged, and, altogether, we appeared a motley crowd, in striking contrast to the heroes that had been cherished by our Northern sympathizers, called “copper-heads” by the fanatics of the North. In our march to the boat landing we were greeted by many intelligent ladies, who were standing on the streets watching our passing, and quite a number of them had their hands full of postage money, which was bills of denominations of less than a dollar, which they threw and scattered among us. After we reached the boat, on which we were ordered up on the second deck, a dray-load of cheese and crackers was sent down to us by some of the ladies, but the guards on the lower deck appropriated it, and, after eating as much as they wanted, sold the balance of it to all that had money. Then, adding insult to injury, they sent word to the ladies to send more—to be treated in the same manner. The boat then moved out down the river where our journey to City Point for exchange terminated at Fort Delaware, where we were unloaded and were roughly treated.

Fort Delaware proved to be the worst prison we had been in; dirty, with no water fit to drink. Our drinking water had to be taken from the canal inside of the levee, which had a green scum floating on top, and, on the lower part of the island, was used for bathing. After about two or three weeks, an arrangement was made with a boat called the “Osceola” to bring us water from the Brandywine River, which proved to be palatable and a great treat.

On our arrival at Fort Delaware we found about twenty thousand prisoners, a large part of them captured at the battle of Gettysburg; among whom were four or five hundred of Hood’s Brigade, and also some from Granbury’s Brigade, who were captured at Vicksburg. This created a sad impression on me and made me wish I was back in the saddle again more than I ever did, but there was nothing to do but submit. While here we also heard of the battle of Chickamauga, the first report of which was most encouraging, as it stated their army was annihilated and Thomas had fled to the mountains. This started the Rebel yell in the prison, and made us feel that we would soon be exchanged, but the next day’s report put a damper on our enthusiasm, and made us feel sad indeed, as the report in this New York paper was that their army had rallied and were holding on to Chattanooga, with our army retreating, and, while their loss was very heavy in killed and wounded, ours was double. It made us realize that fate was against us, and we would never be able to gain a decisive victory, which would unquestionably secure our recognition by foreign governments.

As already stated, Fort Delaware proved the worst prison we had been in; smallpox broke out among us and nearly every other disease known. A large number died. Every morning they called at the big gate, “Bring out your dead!” and the dead were buried on the Jersey shore by a detail of prisoners.

Among one of these details one morning was a gentleman by the name of Simpson, from Houston, Texas, who belonged to Hood’s Brigade. This man was born and raised in New York State and had lived in Houston only a couple of years, engaging in business and had become thoroughly acquainted with the character of our people, and especially the institution of slavery. In this short time he became one of the South’s strongest friends, ready to give his life for her cause, as demonstrated by his joining the first troops Texas sent to Virginia.

Slipping away from the guards, he made his way to his old home, told his people who had heard that he was in the Rebel Army that he had recanted and taken the oath of allegiance to the United States Government, thereby reinstating him with his family, who lavished money and all else on him until he was fully recuperated from the effects of his prison experience, when he again shipped on board a steamer for Nassau, where he took a Confederate blockade runner and came South, to fight it out to the end. After the war he entered into copartnership with a man by the name of Wiggins, constituting the firm of Wiggins & Simpson, which built a large foundry and machine shop. This they conducted for many years, and, at the time of his death, Simpson was wealthy and one of the most honored and esteemed citizens of Houston, never having expressed a word of regret over his conduct during the war.

It might not be out of place here to say that nearly all Northern-raised men among us within my knowledge pursued the same course. They invariably proved gallant soldiers and did their duty for the South to the limit of their ability, returning South after the war and spending the balance of their lives as our most honored citizens. We had twenty-six generals of Northern birth in the Confederate Army, twelve of whom were graduates of West Point, and were offered high rank in the Federal Army. This, no doubt, proved a hard problem for the North to understand, and only emphasizes the justice of our cause, because these men were prompted only by a conscientious motive, and faced suffering, death and disgrace in the eyes of their Northern friends by such a course.

While on this subject I would mention the case of General Pemberton, the gallant soldier who commanded at Vicksburg, and directed its defense to the last ditch. He was the son of wealthy parents in Philadelphia, who threatened to disinherit him if he didn’t resign his commission in the Southern Army and come North, but he ignored their threat and continued in the Southern Army to the end.

Our suffering at Fort Delaware was almost unbearable. We were crowded into these barracks as thick as we could lie, with all character of sickness and disease among us, receiving additional prisoners occasionally to keep the barracks filled, with only two meals a day of three small crackers and an inch of meat. Many prisoners got desperate and attempted to swim the Delaware River to effect their escape, only to have their dead bodies found washed ashore on the Delaware or Jersey side of the river the next day.

A number of our men were shot without cause by the guard, who, we understood, were promoted for such act; still a few of the men made their escape by swimming the river, among whom I might mention Jim Loggins, a boy about eighteen years old, who belonged to Hood’s Brigade. He is now a practicing physician of Ennis, Texas, a father of a large family of children, all highly regarded and respected citizens of their home town.

Prisoners seeking their escape would take canteens, tightly corked, and use them as life preservers. Referring back to the case of Jim Loggins: When he got into the river with others, the tide was running in fast, and the tide took him about five or six miles up the river before he reached a landing on the Delaware side. He then, with one companion, made his way through the State of Delaware into Maryland, crossing the Potomac, then through Northern Virginia, occupied by the Federal Army, back to Richmond, where he rejoined Hood’s Brigade, and was in every important battle until the end of the war, surrendering at Appomattox.

Among our prisoners at Fort Delaware were the First Maryland Cavalry, captured at South Mountain, before the battle of Gettysburg. These Maryland men were the sons of leading families, largely men of great wealth in the State of Maryland. Their friends and families at home petitioned Governor Swann, of Maryland, to intercede for them with the Federal War Department, and permit them to take a parole to go home, and stay at their homes, until regularly exchanged, and it was generally believed success would crown their efforts. These men received clothing and money in the greatest abundance from their families at home, and were about the most genteel looking men we had in prison. In connection with this, I would mention the escape of one of their parties, who, being well dressed and clean shaven, wearing a white shirt and fresh collar, was watching the “Osceola” at the landing about ready to depart, and boldly slipped up on the levee, walked down to the guard, passing him while the guard saluted, mistaking him for a citizen visitor from Delaware City, who came over quite often, then passed on to the boat, walked up on its cabin deck, took a seat in front, with his feet cocked up on the guards, smoking a cigar, when the boat pushed off with him and he was never heard of by us any more, no doubt making good his escape.

Many incidents of interest I might mention, showing the loyalty of the Southern soldier under this most terrible condition, facing death daily, seeing his comrades carried out by the dozen for burial daily, with no prospect for exchange. Certainly history does not record such remarkable devotion to a country and cause.

In line with this, I might mention the effort of General Schoepf, commander of the fort and prison. He one day conceived the idea of creating a stampede among us, for which purpose he ordered out about three hundred East Tennesseeans, formed them in line and made a strong speech to them, telling them of the North’s vast resources for the conduct of the war, and our diminishing, limited means for holding on; showing them the impossibility for our ever succeeding, with no prospect of exchange. Then he told them of the great prosperity of the North, where labor was in demand and wages high, of which they could take the benefit by taking the oath of allegiance and thus save their lives, recover their health and strength, live in peace and happiness the balance of the war, and, finally, he called on them, saying, “Now, all of you that are ready and willing to take the oath of allegiance, step three paces to the front.” Only one man responded.

General Schoepf evidently thought that East Tennessee, as a section of country in the South, was the most disloyal to our cause, its citizens being largely Union people, and that these East Tennesseeans would certainly accept his liberal offer, and, by that means, make a break in our ranks. It is hardly necessary to say that he gave it up as a bad job, and did not attempt another such experiment. In connection with this, however, I regret to have to say that a few weak brothers were found in our ranks, who took the oath of allegiance and were then separated from the rest of the prisoners, in a special camp about a half mile distant, where they were designated by us as “Galvanized Yankees.”

After spending a part of the winter at Fort Delaware, one morning there appeared a notice at what we called a postoffice, inside of the big gate, calling upon all Marylanders, prisoners of war, to appear at the gate with their baggage; which, of course, was construed to mean that Governor Swann had succeeded in his effort to secure a parole for these Marylanders, and that they would be taken to Washington for the purpose of being paroled and permitted to go home to remain until properly exchanged. This, of course, created considerable excitement and rejoicing among the Marylanders, which was shared largely by the rest of the prisoners, although they could not hope to ever be favored in the same manner. It was a source of comfort and gratification to us to know that some of our friends, at least, would be saved the sufferings and almost certain death, even if we could not share it with them.

While they were forming in line, by fours, headed for the big gate, an acquaintance belonging to Hood’s Brigade, whose name was Robert Brantley, of Navasota, called to me and said, “Good-bye, Henry.” I said, “Where are you going, Bob?” He said, “I am going to try to get out with these men.” I said, “How are you going to try to do that?” He said, “I have two names and am going to answer to one of them at roll call.” I said, “Bob, you do not want two names; you can’t answer to both. If you will give me one of them I will try to go out with you.” He said, “All right, come on.” I had time enough to go into the barracks and get an oilcloth satchel, which had been given me at Bowling Green; then I had a magnificent cape overcoat, left me by Major Ousley in Bowling Green prison; with this coat on and this citizen’s new satchel, the coat extending over the top of my boots, hiding partly worn butternut pants. I passed for a Marylander pretty well, seemingly as well dressed as they were, while Bob looked ragged, like one of these Hood Brigade men that had not had any clothing furnished them in some time, and appeared rather suspicious among this well dressed crowd. In giving me the name he retained the name of Charles Erbert, who belonged to the First Maryland Cavalry, and who had died in prison. The name of Charles Stanley, which he gave me to use, was the name of a son of a preacher Charles Stanley was sick in the hospital, and his father, ostensibly to preach to the troops at the fort, was permitted the privilege of a visit, mainly for the purpose of being with his son in the hospital.

The keeper of the prison roll was a Lieutenant Wolff, a renegade Virginian, who was also a “Galvanized Yankee.” Wolff was also acquainted with many of the Marylanders, and particularly with Charles Stanley, on account of his father visiting there. Wolff’s acquaintance with the Marylanders was through their clothing and money sent them, which passed through his hands.

We were soon marched out to the wharf, where the “Osceola” was awaiting us to carry us to the flag of truce boat, “New York,” anchored in midstream, as the water was too shallow for her to come up to the wharf. We were held on the wharf for nearly an hour before a roll call commenced, during which time I suggested to Bob to separate, for him to take the opposite edge of the party to the edge that I would take, then to post himself on the circumstances of his man’s capture and the location of his home in Maryland, telling him that we might be questioned, and, if posted, we could have a ready answer, thereby keeping down suspicion. Bob said he did not think there was any danger in that; his greatest apprehension was that he would be personally recognized by some of the Yankees, as he had been at work in the cook house, where he made the acquaintance of quite a number, and he thought perhaps Lieutenant Wolff might recognize him, while I had no fear of anything of that kind.

Finally a major, with several other officers, appeared. Lieutenant Wolff was already there. The major began calling the roll alphabetically. When he called the name of Charles Erbert, Bob failed to answer. I decided if he called it the second time that I would answer to the dead man’s name, believing that Bob had lost his nerve and would not answer at all. When he called the name the second time we both answered, but I kept down, while he jumped up quickly. This drew the major’s attention to him, and he never knew who it was that answered over on my side of the crowd. I forgot to mention that we were all squatted down on the wharf. When Bob walked out boldly, attempting to pass the major, on his way to the boat, the major stopped him. “What is your name, sir?” “My name is Charles Erbert.” The major, without any further questioning, told him to take a seat and called up a guard to take charge of him. This sudden decision of the major that there was fraud was no doubt prompted by both of us answering to the same name, yet it created a suspicion with me that perhaps we had been betrayed, as they kept a lot of spies in the prison all the time. As considerable time was consumed in calling the names, down to the letter S, I had ample time to prepare for the issue, and when the name of Charles Stanley was called I jumped up and boldly went forward, passing him, without looking. I was favored by Lieutenant Wolff being engaged in shaking hands with one of the Marylanders and eating an apple with his back turned to the major when he called the name of Charles Stanley, evidently not hearing it, and which I did not permit him to call the second time. I therefore passed through unmolested. As heretofore stated, my appearance tallied pretty well with the rest of the Marylanders and Bob Brantley’s appearance was in striking contrast with theirs.

After getting on the boat and mixing with the Marylanders, I was congratulated by them on my success and promised a good time when they reached home. As soon as all were aboard, the “New York” weighed anchor, when, the next morning, running down the coast on the Atlantic, we were told that we would have to remain down in the hold on the second deck until they could wash decks. They closed down the hatch and only permitted us to come on the main deck when we discovered that we were at Point Lookout, Maryland, under the guns of a thirty-two-pound battery, and the Potomac flotilla, and were then told to march out, and were led into what we called a “bull pen,” where we found about ten or twelve thousand prisoners quartered in little A tents on the sand of the seashore, with nothing else to protect them from the winter’s blast. Had we suspected their motive, we could have easily overpowered the guard on the big steamer, beached and burned her and scattered out in Maryland, without taking a parole. At Point Lookout our camp was laid off in State divisions, a row of little A tents on each side of a wide street with a cook house for each division at the head of it. We were here furnished rations the same as we had at Fort Delaware, by marching in and taking our position at the long table in front of each ration. Sometimes we had a cup of what they called bean soup, but it was always my misfortune to get a cup of bean water, the cook failing to stir up the soup and thoroughly mixing the beans with the water. Besides this, we had three crackers and an inch of meat. This we had twice a day, as at Fort Delaware, and considerable suffering on account of hunger was thereby entailed.

As stated, we were quartered in tents by State Divisions. Coming there with the Marylanders, under a Marylander’s name, I started with the Maryland Division, but in connection with this, soon joined the Texas Division, Tennessee Division and Louisiana Division and drew rations with every one of these divisions, thereby securing three extra rations which I divided among my messmates.

In order to improve my time, with nothing else to do, I decided to try to learn the French language and for this purpose, joined a Louisiana mess, the men belonging to the Seventh Louisiana, who were Creoles and spoke nothing but French in their mess. In a short time, I was enabled to understand some of their talk and they, as well as I, thought I was getting along fine, and I believe if I could have continued with them six months I would have spoken French fluently.

While at this point General Butler was appointed Exchange Agent, this in response to the clamor of the people in the North, demanding exchange, as their people were dying in our prisons, as well as our people in theirs; but, the policy of their War Department, sanctioned by Abraham Lincoln, was not to exchange a prisoner if they could avoid it. They did not want to reinforce our army from that source when our country was about exhausted for men. To carry their point on this they cared very little for their men in our prisons and even openly claimed that it was a protection to their army to enforce non-exchange even at the sacrifice of the men in our prisons.

General Butler being placed in charge of the exchange, the Federal Government knew that they could throw the odium of refusal to exchange on the Confederate Government, because General Butler had been outlawed by our Government through President Davis’ proclamation ordering him executed whenever captured, on account of his dastardly conduct while in command of New Orleans, which earned for him the name of “Beast” Butler. They well knew that his appointment as Chief Exchange Agent would forever place a barrier against exchange.

At this time General Marsden was in command at Point Lookout, and a Captain Patterson, aided by Sergeant Finnegan, in charge of the prisoners.

After the arrival of the Marylanders at Point Lookout, the Federal Government decided to relieve the crowded condition of Fort Delaware by transferring more prisoners to Point Lookout, which was done to a considerable extent.

General Butler, for political reasons, as well as to show his interest in the prisoners, made us a visit, and when his arrival was announced, proceeded in company with General Marsden and their respective staffs, to ride over to our enclosure. We were then called on by Captain Patterson, announcing his approach, to cheer him as he came inside. As soon as the big gate was thrown open and he rode in, perhaps five thousand prisoners had collected at the gate, many of them calling out, “Boys, here is the ‘Beast;’ ” to which he paid no attention or to the name of “Mumford,” the man whom he hung in New Orleans for tearing down the United States flag placed on his house on their first occupancy of New Orleans. When he and General Marsden attempted to enter the First Division, which was the Louisiana Division, the men called out “New Orleans.” By this time such a crowd had gathered in this division that it was difficult for them to ride through, when General Butler decided not to go any further and returned to General Marsden’s headquarters.

About two weeks later General Butler returned and entered the prison enclosure with General Marsden and their respective staffs; all armed with pistols, and having also an escort of about fifty cavalry. They were determined to push through the Louisiana Division, when again the insults thrown at them on his first visit were repeated. In reaching a Sibley tent, where a part of a company of the Louisiana Guard Battery were quartered, one of the young men, seeing General Butler passing in front of the tent, rushed out, took Butler’s horse by the bridle and stopped him, proposed three cheers for Jeff Davis, which were given with a will by our ten thousand throats, then proposed three groans for the “Beast.”

General Butler turned pale, looked at the men, seemed undecided what to do, surrounded by an angry crowd of at least ten thousand men, who although unarmed, he well knew were more than a match for him and his guards and that they would not stand any show for their lives if a single shot was fired. He decided it was best to move on and pass the incident. When nearly at the end of the division some one called “Magruder,” which made him smile, as it referred to the battle of Big Bethel, which he commanded and lost to the Confederates commanded by General Magruder.

He next turned into the North Carolina Division, a brigade of conscripts, who had surrendered without firing a gun. On his entering this division the men cheered him, when he stopped and talked with them, asking how they were getting along. They told him they did not get enough to eat and were starving, and he turned to Captain Patterson and told him to add an extra cracker to the rations, which brought another cheer. He then passed through the division, being cheered frequently by these conscripts and returned to General Marsden’s headquarters.

In punishment for the insults offered him in the Louisiana Division, he sent a regiment, composed of illiterate negroes from the plantations in North Carolina, to guard us. The immediate guard of the prison were on beats on a platform outside of the prison walls, which exposed their heads and shoulders to the prisoners inside of the walls. There were also guard beats at the head of every division between the tents and the cook houses. These negroes were very poorly drilled and disciplined, but fit tools in the hands of a vindictive enemy. As the men in the prison had never seen any negro troops, they gathered along these different beats to watch their performance. They came into the prison for guard duty, carrying their knapsacks as they were afraid to leave them in their camp, fearing that some of the other troops not on duty would rob them. A guard at the head of the Texas Division, tired of carrying his knapsack, deposited it at the end of his beat; as soon as his back was turned, one of the men picked it up and ran away with it. The negro, returning on his beat, discovered his knapsack gone and created a general laugh among the spectators by his puzzled look. Finally he said, “Men, you better give me back my knapsack or I’ll call Marse Lieutenant.” The men again laughed, when finally he called to the guard up on the fence, “Central, Oh Central! Call Marse Lieutenant and tell him one of dese here white folks stole my knapsack,” when in due time the officer of the day came in on horseback, dashed up to the guard and asked what was the matter. The guard said, “Marse Lieutenant, some of these white folks stole my knapsack,” which created additional laughter and merriment. The lieutenant called on the men to return the knapsack, and said that if they didn’t, he would order a search of the camp. This they could not afford to have done. In the meantime, the negro said if they would just give him back his “bacca” and guarretype, he wouldn’t care anything about the balance. The men then returned the knapsack to keep the camp from being searched.

Our troubles with this negro guard commenced the first night, when they shot into the camp whenever they heard any noise. They were undoubtedly instigated by their officers and the white soldiers.

There were a number of attempts to escape, one novel plan being evolved by the Marylanders. The smallpox broke out inside of the prison, and a pesthouse was established on the main land in the piney woods, about three or four miles from the Point. I forgot to mention Point Lookout is a peninsula, connected with the mainland by a very narrow strip, where a strong fort was located, and where these negroes were quartered. We also had an ordinary hospital inside of the enclosure, immediately in charge of Confederate surgeons, but supervised by a Federal surgeon, who would receive their report every morning on the conditions of the sick, the number of the dead, etc. A couple of Marylanders would blister their faces and hands with hot wire, giving it the appearance of smallpox; the Confederate surgeon would point out these two cases having developed smallpox during the night, when they were ordered out to the pesthouse. They were then carried in a one-horse cart out to the pesthouse in the piney woods, where they only had one guard on duty with his beat in front of the door. The Confederate surgeon immediately in charge, at this pesthouse, would add a couple of boxes in connection with others, for the dead that had passed away during the night, and would report these two men among the other dead of the night. These boxes were then buried by Confederate convalescents, and that was the end of it. The two Marylanders, during the night, had slipped by the single guard with his beat in front of the door, then managed to cross the Potuxan River, either by swimming or floating on planks or logs, there being an only bridge which had a strong cavalry guard and could not be crossed without the countersign.

When I was made acquainted with the scheme by Judge Wilson of the Hood’s Texas Brigade, who was a Mason and had a number of Masonic friends among the Marylanders, there were two men out then and after giving them a reasonable time to get away, he had made arrangements for he and I to go out next, but alas, the two men out then were captured and exposed the whole plan, which put an end to it.

Another plan of escape was attempted by others, that of wading out in the bay on dark nights, in water deep enough to barely expose their heads, but when they got opposite the fort those shrewd Yankees had cast an anchor about a quarter of a mile out, to which was attached a rope and the rope attached to a bell inside of the fort, so when the prisoner, wading along in the deep water, would strike this rope, he would ring the bell, which invariably resulted in his discovery.

Other attempts at escape by some of the Marylanders, through bribery of the guard at the gate leading out on the bay shore, invariably failed. The guards would take the bribe, then report the case when he permitted the prisoners to pass out of the gate. The escaping prisoners would then be charged on by a lot of cavalry in waiting around the corner of the fence and shot down by them.

General Butler next conceived the idea to go to Richmond with a batch of prisoners and attempt an exchange, not for the purpose of relieving the prisoners, but simply to test his own case with the Confederate Government. On his arrival at City Point, it seems some arrangement was made that enabled him to deliver these prisoners, presumably in a fair exchange for prisoners held by us. In this batch of prisoners were a number of Marylanders, who thoughtlessly published in a Richmond paper their sufferings and hardships, as well as ill treatment at the hands of the Federal authorities, and particularly denounced Captain Patterson, who had charge of the Point Lookout prison, in most bitter terms. By accident Captain Patterson got hold of a copy of a Richmond paper containing these charges and with it, went to the Maryland Division, read it to the men and told them if further exchanges were had he would see to it that the Marylanders should be the last to leave there.

After this, the Marylanders in the prison, having denounced the article as ill advised and improper, began again to court the favor of Captain Patterson and, after several months, concluded that they had about succeeded in regaining his confidence. One morning they were notified to get ready to go to City Point for exchange. Of course, there was considerable enthusiasm among the Marylanders and I decided to go out with them, in the name of Stanley. We were marched out and carried into another bull pen, kept there five or six hours, when we were permitted to return into our old quarters and found the Tennessee Division had been placed aboard the flag of truce boat and sailed for City Point. It is hardly necessary to say that I was the greatest disappointed man among them, because I also belonged to the Tennessee Division.

In about two weeks the Louisiana Division was called for, to which I also belonged and availed myself of the Louisianan’s name, the owner of which was dead, and passed out with them.

At the mouth of the James River we passed a fleet of gunboats and ships, and in due time arrived at City Point, where we anchored in midstream. The exchange agent, Major Mulford, immediately went ashore and telegraphed to Richmond our arrival. We were anchored here several days, expecting hourly a Confederate boat to put in its appearance with the equivalent of Federal prisoners to be returned in exchange. After several days, having been told that our boat surely would arrive the second day, and as it had not put in its appearance, we decided that there was a hitch somewhere and that we were liable to be carried back. We expected, hourly, a couple of gunboats to come in sight to escort us back to Point Lookout.

The situation, to us, began to look gloomy, and created a feeling of desperation. We were determined never to be taken back to look inside of another prison. In accordance therewith we soon made up a party of about a hundred, agreeing to overpower the guard on the boat if the Confederate boat didn’t make its appearance by ten o’clock next morning.

On the cabin deck of this boat were quite a number of Confederate officers, among them General W. H. Fitts Lee, who had been wounded and captured. He was a son of General Robert E. Lee, and to him we communicated our intentions and asked their support. He replied, urging us to make no such attempt, that everything was all right and the object of our trip would be carried out without doubt. I told the men that we could not afford to accept his advice; that we had too much at stake, and I construed General Lee’s position to be prompted by what he conceived his duty as a Confederate officer. I urged them, by all means, to carry out our plan.

The next day about noon I was sound asleep under the stepladder leading up to the hatch, when awakened by considerable tumult around me. I discovered about a half dozen men on the ladder, ready to make a charge on the upper deck, where the guards were located. It so happened that the man at the top of the ladder hesitated and by way of encouragement, I called to him, “Don’t you stop there; put your shoulders under the hatch and throw it off.” He proved to be an Irishman who said, “The divil, you say; you come up here and take my place.” There was nothing to do but climb up the ladder and take his place. I soon put my back to the hatch and sent it up, whirling on the deck, and jumped on the deck myself. The guard on duty threw his gun down on me, telling me to go back or he would kill me. I called to the men, “Come on, boys,” but none would follow. I noticed General Lee in the front part of the boat, motioning to me, “Go back; go back.” It is hardly necessary for me to say that I felt like a fool and went back.

There is a member of our camp here today who states that he was present, close to General Lee, and saw me; his name is J. W. Middleton.

Our boat finally made its appearance and while it moved up very slowly towards our boat for the purpose of throwing a gang plank across, for us to pass over, a party of the Louisiana Guard Battery, a company of highly educated young men from New Orleans, appeared on the upper deck with a Confederate flag belonging to the Seventh Louisiana, tacked on to a piece of scantling in the center. General Lee and Colonel Davis of the Eighth Virginia were at one end of the line. These young men, who were splendid singers, with fine voices, struck up:

These lines constituted the chorus of the song, which was sung with a great deal of spirit, and joined in by many of the men and officers. I forgot to mention that while the boats were coming together the Federal prisoners began to twit our boys about going back to live on corn dodgers and bacon, but when they heard this song they were dumbfounded, ceased their guying and simply stood speechless.

On our arrival at the Rockets, a place of landing in Richmond, we were met by a great many citizens, mostly ladies in carriages, and a company of Richmond cadets, escorted us to the Capitol Square, where we were met by President and Mrs. Davis, who shook hands with every one of us. Mrs. Davis was in tears. We were then regaled by a speech from Governor Smith of Virginia, standing on the platform in front of the Capitol, when among other things he said, “They have called me from the tented field to preside over the destinies of this great commonwealth, because they say I am too old to be there; but I deny the charge and want it distinctly understood that among Yankees and women, I am only five and twenty.”

Those who are acquainted with Governor Smith’s history, knowing him at that time to be a man about sixty-five or seventy years old, commanding a brigade in the army when he was elected Governor, will not be surprised at his expression. Governor Smith was generally known as “Extra Billy.” I will take occasion to mention that when I put my foot on Dixie soil it proved the happiest moment of my life up to that time; I felt like kissing the ground that I stood on.

President Davis, in his speech to us, told us that we were only paroled, and could not enter the service again until duly exchanged. He requested those that lived on the West of the Mississippi not to go home on a visit, pending this exchange, stating that he hoped we would soon be called on to return to our respective commands, as we were greatly needed in the army.

With me, this admonition was not needed, my only ambition was to get back to my command and again mount my horse and resume my duties. For this purpose I sought out Senator Oldham from Texas, who went with me to the War Department and secured me a pass from the Secretary of War, to go to Greenville, East Tennessee, where I learned the Rangers were camped and in due time made my way over there and found them in a deep snow.