Danville in 1864-5 was a town of considerable importance to the Confederacy, being the base of supplies for the Confederate army at Richmond and Petersburg. There were three or four military prisons there, in which were confined about two thousand enlisted men, captured from the Union forces, and four hundred officers. They were all confined in tobacco warehouses in different parts of the city, the officers being separate from the enlisted men.

The prison in which the officers were confined, was a three story tobacco warehouse, 40x100 feet, near the River Dan. The windows were securely grated with iron bars, and the whole building was rendered secure by heavy oaken doors.

The building faced the east, and a street ran in front and, also, one on the south side. In front, and on the south side, sentries were pacing up and down, night and day; and there were also two sentries stationed on the ground floor, inside, one along the south side, and the other across the west end.

The sinks used by the prisoners, were just outside the west end of the building, and were surrounded by a high board or plank fence. The second and third floors were occupied by the prisoners, and at the time I was there—the winter of 1864-5—were each supplied with two large Peckham stoves, to furnish warmth to the building. On the ground floor where the guard was stationed, there was no stove; and during the winter, the cold air from below was anything but comfortable, as it found its way through the wide cracks in the floor, and came in contact with the thinly clad bodies, of those especially, who were sleeping on the second floor.

The winter of 1864-5, in Virginia, was extremely cold. The river that winter was frozen over solid enough to make a safe crossing on the ice; and the officers were frequently obliged to get in line and double quick around the room to keep from freezing. This could not be done unless all or a large proportion joined in the exercise; for if one or more attempted it while the rest were lying down, they would be obliged to step over the bodies of their recumbent comrades.

During the daytime, the ground floor was used for exercising, twenty being allowed down there at a time, and as there was plenty of room, it was no uncommon thing to see that number, or even more, down there at a time taking their exercise.

The rule of the prison was, that no one should approach within less than six feet of a sentry, or hold any conversation with them; and although there was no dead line in this prison, an imaginary line six feet from the sentry, was pretty generally observed. We were obliged to pass the sentry at the back end of the building, in going to and from the sink; but as he was continually pacing back and forth, it was his lookout that we did not come within the prescribed distance of him.

The prisons in which the enlisted men were confined were of the same description, or at least some of them were. Two or three of them were in sight of our front windows, one being just across the street.

Some of the enlisted men were detailed in the cook house, for which service they received extra rations.

This brief description of the Confederate prisons in Danville, is necessary, that the reader may more easily understand some of the incidents that follow.

In the last chapter I spoke of the conference between Col. W. C. Raulston, Gen. A. N. Duffie, and myself, as to the prospects of getting through to our lines if we should escape from prison. Many difficulties lay in the way of a general break being successful.

Danville at this time was guarded by quite a large force; and even should we be successful in getting out of prison, we would be obliged to overpower this armed force, and then make our way through the enemies’ country in order to reach the Union lines; and on the march we would be liable to be intercepted by large bodies of Confederate troops. The nearest point at which we could reasonably expect to reach the Union forces, would be the Shenandoah Valley; and this would be to us a long, and difficult march, unless we could be well supplied with arms and rations before we started.

All this time however, a sharp lookout was kept up, for anything that looked like a favorable opportunity for a strike for freedom and home.

On the 9th of December, about sixteen days after my arrival, the opportunity seemed to present itself. On that day, a company of Confederate soldiers were drawn up in front of our prison, where they stacked arms. They were new comers, and of course at once attracted our attention.

Shut up as we were in a tobacco warehouse, with absolutely no knowledge of what was transpiring in the outside world, except such information as we could pick up from our guard, whose ignorance of passing events seemed almost as great as our own, the arrival of new troops was something to excite our curiosity, and give us something to think about.

Anything to excite our curiosity and relieve the monotony of the daily routine of prison life, acted upon us much the same as a band of music in the streets to-day affects the street idlers of the city. All who could do so, gathered at the windows to inspect the new comers, and speculate upon the occasion that brought them there. We judged them to be troops who had seen service, by their rough and ready appearance, and their well-worn and, in some cases, shabby uniforms.

Various were the speculations as to who they were, where they came from, and the reason of their appearance in Danville at this time. Had they come to relieve those who had thus far been our guards, and with whom we had became somewhat familiar?

Had they come to take us to Richmond to be exchanged? (This word exchange was ever uppermost in our thoughts while awake, and mingled in our dreams while sleeping.) Or had they been merely sent here, to more securely guard against any attempted outbreak?

All of these questions suggested themselves to our minds, and were freely discussed, while they were being formed into line in front of our prison, where they stacked arms.

Soon the order came, break ranks, and they dispersed without taking the precaution of leaving a guard over the stacks of arms. Soon there was a buzz of excitement throughout the building.

Longing eyes were directed towards those stacks of arms; if we could only get the door open upon some pretext, how easy it would be to gobble those forty guns, and the well filled cartridge boxes that hung from the bayonets, and before the old guard could be called out, overpower them, take their arms, capture Danville and be in the field once more. Groups assembled throughout the building, and excitedly discussed the chances of success or failure, if we should make the attempt. Some were for making an immediate sally down stairs, call the Sergeant of the guard, and as he opened the door to see what was wanted, seize him, fling wide open the door, make a rush for the arms, and let circumstances govern our actions afterwards. Others more cautious, counciled delay and a thoroughly organized attack.

A council of field officers was immediately called, and it was decided to make a perfect organization of the entire prison, having each arm of the service, Infantry, Cavalry and Artillery, in separate detachments, commanded by sets of officers of their own choosing, the whole to be under the command of Colonel W. C. Raulston, 24th New York Cavalry, Brig. General Duffie waiving his rank and being second in command.

This advice was finally accepted, and the work of organization was immediately commenced. Colonel Raulston was known to be a gallant Cavalry officer, whose coolness and courage could be relied upon, and whose military ability was well understood by all. Officers were chosen for the different detachments, the others all promising to cheerfully obey all orders, and perform all duties assigned them.

This necessarily occupied considerable time, and before the organization was completed, the guard, who were all unconscious of our plans, came out, took their arms and marched around to the shed on the north side of the building, that was used for the men’s quarters, where they were out of sight, as there were no windows on that side of the building.

Thus the golden opportunity had been allowed to pass. The hour we had spent in perfecting our organization, and maturing our plans, while it was well employed, was the hour of our great opportunity, and had now gone, to be added to the many hours of great opportunities lost.

The work of organization went steadily forward however, hoping for another favorable opportunity to occur.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Most of the exchanges were made in the night, just after the eleven o’clock relief came on; although the bargains were usually made in the daytime.

Thirty men were allowed to go down stairs to the sinks at a time, and from fifteen to twenty, were allowed two or three times a day, to go out doors for the purpose of bringing water from the river, which was about forty rods from our prison, and get wood and coal, to supply the two large stoves on each floor, and do our cooking with.

I have been thus minute in my description, that the reader might better understand what follows. The four hundred officers were organized into eight companies, with full sets of officers for each, and the balance acting as privates. I belonged to the Cavalry detachment, and we were to mount ourselves as fast as we could get horses, as far as it was possible for us to do so, and act as the advance guard or vidette. There were, at this time, about eighteen hundred prisoners in Danville, scattered about in different buildings, and the plan agreed upon, if we succeeded in the break was, to seize all the arms we could, overpower the guards at the different prisons, release the enlisted men, capture and hold the town, take possession of the telegraph office (operators having been detailed who were experts in telegraphing), impress into the service all the horses we could find for the Artillery and Cavalry; supply ourselves with arms as far as possible, supply ourselves with rations and forage from the Confederate storehouses, form the enlisted men into companies, and march through as an army and join Sheridan in the Shenandoah Valley.

Danville was at this time, the depot of supplies for Lee’s army at Richmond, and contained a large amount of Artillery and ammunition; besides having storehouses, well stocked with captured hard tack, so that there would be no lack of supplies for our army. We were therefore, actually dying of starvation in the midst of plenty. In going daily from the prison to the river for water, we passed a building 20x40 feet, two stories high, that was packed from bottom to top with captured U. S. hard tack, and others filled with bacon, and other provisions; and tried to get Colonel Smith, commanding the prisons, to give us rations of hard tack once or twice a week, but were told that this was held for the use of their troops in the field.

For fresh meat, we were supplied with the heads and lights of beeves, and for twenty-six days we did not even receive that; our only rations during this time, being a piece of corn bread, or johnny-cake, made from unbolted corn meal, four inches long, three wide, and two inches thick, for twenty-four hours.

This would not more than half satisfy an ordinary man for his breakfast, and a good feeder would then want a couple of eggs, a good sized potato and one or two cups of coffee for a full meal, and even a half-pound of beef steak would not be left to be thrown into the slops. While the rations we received would have been considered princely fare by our famished comrades at Andersonville and Salisbury, still it was just enough to keep us constantly hungry, and make us think what we would eat if we should ever get the chance to again sit down to a good square meal. Like the castaway upon the great ocean, with “Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink,” so we were dying of starvation in the midst of plenty. I say we, by that I mean the great majority of prisoners. As for myself, while in Danville, I only lived exclusively on the prison rations drawn for five days, and I thought I should die of starvation in that short time.

Then, as I have heretofore stated, I went into business, buying and selling jewelry, etc.

Now I suppose the reader would like to know where the capital came from with which to commence business; for goods must be bought before they are sold, and as I have before stated, I had sold even the buttons off my uniform, in order to supply myself with food to satisfy my hunger.

Well, I happened to be talking one day with Captain Albert Thomas, 24th New York Cavalry, who has now a studio in Syracuse, N. Y., and he showed me a gold pen and silver case, that he had been trying to sell, without success. He was entirely out of money, having some days before used the last cent of a one hundred dollar bill, which he had most ingeniously secreted upon his person, when stripped and searched at Libby prison, upon his entrance into that notorious rebel prison hell, presided over by the equally notorious Dick Turner. He said he had offered the whole thing for fifteen dollars in Confederate money, but said he, while some folks can sell any worthless article, I can never sell anything.

I told him to let me take it, and I would either return him his pencil or bring him fifteen dollars within half an hour. He gave me the pencil, and I went down stairs to interview the guard. It would not do to approach him and offer to sell, as he might assert his authority by trading me a Confederate bullet instead of scrip, and I was not hankering after rebel lead just then. So I walked up and down the floor near him, holding the pencil in my hand so that he could get a good view of it. After a while, looking around to assure himself that no Confederate officer was near, he asked in a low tone, “what d’ye ask for it?”

This gave me an opportunity to speak, and I answered as cautiously, “Twenty-five dollars.” “Let me take it; I’ll give it back in a minute.” I walked up and handed it to him and stepped back, while he paced up and down examining it carefully. Finally counting out the amount, he beckoned me to come to him, and handed me the money. Of course, I was perfectly safe in allowing him to examine the pencil; for if he had refused to return or pay for it, I could have had him severely punished for disobedience of orders, in allowing a prisoner to approach and converse with him.

Within twenty minutes from the time I took the pen and case, I returned to Captain Thomas with the fifteen dollars, and had made ten dollars for myself. This ten dollars I immediately invested in a similar pencil, and immediately sold it to the same guard for thirty dollars. With this start, I succeeded in making enough to live upon, by buying of prisoners, and selling to the guard, and in return buying of the guard at night and selling to my comrades the next day.

CHAPTER XXIV.

During the forenoon, I had a long talk with Colonel Raulston, and General Duffie, who both seemed to think that we had better be prepared, and hold ourselves in readiness to take advantage of any favorable circumstance that might occur, but that it was best for the present, to remain quiet, and bide our time. What was my surprise then, while sitting with the Colonel at dinner, to see a gunboat officer approach with his overcoat and traps all on, and say, Colonel we are waiting for you, sir. The Colonel replied, well, if that is all you are waiting for, you won’t have long to wait; and leaving his half-eaten dinner, got up, put on his overcoat, and started down stairs.

About the same time, about a dozen or fifteen went down with pails, and entered the room that opened on the street.

Colonel Raulston approached the guard near the foot of the stairs, and was trying to trade boots with him, while General Duffie approached the one at the back end of the room, and began bantering him for a trade; the Colonel, and General, each wearing a pair of long riding boots, which was something the average reb seemed to have a great weakness for.

The men with the pails, asked the sentry with whom Colonel Raulston was talking, to call the Sergeant of guard and he called as usual—Sergeant of the guard post number fo. Then Colonel Raulston gave the signal—now—when simultaneously both he and the General, seized and floored their man.

Raulston placed his hand over his man’s mouth, telling him to keep quiet and he would not be hurt, while Duffie held his man by the throat, to prevent him making any alarm. Lieutenant McGraw, 24th New York Cavalry, who had been assigned to the duty, took the guns away from the guard, and at the same time the officers from above commenced filing down the stairs. The Sergeant came to answer the call, but he must have heard the scuffle, for he only opened the door about two inches, when he slammed and locked it again, and immediately called out the guard to surround the building. Each officer had armed himself with a stick of stove wood, and all were packed up and in marching order.

An attempt was made with these clubs to batter down the door, but it was a heavy oak door, and would not yield to their blows. Satisfied that the attempt was a failure, General Duffie called out, “Too late, go back!”

Owing to the fact that there was by this time quite a crowd down there, and the stairs being only wide enough for two to go up abreast, it was some time before all could reach the top.

Colonel Raulston and myself were the last to go up, and I had just reached the landing, the Colonel who was three or four steps behind me, had stopped to look out of the window, when the report of a gun rang out from below, and he started suddenly, and hurrying past me, went up the next flight, to the place he occupied on the floor above.

Although shot through the bowels, and at so short a range, strange as it may seem, he did not fall or make any outcry; and it was not until some time after, that I learned that he was wounded.

I subsequently learned by some of my comrades, that he went to the place where he slept, took off his overcoat, opened his clothing and examined the wound, saying as he lay down, “boys, I guess my goose is cooked.”

Within a very few minutes, the guard led by the Colonel in command, filed up the stairs, where they found every thing as quiet as though nothing had occurred.

Some were playing checkers, backgammon or cards, some reading scraps of newspapers, some washing dishes, and others smoking and talking; in fact, the whole building had on its every day appearance, and no one would have supposed that there had been the least disturbance.

It was really laughable to see the singular expression on the faces of the guard, as they looked around upon the peaceful looking room. I sat in my place just at the head of the stairs reading, and remember that one of the fellows who followed the Colonel up, had his gun cocked, and with a good deal of bluster, said, as he reached the landing: “Colonel, show me any d—n Yank you want shot,” to which the Colonel replied, sternly, “Put up your gun, sir; I’ll let you know when I want any shooting done.” Colonel Smith, who was in command of the Confederate prisons at Danville, was a cool, brave man, and though strict in his prison regulations, was a humane gentleman who would not voluntarily inflict any unnecessary hardships upon those under his charge.

He and Col. Raulston had been great friends, and I believe they both belonged to the Masonic order, Col. Smith often visiting Col. Raulston, bringing him books to read, and showing him many courtesies which, though perfectly consistent with his position, showed him to be a gentleman of generous impulses. In fact, I heard Col. Raulston say that the most distasteful duty he had promised to perform, was to go to Col. Smith’s office and secure him as a prisoner.

Guards were at once stationed about the rooms, and Colonel Smith proceeded up stairs where Raulston lay bleeding, and questioned him in regard to the affair.

This brave, unselfish officer, at once said, Colonel I am wholly responsible for all that has occurred; I am the instigator of the whole plot, and no one but me is to blame for what was attempted to be done, and I alone if any one, deserve the punishment for this attempted outbreak.

He was immediately removed to the hospital, where all that skillful surgery could accomplish was done to save his life, but the wound was of such a nature, that neither skillful surgery, nor tender nursing was of any avail, and on the 15th of December, he passed away—was mustered out. The shot that terminated his life, was fired by the guard he had disarmed, and the gun used, was the same one Raulston had taken from him, and had returned after the failure of the attempted outbreak.

We all felt deeply mortified at the failure of our plot, but our greatest sorrow was occasioned by the loss of so gallant and beloved an officer and comrade.

Lieut. Leyden and myself asked permission of Col. Smith to be allowed to go to the hospital and nurse him during his illness, offering to give our parole for that privilege. I urged, that as Col. Raulston and myself were both from the same place, and I was well acquainted with his family, it would be a source of some comfort to them, to know that his last moments were soothed by the presence of one of his comrades, who could receive from him his last message to loved ones far away.

Our request was not granted, but we were assured that he should have every attention shown him that was possible, and that all that medical skill and science could accomplish, would be done to save his life.

Lieutenant McGraw, who was recognized by the guard as the one who relieved them of their guns, while Colonel Raulston and General Duffie had them down on the floor, was placed in solitary confinement for a few days, and was then released without further punishment.

It was greatly feared that he would be shot for the prominent part he had taken in the affair, and I now believe that he would have been more severely punished, had not his dying Colonel interceded for him. There was one rather amusing episode in this tragic affair, that caused some merriment notwithstanding the fatal ending.

General Duffie was a Frenchman and did not speak very good English. While he had his man down, with his fingers firmly clutched in his throat, to prevent his giving the alarm, the man in his efforts to release himself from this uncomfortable position, made a gurgling noise, which some of us thought, might have caused the Sergeant to mistrust there was something wrong.

The General in trying to explain, said in his broken English: “I try to shut off ze wind, but ze more I chuck ze more he holly.”

In a few days the affair blew over, and everything moved along as usual. I have said, that two or three times a day, from fifteen to twenty prisoners were allowed to pass out under guard, to carry water, wood and coal, for use in the building.

I was often with this squad, for I was willing to do the work for the sake of getting out, where I could get a breath of fresh air; besides I could sometimes get a chance to buy something, that I could not otherwise obtain. In going to the river for water, we passed an oven, where they baked the cones for casting shell over. This oven was large enough to hold two men, and the door was usually open.

Just before dark, we would go out to bring water for the night. Some would have one pail, and some two. In coming back, we would halt when the head of the column reached the oven, and sit our pails down to rest, and while some one in the rear would attract the attention of the guard, one man at the head would slip into the oven, and the man next to him would take up his pail, and his absence would not be noticed, as they never counted us on these occasions. When darkness came on, those who had thus escaped would quietly cross the river and walk away.

To prevent them missing the absent, a hole was cut through the floor of the upper room, and as soon as the Sergeant was through counting those on the lower floor, a number corresponding to those who had escaped, would be shoved up through this hole to be counted again on the upper floor; thus keeping our count all right. A crowd would always be around the hole up stairs, so that the Sergeant upon going up would not see what was going on.

One fellow had his blanket spread over this hole, and would be lying down there when the guard reached the room, so that it would have a natural appearance, and would not attract any more attention than any other part of the room. In this way some six or seven made their escape, and the count was kept all right, by sending a corresponding number up through the hole in the floor, and they were not missed for two or three weeks. In fact the only reason we had to believe that they had been missed at all was, that one day the reb Sergeant brought up his guard and counted us over a second time, and after figuring up the count, counted us over again, and seemed to still be unsatisfied, and repeated the count seven or eight times. Every time the count came out all right, which seemed to puzzle and perplex him terribly. He could not understand how it could be, that he still had his full number of prisoners, while he seemed to have positive evidence that half a dozen had escaped. His information was that several had escaped, but his figures told him that we were all there.

Every time he counted us and found us all present, his perplexity increased; for he seemed to have proven the falsity of the old saying, “that figures can’t lie.” He finally concluded to fall us in on both floors at once, and then he found he was short six or seven prisoners. This seemed to puzzle him worse than ever, and I don’t believe he has up to this day found out, just how the thing was done. He certainly had not at the time we left Danville. After this there was no effort made to have the count overrun, and the use of that hole in the floor was abandoned.

All the time the different counts were going on, the officers, who of course understood perfectly well what all the fuss was about, were laughing and joking at the expense of the perplexed Sergeant, telling him that it seemed to be as much enjoyment to him to count Yankee prisoners, as it was for a miser to count his gold; asking all sorts of questions and offering all sorts of suggestions to tease and annoy him.

As he would call upon us to fall in again for count, some one would say, “well Sergeant what was the matter that time? Was there too many of us or not enough? What kind of an arithmetic did you study when you went to school? Let me figure that up for you. This is a new military rule you adopt, turning out the guard every time the Sergeant comes in.” Others would say as they saw him coming up stairs again, “turn out the guard for the commanding officer!” “Turn out the guard for the officer of the day!” Others would attempt to beat the long roll on the floor, with sticks of stove wood, or try to whistle, “Boots and Saddles,” or the assembly. In fact they all seemed to try to see how exasperating they could be.

The Sergeant, who by the way was a clever fellow, courteous and gentlemanly in his demeanor towards us, took all of this chaffing, with as good a grace as possible.

He tried hard to conceal his perplexity and the annoyance our joking caused him, and with a determined look that seemed to say, “I’ll unravel this mystery if it takes all day,” kept up the count until it came out as he wanted it to, or as he seemed to know it ought to come out.

CHAPTER XXV.

I took seven hundred dollars of him and Lieutenant Leyden of my mess, took the same amount, just to accommodate him; and I wrote the required letter to my wife, while Leyden wrote one to his brother, in Rochester, N. Y. These checks and letters were given by him to General Hayes, who had been ordered to Richmond, as was supposed, for exchange; and who agreed to bring them through the lines, and forward the letters to their address, and deposit the checks with Riggs & Co. When I got all this money I was flush again; and distributed it around among my friends and comrades, ten dollars to one, and twenty to another, as their necessities seemed to warrant, keeping what I thought would do me until I got out, or could make another raise.

I laid in quite a stock of provisions for myself, and helped those of my friends who had no money, and needed something more than the rations they drew to live upon.

Colonel Smith had established a rule, that three officers could go every day, under a guard of two soldiers, to visit their friends in the hospital, a mile or so distant, by applying for permission by letter to him. Applications for this privilege would be filed, and permission granted when their turn came; it might be a week after the application was filed, before we could go. Lieutenant Leyden, myself and another, made our application, and waited for our turn, to take a walk of a couple of miles in the open air; for this was really all we wished to do. We were called out one day soon after, and with two guards over us, strolled over to the hospital, which was about a mile from where we were confined. We had a nice walk, and as we were returning, we asked the guard to take us into a saloon, where we could get a drink before we went back to prison.

The guard did not know whether they would be allowed to do this, but meeting an officer they asked him, if it would be right to go with us. Why of course, said he, take them wherever they want to go. They then took us into a little ten by twelve room, where there was a bar, and I asked all hands to have a drink. Applejack was the only beverage, so all five of us took that; and thinking as the Governor of North Carolina, has been quoted as saying to the Governor of South Carolina, that “it’s a long time between drinks,” I set ’em up again. The guards refused to drink a second time, probably fearing that it might incapacitate them from properly guarding us, so I only had eight drinks to pay for altogether. We were not given a bottle and glasses to help ourselves as is usual, but the bartender poured out a wine glass full for each. How much do you want I asked, pulling out a roll of Confederate; forty dollars was his reply. I handed him a fifty dollar bill and receiving my change, went on, stopping at two or three stores on the way back to make other purchases. We had a jolly time that night and whooped things up a little, for by the time we got back into prison, the applejack, which was old and powerful, began to work, and we were just in the proper frame of mind to make things look cheerful to us. I am afraid we were somewhat annoying to some of our comrades who wanted to sleep that night, and not having had any applejack could not appreciate the fun.

I shall never forget the Christmas dinner I ate in Danville prison in 1864, and I do not think any of the half dozen who dined with me that day, will ever forget it either. I bought a turkey weighing thirteen and three-fourths pounds for forty dollars, and took it over to the bake-shop to be roasted. The cooks were Union soldiers, who did the baking for the sake of getting better rations, and I got them to stuff the turkey with crusts of white bread, that they had baked for the rebs.

They brought it in nicely roasted, and I managed, by giving one of the guards ten dollars, to get a canteen of applejack, and I also bought a loaf of white bread, so that we had quite a civilized dinner. Six of us sat down together, viz: General Hayes, Captain Seeley, Captain Albert Thomas, Lieutenant Leyden, Lieutenant VanDerweed, and myself, “and we drank from the same canteen.” Talk about starvation in Southern prisons! Why just see what a dinner six of us had that day; and all it cost was about seventy dollars. We could live like that nearly two weeks on a thousand dollars.

Of course every prisoner did not have the money to afford these luxuries, and were obliged to put up with the corn bread ration, served out by the rebel authorities; but the Confederate government “of course was not to blame if the poor boys starved, because they did not have money to buy all they wanted.” There was plenty to eat, only our boys did not have the money to buy it with. I never asked Riggs & Co. whether they ever paid that check for seven hundred dollars or not, and have forgotten the name of the generous hearted reb who loaned it to me, but this I know, that I am still indebted to some one for my good fare for a month or two, during my last days in Danville. Now I have told you how I managed to get a living in Danville, and will tell how some others managed to get theirs.

I have spoken of Captain H. H. Alban, who was my companion during the latter part of my tramp through South Carolina, Georgia and North Carolina, and who was recaptured with me. The same opportunities were afforded him to make money enough to subsist himself, as were enjoyed by me, but he was not adapted to buying and selling. He earned money enough to get along, however, by hard labor.

He would go out with the water detail once in a while, and when he came back he would bring along on his shoulder a good straight stick of cord wood. Then with a case knife that he had made into a saw, he would cut it up into pieces about eight inches long, and with wooden wedges that he had whittled out, would split these up fine, say about half an inch thick, and tie them up into bundles for cooking rations with. These bundles would be about six inches in diameter and eight inches long, which he would sell for two dollars each.

By being economical, one of these bundles of hard wood splinters, (they were usually beach or maple) would last a person two or three days to cook his rations with.

Nearly all of the cooking was done in one quart tin pails or in tin plates.

Broken pieces of flat iron were sometimes used to build the fires upon, but most of the prisoners cooked on the stoves that were in the two rooms.

Some of the officers in the different prisons made beautiful trinkets out of beef bones, such as napkin rings, paper cutters, crochet needles, pen holders, imitations of books, etc., and sold them to their fellow-prisoners to take home with them as souvenirs of their prison life.

Some of these bone-workers were skilled artists, and could fashion anything out of a beef bone. I have seen as fine a piece of work of this kind, done with the rude tools that the mechanic had made himself, as I have ever seen made with the latest and most approved machinery. Carving of the most exquisite patterns, and in beautiful designs could be seen in one of these collections.

I remember of seeing one napkin-ring carved out in open work, connected with a continuous vine with beautiful clusters of grapes, the price of which was $100. I bought, and brought home with me, $35 worth of these trinkets.

A number of us belonging to five or six different messes bought a small cook stove for which we paid, I believe, a hundred or a hundred and fifty dollars. There were two griddle holes in it and a small oven in which one loaf of bread could be baked at a time. It was an old affair that here would not bring more than it would come to as old iron, but to us it was a great treasure. We arranged among ourselves to take turns cooking upon it, for instance one would have the first use of it one day, and then the next day he would be the last to use it, and so each in their turn would have the first chance to cook for one day.

Those who had the last chance would have a pretty late breakfast, dinner and supper, for it would take each one at least half an hour to get a meal. Those who had no means of cooking their rations, would come and beg the privilege of setting their tin cups on our stove to warm their coffee, which was usually made out of burnt rye or peas, and sometimes of scorched wheat bran.

Every morning the whole surface of the stove would be covered with these tin cups during the whole time the stove was in use; and even after the different messes had all got through it would be engaged by outside parties for nearly the whole day, each taking their turns in the order that their applications were made. Of course those who owned a share in the stove always took precedence if they wished to do any extra cooking or baking during the day. We often used to make griddle cakes for breakfast, either out of our corn bread rations soaked up in water with a little corn meal added, or mixed up with flour and water with sometimes an egg stirred in if we could afford it, but as eggs were twelve to fifteen dollars a dozen this expensive luxury was dispensed with most of the time.

The two large Peckham stoves for warming the room were always in use, the boys hanging their pails by hooked wires against the hot sides so that, especially in the morning, they would be completely encircled with these hanging pails, and there would always be a crowd waiting for the next chance. Some would hold their cups by the handle against the stove, changing hands whenever it became too hot, and others would stand, holding a pail out on a stick run through the bale.

Quarrels were frequent over their turns, for all were tenacious of their rights, and there, as here, some were always ready for a quarrel, and very jealous of their rights and watchful lest they were trespassed upon.

There were at least three artists in this Danville prison, viz: Captain Albert Thomas, who now has a studio in Syracuse, N. Y., Lieutenant VanDerweed and another, whose name I do not now remember; but almost every prisoner who was confined in Danville, will remember him as the officer who was once sent down the river from Richmond for exchange, but who, while passing Fort Fisher, was detected by the Confederate officer in charge, in making a sketch of that fortification, and return to prison. He was finally paroled with the rest of us, and we chaffed him considerable while we were going down the river, some of the boys teasing him to make them a sketch of the Reb iron-clads in the river, or of Fort Fisher.

Lieutenant VanDerweed made a number of sketches of prison scenes and some fine pencil sketches of officers. He also went outside to make pencil sketches of Confederate gentlemen and ladies, and while thus engaged, of course, lived well and enjoyed pleasant society.

Captain Albert Thomas was solicited to do the same, but said in his expressive way, that he would starve and see all the rebs in —— (he mentioned some warm climate) before he would make a picture of one of them. He made some excellent pencil sketches of different officers in the prison and among them one of Colonel W. C. Raulston, who met so sad a fate in the attempted outbreak on the Tenth of December, 1864, but this sketch unfortunately, was lost.

He also made a good one of myself, from which I have procured a cut for this volume, and which I highly prize.

There were also in Danville, as in other prisons where I was confined, sutlers who bought provisions of the Johnnies and sold to their comrades at a profit. They would buy two or three pounds of bacon of the Johnnies and cut it up into small pieces of about two ounces each, and sell these to their comrades, who either had not money enough to buy more, or were too fond of their own comfort to go down stairs at eleven o’clock at night to buy of the guard.