On the evening of Saturday, January 31, 1863, between seven and eight o’clock, an officer in full uniform, but unarmed, came into a bookstore on Seventh Street, Washington, D. C., where I was then engaged, and asked for the proprietor, Mr. Russell. I pointed out Russell. The officer then asked him if he knew a Mr. Williamson. Russell answered, “Yes.”
“Is he a printer?” asked the officer.
“Yes.”
“Is he the only one of that name that you know?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“There he is,” answered Russell, pointing toward me.
The officer walked over to me and said:
“Sir, you will have to come along with me.”
“All right,” said I.
He then went to the door and called in a soldier he had left standing guard outside, and said:
“Take charge of that man.”
I asked the officer if I would be permitted to call at my home in order to acquaint my family with the cause of my absence. He said I would not; that I must go to the Provost-Marshal’s office. I obtained permission to send a note to my wife, stating that I was under arrest. Putting on my hat and coat, I was marched to the corner of Eighth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. Here we halted, and the officer called out to another soldier, who stood there holding his sword, which he took from the man and buckled on. Placing me between the two guards, we all marched up Pennsylvania Avenue to the Provost-Marshal’s office. The Marshal was not in, but his assistant said:
“Do you belong in Washington?”
“I do,” said I.
“Haven’t you been South lately?”
“Yes,” I said; “I came from Richmond on the third of last August.”
“Have you reported yourself to the military authorities?”
“I have not.”
He next asked me if I would take the oath of allegiance to the Government. I told him I would not; that I could not think of doing so. He said I would have time enough to think about it, as it might be necessary to do so before I could obtain my release. That I was charged with having been in Richmond, and also with being accessory to the imprisonment of some Union citizens.
I again asked if I would be permitted to go home under escort of a guard, so as to acquaint my family with the cause of my absence and also to get a change of clothing and some few articles necessary for me during the time I might be kept under arrest. This request was denied, and I was marched off under guard to the Old Capitol Prison, at the corner of First and A Streets.
The building known as the Old Capitol had a memorable history. Built in 1800, it was originally designed for a tavern or boarding-house, but owing to bad management it proved a failure and was closed shortly before the War of 1812.
In August, 1814, when the British troops under General Ross entered Washington, they burned the Capitol and other public buildings, and the Government bought this old tavern or boarding-house, in which Congress should hold their sessions and public business be transacted until the Capitol could be rebuilt.
CARROLL PRISON (DUFF GREEN’S ROW)
The interior of the building was completely renovated and reconstructed, and here both Houses sat for a number of years. Within its walls two Presidents were inaugurated, and here some of our most distinguished statesmen began their careers. It was in this building the Hon. John C. Calhoun died.
When it was abandoned by Congress upon the completion of the Capitol, it was called the “Old Capitol,” as a distinctive title. After that it underwent a number of changes as boarding-house, school, etc., until, in 1861, it was taken by the Washington authorities to be used as a prison.
A row of houses on the adjoining block, known as Duff Green’s Row, was afterward taken and used as an annex to the Old Capitol, and for the same purpose. It was called the “Carroll Prison.”
On arriving at the Old Capitol, we were halted at the entrance by the sentry patroling the pavement in front of the prison door, who called out with a loud voice, “Corporal of the guard; Post No. 1.” This brought out the corporal, with his musket at his shoulder, and he escorted us inside.
Entering the prison from First Street, we passed through a broad hallway, which was used as a guard room, and thence into a room where prisoners were first taken to be questioned and searched. I found the lieutenant in charge more courteous than any of those in whose custody I had been. After receiving my commitment from the guard who brought me from the Provost-Marshal’s office, he inquired if I had any arms or other prohibited goods in my possession. I replied that the only article I had which might come within the forbidden class was a small pocket-knife, which I took from my pocket and handed him. He smiled as he gave it back, and made no further search. He asked me if I had been to supper, and receiving a negative reply, led me to a dirty, dismal room, which I afterward learned was the mess-room. Here, grouped around a big stove was a gang of negroes, one of whom, at the lieutenant’s command, brought out a chunk of beef, a slice of bread over an inch thick, and a cup of coffee (?), sweetened, but without milk. This was set out on a table, of what material constructed it was impossible to determine on account of the accumulation of dirt. The meat was served in a tin plate which looked as though it might have been through the Peninsular campaign.
Though I failed, no doubt, to do full justice to the repast set before me by the good-natured lieutenant, I certainly appreciated his good intentions and his honest efforts to entertain me with the best at his command.
The lieutenant sat and talked with me for some time before taking me to my room. He asked me if I would take the oath of allegiance to the Government. I told him I would not. He asked if I would be willing to take an oath to support the Constitution of the United States. “Yes,” said I, “but not an oath to support the Government or Administration.” He asked if I were living in a Northern city and came to Washington and went into business, would I in that case take the oath. I told him I would not. I said, “If I were in the South, even, and that iron-clad oath” (as it was called) “was offered to me, I would not take it.”[A]
He then accompanied me upstairs to Room No. 16, and here, after the door was unlocked, I was ushered into my future quarters. I was welcomed and introduced by one of my fellow-prisoners to the others of the party, some of whom had been brought in that same day.
WINDOW IN ROOM 16
Room No. 16 was a spacious room, with one very large arch window opposite the door from which the room was entered. This window was directly over the main entrance to the building on First Street, and in by-gone days it lighted up the former Senate Chamber. In the middle of the room a huge cylinder stove formed the centerpiece, while around and against the walls were twenty-one bunks or berths, arranged in three tiers, one above the other. There were a couple of pine tables, each about five feet long, with a miscellaneous collection of chairs, benches and home-made apologies for seats.
When the building was used as the Capitol, this floor contained the Senate and House of Representatives, but after its abandonment by Congress the floor was cut up into five rooms, now numbered from 14 to 18—No. 16 being the largest. The doors of all opened into a large hall, from which a broad stairway led to the floor below.
After spending a couple of hours in swapping stories and getting better acquainted, the whole party adjourned to their up-and-downy beds.
Sunday, February 1, 1863.—My first night in my new quarters was a very uncomfortable one. An old blanket spread over the hard boards, with a piece of wood morticed in at the head for a pillow, was the bed on which I was expected to sleep. All night the steady tramp of the sentry up and down the hall outside of our room door, with the clanking of arms, the challenging of the guards and the calls of the relief through the night, kept me awake, until at last tired nature gave way and the god of sleep closed my weary eyes. How long I slept I know not, but when I woke it was as if awaking from a troubled dream. I looked around at my surroundings and then lay down again on my bunk, pondering on the events of the past night. After a while I got up and took a wash. There was but little time required for dressing. Soon the door was thrown open and there was a call to breakfast. Being totally unacquainted with the daily routine, I mechanically followed the crowd, without knowing where it would lead me. It led me to the mess-room. It might have led me to a worse place, but it would have been difficult to find.
It was a long, dirty, gloomy-looking room, with nothing in its appearance to tempt the appetite, and the food looked as though served at second-hand. The odor which assailed the nostrils seemed as if coming from an ancient garbage heap. The waiter stood at the head of the long board table, with a handful of tin cups filled with a liquid by courtesy called coffee. He would, with a dextrous twist of the wrist, send them spinning along down the table, leaving each man to catch one of the flying cups before it slid past. Fortunately, the waiter had by practice acquired sufficient skill to enable him to shoot a cup in your direction without spilling more than one-half of its contents. With this was served a chunk of beef and a slice of bread. The beef was left untouched by those who had the privilege and the means of providing their own food, but the bread was good, and a generous slice. I saw my companions slipping their quota of bread under the breasts of their coats, and I did the same.
After a half-hour’s recreation in the prison yard, we went back to our rooms and were locked in. In our room a table was spread and we had breakfast of ham, sausage, bread, butter and tea.
Room No. 16 faces the east front of the Capitol, and by standing or sitting back a short distance from the window we can look out and see the passers-by. No persons, however, are allowed to show any signs of recognition. If a person is seen loitering in passing the prison, or walking at a pace not considered satisfactory by the guard, he soon receives a peremptory command to “pass on,” or, “Hurry up, there,” and if this warning is not heeded the offending person, whether male or female, is arrested and detained.
This morning, two gentlemen walking down on the opposite side of the street, looked across and smiled. One of my room-mates raised his hat and bowed. One of the gentlemen did the same. Immediately we heard the sentry under the window call out: “Corporal of the guard, Post No. 1,” and an officer coming out, the person was pointed out, with the remark, “That man bowed over here.” A guard was instantly dispatched after him, and he was brought over, but was released in a short time.
Dinner to-day consisted of boiled beans and rusty-looking fat pork, with molasses (the molasses thin as water), served up in a dirty tin plate. There being neither knife, fork nor spoon given out with it, the only way the mixture could be eaten was by dipping it up with the bread and thus conveying it to the mouth.
When we went back to our room we prepared dinner from our own supply of provisions.
This afternoon three young ladies passing the prison looked over very pleasantly at the prisoners, who were in sight at the window, much to the displeasure of the guard, who stopped his walk and stood watching them. Finally, one of them smiled and nodded her head. At this moment came the call—“Corporal of the guard, Post No. 1.” The young ladies had by this time reached the corner of the street. Turning around and seeing the soldier coming after them, they waved their handkerchiefs and ran down the street. The sentry, after picking his way through the mud across the street, turned back and gave up the chase.
For supper we had a piece of bread, without butter, and a cup of coffee (?), without milk.
The bill of fare here given for the three meals of this day would serve, with but little variation, for the entire time of my detention.
One of the prisoners, a Confederate soldier, whom I met in the yard to-day, told me that he was just recovering from a fever, and although he had an excellent appetite, his stomach was weak and he could not eat the food set before him; that as he had no money to purchase anything else, he was compelled to go hungry.
With the exception of the bread, which is good (thanks to Superintendent Wood), the food dealt out here is poor in quality and insufficient in quantity. I noticed some of the boxes were marked “White House,” from which I inferred the contents were condemned army stores.
Those who can afford to do so club together and, having obtained permission, purchase such articles as the sutler will procure for them. The goods kept in stock by this dignitary are neither very choice nor varied, chiefly tobacco, cigars, cakes, candy, pies, etc. For our mess in Room 16, we select one man as treasurer, and he purchases our supplies, such as coffee, tea, sugar, cheese, and he occasionally has a large ham boiled. All of these articles the sutler furnishes at prices far beyond their market value; but we are glad to get them, and compelled from necessity to submit to the extortion.
Prisoners having money or friends outside of the prison can obtain many necessaries and enjoy comforts which are denied those less fortunate. A friend (Mrs. Ennis), living near the prison, sends dinner in to me every day. There is always enough to feed three or four abundantly, and none of it is ever wasted.
We take turns in the household work—cooking and cleaning up—two men being detailed for this duty each day. It is unnecessary to say our cooking arrangements are very simple.
In our room there are two, one, I think, a Yankee deserter, known as “Dutchy” and “Slim Jim,” who are unable to contribute their quota to the commissary fund, but as they can make a pot of coffee or tea, and wield a broom or wash a dirty dish, they are always ready to make up their deficit by taking the place of room-mates afflicted with hook-worm or victims of inertia.
Having our meals in our own room, we can take the whole half-hour allowed at meal time for recreation in the prison yard, which gives us an opportunity to mingle with prisoners from other rooms than our own. This meeting of old friends and comrades, and the making of new acquaintances, is a source of great pleasure to us and a relief from the monotony of what would otherwise be the dull routine of prison life.
Monday, Feb. 2.—To-night two men were brought into our room. They say they were employed in General Halleck’s office, and are confined here for absenting themselves without leave. They are looked upon with suspicion by our party, who fear they may be spies.
Persons are often put in the rooms with prisoners, who, while posing as prisoners themselves, are really spies or detectives in the employ of the officials. They associate with the prisoners in their rooms, and also in the yard during the time allowed for recreation, and by assuming an air of injured innocence as victims of oppression, seek to gain their confidence with the intention of betraying them. If they can succeed in overcoming their suspicions and induce the prisoners to speak freely, these detectives report the conversations to their employers.
Wednesday, Feb. 4.—Superintendent Wood said last night that he would allow the party in Room 16 (as they were not satisfied with the prison fare), if they preferred it, to receive the money in lieu of rations, and supply themselves. This was agreed to.
Mr. James Fullerton came to see me to-day. An official seated himself directly in front of us during the interview, and when Mr. Fullerton proceeded to ask me if I had any idea as to the person who had me arrested, the official interrupted him, saying he would be allowed to speak only of family affairs. Mr. Fullerton said he only wished to find out something of the nature of the charges against me, in order to furnish rebutting testimony. He was twice interrupted while attempting to ask me questions.
I had written a note to my wife, asking her to send me a change of clothing and some articles necessary here, for even with frequent changes it is difficult to keep free from vermin. To-day I asked Mr. Drew, the clerk, if it had been sent. He said, “Why, you have sent her all the word you wanted to send.” I said, “I have sent nothing but the note which you still retain.” “Oh, then,” said he, “I will send that. I thought you had written before.” Had I not called his attention to this note it would not have been delivered.
This was the first and last letter I sent out during my term of imprisonment, as I found all letters had to go first to the Provost-Marshal’s office for inspection, and then it was doubtful when they would reach their destination, if at all. A young man named Hurst wrote a letter to his father, who was residing in Washington City, and nine days passed before it was delivered.
A young man named Moore died to-night in one of the adjoining rooms. He was arrested without any specific charge. Though he was very ill at the time, he was marched eight miles. This proved too great a strain for him, and he died soon after his arrival here. His poor old mother was with him at the time of his death. Knowing his condition, and fearing he would not survive the effects of the long journey, she followed after. She was greatly excited. Throwing up her hands, she exclaimed: “I have lost all. I am ruined. My poor boy was all that was left to me, and now you have robbed me of him. But if there is a just God He will not suffer my wrongs to go unpunished.”
Towering up in front of our window rises the stately dome of the Capitol, its top being prepared for the statue of “Freedom.” What a contrast! What a spectacle from a prison window!
Some newspapers received to-night contain rumors from Charleston of the raising of the blockade, and also accounts of some dashing exploits of Wheeler’s Cavalry, consequently there is great rejoicing among the Confederate prisoners, who can scarcely contain themselves. The news soon spread, and cheers were given in every room where they are confined. The officers on duty were very lenient, and went around endeavoring to quiet the prisoners, saying the noise sounded badly in the street, and had a damaging effect. Some of the guards, however, were in a very ugly mood, and as one of our men went from the room to get water, one of the soldiers on guard made a wicked thrust at him with his bayonet.
Thursday, Feb. 5.—Snowing hard this morning and continuing until evening, when it turned to rain.
Received parcel to-day from home, containing clothing, etc.
Every day from eight to twelve wagons pass the prison, laden with dead horses and mules, from the camps around Washington. From this alone one can form an idea of the number of animals used up by the army.
Friday, Feb. 6.—Colonel Doster, Provost-Marshal, paid a visit to the prison to-night. He came into our room. On being asked by Mr. Hunter concerning his case, he said: “Gentlemen, your cases have all been decided by military governors.”
Sunday, Feb. 8.—A great many ladies and gentlemen pass and repass the prison, many merely from curiosity, perhaps, and the guards are very vigilant to see that they exchange no signals or glances with prisoners. This afternoon two ladies bowed to our window, and a corporal was sent after them. He followed them about half a block, and we could see him talking to them for some little time, but he came back without them.
A little later, two old gentlemen stopped on the street opposite the prison. One of them took from his pocket a small spy-glass, which he applied to his eye and took a careful survey of the building, to the great discomfort of the sentry, who called to him several times to pass on. The old gentleman paid no attention to the call, and the sentry asked the officer if he should arrest him. The old man then coolly put up his glass, waved his hand and passed on.
COLONEL WILLIAM P. WOOD, SUPERINTENDENT
To-day being Sunday, the superintendent, Mr. Wood,[B] went through the prison, making the announcement at each door, that all who wished to hear the Gospel according to Jeff Davis could go down to the yard, where a Secesh preacher would give it to them (this was the Rev. Mr. Landstreet, a Confederate chaplain, who is imprisoned here), and all who wanted to hear the Lord God according to Abe Lincoln could be accommodated in Room 16.
Mr. Wood professes to be an infidel, and therefore, while his partisan feelings are very strong on the question of duty and devotion to the Union cause, he is not disposed to view it from a Gospel standpoint. I have heard, however, that he was born and baptized in the Catholic Church, but left it, and in the days of Know-Nothingism became a prominent leader in that party. I went down to the yard, not so much to hear the reverend preacher (though my preference, if any, would have led me to select him) as to enjoy a smoke and a social chat with some of my friends from the other rooms.
Monday, Feb. 9.—The Tenth New Jersey Regiment is the prison guard here. Among them are many who combine the qualities of soldier and gentleman, but there are some who lack both. The latter, I am glad to say, are in the minority.
Last night before going to our bunks, we were shaking the coal stove. The grate was choked and it was hard to rake out. A guard was sent up to the room, and one said gruffly:
“What is all this noise about?”
“We are raking the stove,” said one of our party.
“No, you are not,” replied the fellow; “I know what you are doing—you are dancing, and if I hear any more of it, some of you will get in the guard house.” Being prisoners, we have to submit to this insolence.
This morning, as I was standing at the window looking out, I heard the sentinel on the sidewalk under the window order a prisoner in the next room to go from the window, or he would get a ball through him. I was standing about a foot back from the bars when the sentry, an ill-looking fellow, called out to me:
“Get away from that window.”
“I am not touching the bars,” said I. I had been told by prisoners long confined in the Old Capitol that a prisoner was permitted to look out of the window so long as he did not touch the bars.
“I will put a ball through you, damn you,” said the brute, at the same time cocking his gun and aiming at me. As I thought the cowardly rascal might shoot, and I would only be exposing myself foolishly, I drew back.
When I related this affair to a fellow-prisoner, Mr. Augustus Williams, he told me that he was a prisoner in the Old Capitol at the time young Wharton was shot, and his room was on the same floor.
It was either in the latter part of March or first of April, 1862, that Jesse W. Wharton, a young man about twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, son of Professor Wharton, of Prince George County, Md., was deliberately murdered by a man belonging to the 91st Pennsylvania Regiment, then on guard duty at the prison. Wharton was standing at the window of his room when the sentry called out to him: “Get away from that window, or I will blow your damned head off.” Wharton turned away, walked across the room and again stood at the window as before. The guard, on seeing him, repeated his command, or words to the same effect. Wharton, feeling that as he was violating no rule the guard would not attempt to carry out his threat, paid no further attention, but stood with his arms folded. The sentry (I cannot call him soldier) fired, and the ball struck Wharton in the left hand, passed through the right arm, breaking the bone of the elbow, entered the right side, coming out near the spine. He staggered, and would have fallen, but some of his fellow-prisoners caught him and lowered him gently to the floor. He lingered for seven or eight hours. Before he died he called for the lieutenant commanding the post, and when he came in, the dying man said: “I am dying, and you are the man who caused my death.” He said he heard the lieutenant give the man the order to fire.
Williams also mentioned another case, that of Harry Stewart, son of Dr. Frederick Stewart, of Baltimore, a young man less than twenty-five years of age. He had been to Richmond, and on his return was arrested as a spy and sent to the Old Capitol. One of the sentinels, a member of the 86th Regiment New York Volunteers, agreed for a bribe of fifty dollars to allow him to escape by lowering himself from the window to the pavement below. Stewart waited until the hour appointed, when this particular sentry should be on guard. He then let himself out of the window and was lowered but a few feet when the sentry cried, “Halt!” and fired, the ball striking Stewart’s right leg, splintering the knee-bone. He was quickly drawn up by his room-mates, and the prison surgeon amputated the limb. The shock was too great, however, and he died in a short time after the operation. The money (fifty dollars) was found in his pocket, wrapped up in paper, upon which was written, “This is the money I promised you.”
Augustus Williams, to whom I am indebted for these facts, is a citizen of Fairfax County, Virginia. Living near Vienna, and being within the Union lines, he was arrested and taken to the Old Capitol. There being no charge against him, except refusal to take the oath, he was released after a short term of imprisonment. Going back to his home, he was again picked up by the first party of troops raiding in his neighborhood, and returned to the Old Capitol. This occurred so frequently that Superintendent Wood came to look upon him as a regular visitor, and would greet him on his arrival with a handshake, and say:
“Hello, Gus; you’re back again. You couldn’t stay away from us very long.”
“No,” he would reply. “You fellows treat me so well when I am here. And then, it’s such a nice trip to go back home by way of Fortress Monroe and Richmond.”
Some of the prisoners who have gone out recently are suspected of having purchased their freedom at a cash valuation.
A man named George Hammett was brought in on Saturday night with a number of prisoners. He was captured on the Potomac River, and is charged with attempting to run the blockade. He was called down from the room this morning, and on his return said that he told Superintendent Wood he was willing to take the oath. Wood told him that hereafter no one would be released on simply taking the oath; that he might be released on payment of a sum of money—from one to six hundred dollars. These blockade runners, I suppose, are thought to have money, and this, no doubt, is but a plan to extort money from them.
Emanuel Weiler was released to-day. He was taken with Aaron J. King on charge of carrying contraband goods.
Tuesday, Feb. 10.—This morning two ladies passing the building bowed to prisoners at our window. A guard was sent out and brought them in. They were released after fifteen or twenty minutes’ detention, Brave soldiers! How fortunate the weather continues cool so that the ladies cannot bare arms, as it might interfere with the prison arrangements, making it necessary to double the guard in order to insure the safe keeping of the prisoners and protect our timorous guards.
After dinner a guard came into the room and escorted me down before Captain Parker, who told me to take a seat, while he proceeded to look over a paper he held in his hand.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“I have resided in this city for the past seven or eight years,” I answered.
“Where were you born?”
James Williamson
From picture taken in 1861
“I was born in Baltimore and lived there until I came to Washington.”
“What is your occupation?”
“Printer; but since November I have been engaged in a bookstore on Seventh Street.”
“You have been South during the war?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I was employed at Ritchie & Dunnavant’s.” (Ritchie & Dunnavant did the printing for the State and Confederate governments).
“Do you know Henry Howe?”
“I do, sir.”
“Did you ever have any difficulty with him?”
“I did. Mr. Howe and a man named Daniels came to Richmond while I was there. They took board at a house kept by Mrs. Graves, on Franklin Street, where I was boarding. On the night of July 3d or 4th, I had a sum of money stolen from my pockets. Mr. Howe and his friend slept in the room adjoining mine. The door between the rooms was left open, while the doors leading from the rooms into the hall were locked. The pants, in the pockets of which I had the money, were hung on a hook near the door, and in the morning the money was gone. Mr. Howe had been boarding in the house for about five weeks without paying any board. That morning he and his friend Daniels left and went to another boarding-house. Before leaving, Howe told Mrs. Graves he would not take his baggage away until he paid her all he owed. He put his clothes in Daniels’ trunk, and they left with one trunk. The next day Daniels came to me and said: ‘Howe has stolen your money. You know, he had none before he left, and now he has plenty, and he is lying in a beer house on Main Street, drunk.’ I took Daniels to a detective, to whom he repeated this story. The detective arrested Howe. He was kept in prison for about a week. When brought before the Mayor of Richmond (Joseph Mayo) for final examination, the Mayor said:
“‘I am confident one of you two men took that money, but as there are two of you, it is possible one may be innocent, therefore I am obliged to release you both. But I will give you twenty-four hours to leave the city, and if you do not leave within that time I will have you arrested under this act (reading them the vagrant act) and put to work in the chain-gang.’”
“Have you ever taken an oath of allegiance to the South?” asked Captain Parker.
“No, sir,” I replied.
“Would you take an oath to this government?”
“No, sir; I would not.”
“That is very strange. That you will not take an oath to support a government under whose flag you live and which protects you. And you born in Maryland, a loyal State, as she has proved to be by the vote of her people.”
As I was a prisoner in his hands, I knew it would be folly on my part to enter into an argument on this question, but I said:
“I will not take an oath of allegiance. You take an oath of office which is binding on you so long as you hold office, but you ask me to take an oath of perpetual allegiance—‘at any and all times hereafter, and under all circumstances.’ You have shown no act of mine to prove me disloyal, and I think you have no right to demand such oath.”
“Your refusal to take the oath is sufficient proof of your disloyalty. How long have you been here, sir?”
“A week last Saturday. I was arrested and brought here, and have not been able to learn either the name of my accuser or the nature of the accusation.”
“I will inform you, then, that Mr. Howe is the principal witness against you. I have done with you for to-day, sir.”
I then left him and went back to my room. Here one man is judge, jury and witness.
There are a number of men here in close confinement. We can see them as they are taken out in the yard daily in charge of a guard. None of the other prisoners are allowed to speak to them.
I have been fascinated with the reading of Byron’s “Prisoner of Chillon” and with Dumas’ picture of the “Man With the Iron Mask,” of the mysteries and miseries of the Bastile, and the wretched prisoners who were immured within its dismal walls. I have felt my blood tingle when I read of men who had not been convicted of any crime, and, in some instances, who had committed no crime, yet had been confined for years—often uncared for and forgotten, under the infamous system of the lettre de cachet. I regarded them mostly as sensational stories—as fiction—but here the picture is faithfully copied—the lettre de cachet, the prison, the murder—all here in the stern reality.
Many persons confined here were arrested, robbed of everything they possessed, and kept merely on suspicion for weeks, and even months, without examination or trial, and sometimes, after an examination and no proof of charges, being still detained.
The occupants of the rooms on the same floor with Room 16 (Rooms 14, 15 and 18), are mostly farmers from Virginia, living either within the Union lines or on disputed territory. Because of their refusal to take the oath of allegiance, they are arrested and brought to the Old Capitol. They were robbed of their personal property, their negroes run off, and in many instances their houses and farm buildings destroyed.
Among the prisoners with me in Room 16 is an old gentleman named Henry Love. He and his son Llewellyn are both prisoners. The old gentleman seems completely broken down. In telling me the story of his treatment, he said:
“I kept a hotel, and also farmed, near Dumfries, Virginia. I had a farm of 200 acres, all under cultivation, except about 25 acres in wood. My house was taken by Federal troops and used as a hospital, leaving me only three rooms for myself and family. They killed seventeen head of cattle, some of the finest cows you ever saw; my stock was all choice breeds. One cow, with her second calf, was killed, her hindquarters cut off, and the balance, with the calf, left to rot. They killed forty hogs, took two of my best horses, Black Hawks, killed all my poultry; took two stacks of hay, two entire crops of corn, wheat and oats, and two hundred and seventy pounds of bacon. They destroyed all my shrubbery and fences. My place is now as bare as the palm of your hand.”
He was afterward taken prisoner, then released on parole, but is now again under arrest. He was called before Parker, who told him there were no charges against him, but as he was a Secessionist he would have to keep him for a while.
Another is James Johnson, of Clarke County, Virginia, who was taken from his home by a raiding party. He was robbed of everything, his horse stolen, and he has been kept a prisoner for two months. He is sick all the time; appears to be in an advanced stage of consumption.
Mr. Redmond Brawner, who lived at Manassas, lost everything, and he, with his family, were compelled to become refugees. He was arrested, and is now a prisoner here.
Mr. James F. Kerfoot, of Millwood, Clarke County, Virginia, when arrested was buying cattle for the Confederate Government. He had in his possession $18,000 belonging to the Government and $400 of his own money. He was stripped of everything.
Another of my room-mates is Mr. George S. Ayre, of Loudoun County, Virginia. At the outbreak of the war he was a wealthy farmer and cattle dealer. He owned one of the finest improved farms in the county and slaves enough to cultivate it. The army under General Geary camped in the neighborhood of his farm, and one day loaded up twenty-six four-horse wagons with corn and provender, and in return the quartermaster gave receipts. Since then he has suffered at the hands of raiding parties, and now is arrested and imprisoned here.
[Mr. Ayre was released a short time before I was and returned to his home. In the Fall of 1863, General Hunter threatened Lynchburg, where Mr. Ayre had a quantity of tobacco stored. Fearing it might be destroyed, he went South, disposed of it, and started for home with the proceeds of the sale. When near James City, in Culpeper County, he met a scouting party from Meade’s army, who first carried him to headquarters and then to Washington, where the Provost-Marshal took from him his money, amounting to $80,000 in Virginia money, a $1,000 bond, and some valuable papers, and held him as a hostage for a Captain Samuel Steers, who was captured by Mosby’s men. He was held a prisoner for nine months.
His slaves all remained with him, and he continued to cultivate his land, consequently he had good crops on hand in November, 1864, when General Sheridan sent his forces into Loudoun to destroy crops and property in his futile efforts to drive out Mosby and his men, who continued to occupy the same ground until after the surrender of General Lee. Mr. Ayre then had three crops of wheat in the stack. The Union troops burned 8,000 bushels of wheat, 130 tons of hay, 70 acres of corn in the shock, a new barn with all his machinery and farming implements, and drove off 80 fine improved sheep.[C]
After the war he put in a claim, through his Representative in Congress, endeavoring to recover something for these losses, but his claim was bandied about from committee to committee, and from Congress to the Court of Claims, while the poor old man, now in his 93d year, penniless and broken in health, is unable to get a cent from the Government in return.]
Wednesday, Feb. 11.—We received some newspapers to-day, and in them I see it stated that Captain Wynne escaped from the Old Capitol Prison on Monday night last, by breaking out a panel of his door. This no doubt gave rise to the ghost story which was going the rounds of the prison at that time, of the ghost without a head who frightened the wits out of some of the sentries.
I heard a great commotion in the prison to-day, and as the noise approached nearer and grew more distinct, I could detect the cry of “Fresh fish! Fresh fish!” which I was afterward told announced the arrival of a fresh lot of prisoners. Among them were a number of blockade runners—eleven white and six negroes. Two of the whites were put in our room. At the advent of a new prisoner, the old ones gather around, anxious to hear the latest news from the outside world.
Captain Thomas Phillips had an interview with Captain Parker to-day. He was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment.
Phillips was captain of a vessel captured while attempting to run the blockade into Wilmington, N. C. His clothes and money, together with his quadrant and charts, were all taken from him.
Blockade running is a dangerous but, when successful, a very profitable business. Of the few ports of the Southern Confederacy used for running the blockade, that of Wilmington, N. C., is the one most frequently chosen, from the fact of there being two entrances, or channels, leading into the Cape Fear River, on which the city of Wilmington is situated, the south entrance being protected by Fort Fisher and Fort Caswell; the north, or new inlet, by Fort Fisher and a small land battery.
[One of the strongest inducements for running the blockade was the enormous value of cotton outside of the Confederacy. A vessel laden with provisions, medical stores, arms and munitions of war for the Confederate Government, effecting an entrance, discharging her load and taking in a return cargo of cotton, which would perhaps yield a profit of five or six hundred per cent., if successful in evading the blockading squadron, would certainly furnish a strong incentive for other daring adventurers to take the risk of a voyage.
The high rate of wages paid to master and crew was always a sufficient inducement to secure a complement of hardy and efficient men for the enterprise.]
Three ladies called at the prison to-day. After they left the building, one of them looked up, and seeing some of the prisoners at the window, bowed to them. The guard called out to the corporal, who started a soldier after them. He pursued them down the street, but returned shortly after, saying they refused to return with him. Of course, we were all pleased with the result.
Thursday, Feb. 12.—Our time is spent in reading, when we have anything to read; card playing, dominoes, or checkers. Newspapers we get occasionally. Some devote much of their time to smoking, others to relating stories of adventures, with an occasional song and dance.
Among the songs is one, written before my advent into this, my prison home, by some one, of whose name even I am ignorant; but being a picture of our prison life, as well as a faithful expression of the sentiments cherished at the time in the breasts of many who dared not give them utterance outside of these prison walls, without the risk of punishment or exile, I give it here entire and unaltered.
Air—Villikins and His Dinah.
This would be one feature of the program, with “Maryland, My Maryland,” “Dixie,” “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” and a song, the chorus of which ran—“Ain’t You Glad You’re Out of the Wilderness?” but which a few months later was changed to “Ol’ Joe Hooker, Come Out of the Wilderness.”
When the singing would lag a little, Fax Minor, on whom the sound of music or singing caused a contraction and extension of the muscles, producing an effect like pulling the strings of a supple-jack, would jump up and execute a regular plantation break-down.
Some of our room-mates were gifted with good voices, which, though untrained or uncultivated, were pleasing to the ear, and, combined with the sentiment of the songs, had an inspiring effect on the listeners, like the strains of martial music on the lagging footsteps of the marching soldier.
One day as they were singing “Maryland, My Maryland,” Gus Williams, getting up from a bench near the stove, where he sat whittling a stick, advanced toward the group of singers and said:
“You boys sing that well, but I’ve heard ‘My Maryland’ sung here in the old building in a way that would make you feel like jumping out of the window and swimming across the Potomac. When Belle Boyd was here I was on the same floor. She would sing that song as if her very soul was in every word she uttered. It used to bring a lump up in my throat every time I heard it. It seemed like my heart was ready to jump out—as if I could put my finger down and touch it. I’ve seen men, when she was singing, walk off to one side and pull out their handkerchiefs and wipe their eyes, for fear some one would see them doing the baby act.
“She left soon after I came in. I was glad to know that she was released, but we all missed her. Even some of the Yankees, although they would not show it while she was here; but when she was sent away they missed her sweet singing—Rebel songs though they were. One of them told me it made him feel sad to hear her sing.
“And on Sundays, when there was preaching down in the yard, she would be allowed to come down and sit near the preacher. If you could only have seen how the fellows would try to get near her as she passed. And if she gave them a look or a smile, it did them more good than the preaching. You wouldn’t hear a cuss word from any of them for a week, even if one of the guards would swear at them or threaten them.”[D]
Friday, Feb. 13.—George Hammett, Davis, Gardner and George were released this afternoon upon taking the oath.
Saturday, Feb. 14.—A number of prisoners were brought in to-day. There are said to be 450 prisoners here at present, the greater portion of them being citizens.
Last night I was awakened by hearing an unusual commotion throughout the building. This morning there were a number of prisoners in the guard house. It is said that Captain Darling and George Adreon escaped. The sentinel was bribed, and a greater number would have escaped but for the indiscretion of the prisoners. They were so jubilant at the prospect of getting out, that they had some whiskey sneaked into the room and treated the sentinel. They made him drunk, so that he had to be taken off post, and he was put in the guard house. The new man being ignorant of the deal made with his comrade, the whole scheme failed. There is a standing order to sentinels on each floor to allow not more than two men to leave their rooms at a time. Trusting to their arrangement with the sentry, the prisoners who were in the plot would leave singly on this night, at slight intervals, until the guards, seeing so many more going out than the rules permitted, became suspicious and reported their suspicions. Consequently, as each prisoner left his room and went down stairs, he was quietly taken to the guard house, until the number of absentees from the rooms became so numerous the prisoners themselves grew suspicious, and the exodus was stopped.
It is an easy matter to get whiskey here. A bright young contraband, whose ebony face gives proof of the purity of his Congo blood, comes into our room every morning to remove the ashes and refuse. For a trifling sum Charlie will bring in two flasks of whiskey in the breast pockets of his coat, and afterward take back the empty flasks. Many of the prison guards are ready to do the same when asked.
Mr. James Fullerton came to see me to-day. He told me my wife went to the Provost-Marshal’s office last Tuesday and asked for a pass to visit me, but was refused.
Sunday, Feb. 15.—Stephen R. Mount, of Loudoun County, Virginia, aged sixty-eight, was put in our room to-day. There is another old gentleman here, named Randolph, aged seventy-five. He is also from Virginia.
An order was issued to-day that no more singing of Rebel songs will be tolerated. Also, that any prisoner bowing or otherwise noticing persons passing on the street, will be put in the guard house.
There are no printed rules for our guidance placed where they can be seen, and no official instructions as to how we are to act, or to whom we shall make known our necessities. A knowledge can only be gained from conversing with prisoners who have been a long time in the prison, or from actual observation, or from seeing punishment inflicted upon some poor wretch for a violation of an unwritten law. One can only do as you see others do, and if you blindly follow a willful or ignorant transgressor, you must take the punishment of a guilty person.
The daily routine may be summed up as follows:
The first call in the morning is when the door is thrown open and breakfast announced. All in the room then scamper down to the yard and into the mess-room already described.
About nine o’clock the door is again opened and a voice shouts in tones loud enough to be heard by all, “Sick Call.” Then all who have need of medicine or treatment go to the hospital, located in a two-story wooden building, an extension of the main building, and reached by a flight of steps leading up from the prison yard.
The next sensation is the dinner call. This gives the prisoners a half-hour, most of which, if not all, is spent in the yard. The yard is about one hundred feet square, partly paved with bricks or cobble-stones.[E] On the side of this yard, extending from this wooden building occupied as sutler’s shop, mess-room and hospital, and running back to the gate, is a one-story stone building in which are the cook house, guard house and wash house. Back of this building are the sinks used by the prisoners. These are wide trenches with a long wooden rail in front, after the manner of the trenches in the camps, except that when those in the camps become offensive they are filled in with earth and new ones dug. The presence of these sinks, used for months by several hundred men, it may be safely said, did not contribute to the beauty of the scenery or add sweetness to the tainted air. Any further description, I think, is better left to the imagination than expressed in words.