<h3><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX.</SPAN></h3>
<div class="chapquot">
<div>
<p>It is not for prisoners to be too silent.</p>
<p class="citation">Love's Labor Lost.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="sidenote">Standing by Our Colors.</div>
<p>On the way, one of our party enjoined my colleague and myself—</p>
<p>"You had better not say <cite>Tribune</cite> to the Rebels. Tell
them you are correspondents of some less obnoxious journal."</p>
<p>Months before, I had asked three Confederate officers—paroled
prisoners within our lines:—</p>
<p>"What would you do with a <cite>Tribune</cite> correspondent,
if you captured him?" With the usual recklessness, two had
answered:—</p>
<p>"We would hang him upon the nearest sapling."</p>
<p>This remembrance was not cheering; but as we were the first
correspondents of a radical Northern journal who had fallen into the
enemy's hands, after a moment's interchange of views, we decided to
stand by our colors, and tell the plain truth. It proved much the
wiser course.</p>
<p>One of the rescued men, coatless and hatless, with his face blackened
until he looked like a native of Timbuctoo, addressed me familiarly.
Unable to recognize him, I asked:—</p>
<p>"Who are you?"</p>
<p>"Why," he replied, "I am Captain Ward."<SPAN name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15" href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">15</SPAN></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="sidenote">Confinement in the Vicksburg Jail.</div>
<p>When the explosion occurred, he was sitting on the hurricane roof
of the tug. It was more exposed than any other position, but the
officers of the boat had shown symptoms of fear, and he determined
to be where his revolver would enable him to control them if they
attempted to desert us.</p>
<p>Some missile struck his head and stunned him. When he recovered
consciousness, the tug had gone to the bottom, and he was struggling
in the river. He had strength enough to clutch a rope hanging over
the side of a barge, and keep his head above water. Permitting his
sword and revolver, which greatly weighed him down, to sink, he
called to his men on the blazing wreck. Under the hot fire of cannon
and musketry, they formed a rope of their belts, and let it down to
him. He fastened it under his arms; they lifted him up to the barge,
whence he escaped by the hay-bale line.</p>
<p>At Vicksburg, the commander of the City Guards registered our names.</p>
<p>"I hope, sir," said Colburn, "that you will give us comfortable
quarters."</p>
<p>With a half-surprised expression, the major replied, dryly:—</p>
<p>"Oh! yes, sir; we will do the best we can for you."</p>
<p>"The best" proved ludicrously bad. Just before daylight we were taken
into the city jail. Its foul yard was half filled with criminals
and convicts, black and white, all dirty and covered with vermin.
In its midst was an open sewer, twelve or fifteen feet in diameter,
the grand receptacle of all the prison filth. The rising sun of
that sultry morning penetrated its reeking depths, and produced the
atmosphere of a pest-house.</p>
<p>We dried our clothing before a fire in the yard, conversed with the
villainous-looking jail-birds, and laughed
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</SPAN></span>
about this unexpected result of our adventure. We had felt the danger
of wounds or death; but it had not occurred to either of us that we
might be captured. One of the private soldiers had paid a dollar for
the privilege of coming on the expedition. To our query whether he
deemed the money well invested, he replied that he would not have
missed the experience for ten times the amount. One youth, confined
in the jail for thieving, asked us the question, with which we were
soon to grow familiar:—</p>
<p>"What did you all come down here for, to steal our niggers?"</p>
<p>At noon we were taken out and marched through the streets.
"Junius's" bare and bleeding feet excited the sympathy of a lady, who
immediately sent him a pair of stockings, requesting if ever he met
any of "our soldiers" suffering in the North, that he would do as
much for them. The donor—Mrs. Arthur—was a very earnest
Unionist, with little sympathy for "our soldiers," but used the
phrase as one of the habitual subterfuges of the Loyalists.</p>
<div class="sidenote">The First Glimpse of Sambo.</div>
<p>While we waited in the office of the Provost-Marshal, I obtained a
first brief glimpse of the inevitable negro. Just outside the open
window, which extended to the floor, stood an African, with great
shining eyes, expressing his sympathy through remarkable grimaces and
contortions, bowing, scraping, and</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>"Husking his white ivories like an ear of corn."</p>
</div>
<p>Rebel citizens and soldiers were all about him; and, somewhat
alarmed, I indicated by a look that he should be a little less
demonstrative. But Sambo, as usual, knew what he was doing, and was
not detected.</p>
<p>The Provost-Marshal, Captain Wells, of the Twenty-eighth
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</SPAN></span>
Louisiana Infantry, courteously assigned to us the upper story of the
court-house, posting a sentinel at the door.</p>
<div class="sidenote">Paroled to Return Home.</div>
<p>Major Watts, the Rebel Agent of Exchange, called upon us and
administered the following parole:—</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="center">CONFEDERATE STATES OF AMERICA.</p>
<p class="quotdate"><span class="smcap">Vicksburg,
Mississippi</span>, <i>May 4, 1863</i>.</p>
<p>This is to certify, that in accordance with a Cartel in regard
to an exchange of prisoners entered into between the Governments of
the United States of America and the Confederate States of America,
on the 22d day of July, 1862, Albert D. Richardson, citizen of New
York, who was captured on the 4th day of May, at Vicksburg, and has
since been held as a prisoner of war by the military authorities
of the said Confederate States, is hereby paroled, <em>with full
leave to return to his country</em> on the following conditions,
namely: that he will not take up arms again, nor serve as military
police or constabulary force in any fort, garrison, or field-work,
held by either of said parties, nor as a guard of prisoners,
dépôts, or stores, nor discharge any duty usually
performed by soldiers, until exchanged under the Cartel referred
to. The aforesaid Albert D. Richardson signifying his full and free
consent to said conditions by his signature hereto, thereby solemnly
pledges his word and honor to a due observance of the same.</p>
<p class="quotsig">Albert D. Richardson.</p>
<p style="text-indent: 2em;"><span class="smcap">N. G. Watts</span>,<br/>
<em>Major Confederate States Army, and Agent for Exchange of Prisoners</em>.</p>
</div>
<p>This parole was regular, formal, and final, taken at a regular
point of exchange, by an officer duly appointed under the express
provisions of the cartel. Major Watts informed us that he was
prevented from sending us across the lines at Vicksburg, only because
Grant's operations had suspended flag-of-truce communication. He
assured us, that while he was thus compelled to forward us to
Richmond, the only other point of exchange, we should not be detained
there beyond the arrival of the first truce-boat. </p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="sidenote">Turning the Tables Handsomely.</div>
<p>These formalities ended, the major, who was a polite, kind-hearted,
rather pompous little officer, made an attempt at condolence and
consolation.</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>"Gentlemen," said he, with a good deal of self-complacency, "you
are a long way from home. However, do not despond; I have met a great
many of your people in this condition; I have paroled some thousands
of them, first and last. In fact, I confidently expect, within the
next ten days, to see Major-General Grant, who commands your army, a
prisoner in this room."</p>
</div>
<p>We knew something about that! Of course, we were familiar with the
size of Grant's army; and, before we had been many hours in the Rebel
lines, we found Union people who told us minutely the strength of
Pemberton. So we replied to the prophet, that, while we had no sort
of doubt of his seeing General Grant there, it would not be exactly
in the capacity of a prisoner!</p>
<p>Colburn—who had the good fortune, for that occasion, to be attached
to <cite>The World</cite>, and who, on reaching Richmond, was sent home by
the first truce-boat—came back to Vicksburg in season to be in at
the death. One of the first men he met, after the capture of the
city, was Watts, to whom he rehearsed this little scene, with the
characters reversed.</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>"Major," said he, with dry humor, "you are a long distance from
home! But do not despond; I have seen a good many of your people in
this condition. In fact, I believe there are about thirty thousand
of them here to-day, including Lieutenant-General Pemberton, who
commands <em>your</em> army."</p>
</div>
<div class="sidenote">Visits from Many Rebels.</div>
<p>We stayed in Vicksburg two days. Our noisy advent made us objects
of attention. Several Rebel journalists visited us, with tenders of
clothing, money, and any assistance
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</SPAN></span>
they could render. Confederate officers and citizens called in large
numbers, inquiring eagerly about the condition of the North, and the
public feeling touching the war.</p>
<p>Some complained that Northern officers, while in confinement, had
said to them: "While we are in favor of the Union, we disapprove
altogether the war as conducted by this Abolition Administration,
with its tendencies to negro equality;" but that, after reaching
home, the same persons were peculiarly radical and bloodthirsty.</p>
<p>As political affairs were the only topic of conversation, we had
excellent opportunity for preventing any similar misunderstanding
touching ourselves. Courteously, but frankly, we told them that we
were in favor of the war, of emancipation, and of arming the negroes.
They manifested considerable feeling, but used no harsh expressions.
Two questions they invariably asked:—</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>"What are you going to do with us, after you have subjugated
us?" and, "What will you do with the negroes, after you have freed
them?"</p>
</div>
<p>They talked much of our leading officers, all seeming to consider
Rosecrans the best general in the Union service. Nearly all used the
stereotyped Rebel expression:—</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>"You can never conquer seven millions of people on their own
soil. We will fight to the last man! We will die in the last
ditch!"</p>
</div>
<p>We reminded them that the determination they expressed was by no
means peculiar to them, referring to Bancroft, in proof that even the
Indian tribes, at war with the early settlers of New England, used
exactly the same language. We asked one Texan colonel, noticeably
voluble concerning the "last ditch," what he meant by
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</SPAN></span>
it—if he really intended to fight after their armies should be
dispersed and their cities taken.</p>
<p>"Oh, no!" he replied, "you don't suppose I'm a fool, do you? As long
as there is any show for us, we shall fight you. If you win, most of
us will go to South America, Mexico, or Europe."</p>
<div class="sidenote">Interview with Jacob Thompson.</div>
<p>On Monday evening, Major-General Forney, of Alabama, sent an officer
to escort us to his head-quarters. He received us with great
frigidity, and we endeavored to be quite as icy as he. With some of
his staff officers, genial young fellows educated in the North, we
had a pleasant chat.</p>
<p>Jacob Thompson, of Mississippi, Buchanan's Secretary of the Interior,
and now a colonel on the staff of Lieutenant-General Pemberton, was
at the same head-quarters. With the suavity of an old politician,
he conversed with us for two or three hours. He asserted that some
of our soldiers had treated his aged mother with great cruelty. He
declared that Northern dungeons now contained at least three thousand
inoffensive Southern citizens, who had never taken up arms, and were
held only for alleged disloyalty.</p>
<p>Many other Rebel officers talked a great deal about arbitrary arrests
in the North. Several gravely assured us that, in the South, from the
beginning of the war, no citizen had ever been arrested, except by
due process of law, under charges well defined, and publicly made. We
were a little astounded, afterward, to learn how utterly bare-faced
was this falsehood.</p>
<p>On Tuesday evening we started for Jackson, Mississippi, in
company with forty other Union prisoners. They were mainly from Ohio
regiments, young in years, but veteran soldiers—farmers' sons,
with intelligent, earnest faces. Pemberton's army was in motion. Our
train
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</SPAN></span>
passed slowly through his camps, and halted half an hour at
several points, among crowds of Rebel privates.</p>
<p>The Ohio boys and their guards were on the best possible terms,
drinking whisky and playing euchre together. The former indulged in a
good deal of verbal skirmishing with the soldiers outside, thrusting
their heads from the car windows and shouting:—</p>
<p>"Look out, Rebs! The Yankees are coming! Keep on marching, if you
don't want old Grant to catch you!"</p>
<p>"How are times in the North?" the Confederates replied. "Cotton a
dollar and twenty-five cents a pound in New York!"</p>
<p>"How are times in the South? Flour one hundred and seventy-five
dollars a barrel in Vicksburg, and none to be had at that!"</p>
<p>After waiting vainly for an answer to this quenching retort, the
Buckeyes sang "Yankee Doodle," the "Star-Spangled Banner," and "John
Brown's Body lies a-moldering in the Ground," for the edification of
their bewildered foes.</p>
<div class="sidenote">Arrival in Jackson, Mississippi.</div>
<p>Before dark, we reached Jackson. Though a prisoner, I entered it
with far more pleasurable feelings than at my last visit; for my
tongue was now free, and I was not sailing under false colors. The
dreary little city was in a great panic. Before we had been five
minutes in the street, a precocious young newsboy came running among
us, and, while shouting—"Here's <cite>The Mississippian</cite> extra!"
talked to us incessantly in a low tone:—</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>"How are you, Yanks? You have come in a capital time. Greatest
panic you ever saw. Everybody flying out of town. Governor Pettus
issued a proclamation, telling the people to stand firm, and then ran
away himself before the ink was dry."</p>
</div>
<div class="sidenote">Kindness from Southern Editors.</div>
<p>We remained in Jackson three days. Upon parole,
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</SPAN></span>
we were allowed to take our meals at a boarding-house several squares
from the prison, and to visit the office of <cite>The Appeal</cite>. This
journal, originally published at Memphis, was removed to Grenada
upon the approach of our forces; Grenada being threatened, it was
transferred to Jackson; thence to Atlanta, and finally to Montgomery,
Alabama. It was emphatically a moving <cite>Appeal</cite>.</p>
<p>Its editors very kindly supplied us with clothing and money. They
seemed to be sick of the war, and to retain little faith in the Rebel
cause, for which they had sacrificed so much, abandoning property in
Memphis to the amount of thirty thousand dollars. They now published
the most enterprising and readable newspaper in the South. It was
noticeably free from vituperation, calling the President "Mr.
Lincoln," instead of the "Illinois Baboon," and characterizing us not
as Yankee scoundrels, but as "unwilling guests"—</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>"Gentlemen who attempted to run the batteries on Sunday night,
and after escaping death from shot and shell, from being scalded by
the rushing steam, from roasting by the lively flames that enveloped
their craft, were found in the river by a rescuing party, each
clinging tenaciously to a bale of hay for safety."</p>
</div>
<p>Grant's army was moving toward Jackson. We longed for his approach,
straining our ears for the booming of his guns. The Rebels, in their
usual strain, declared that the city could not be captured, and would
be defended to the last drop of blood. But on the night before our
departure, we were confidentially told that the Federal advance was
already within twenty-five miles, and certain to take the town.</p>
<div class="sidenote">A Project for Escape.</div>
<p>With forty-five unarmed prisoners, we were placed on an ammunition
train, which had not more than a
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</SPAN></span>
dozen guards. The privates begged Captain Ward to lead them, and
permit them to capture the train. We all deemed the project feasible.
Ten minutes would suffice to blow up the cars. With twelve guns, we
could easily march twenty miles through those sparse settlements to
Grant's forces.</p>
<p>But there were our paroles! A careful reading convinced us that if
we failed in the attempt, the enemy would be justified, under the
laws of war, in punishing us with death; and, after much debate, we
abandoned the project.</p>
<p>Rebel officers in Vicksburg had assured us that crossing the
Confederacy from the Mississippi to the Atlantic, upon the Southern
railroads, was a more hazardous undertaking than running the river
batteries. The rolling stock was in wretched condition, and fatal
accidents frequently occurred; but we traveled at a leisurely,
old-fashioned rate, averaging eight miles per hour, making long
stops, and seldom running by night. </p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</SPAN></span></p>
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