The prisoners taken at Buffington were carried to Cincinnati as rapidly as the low stage of water, and the speed of the little boat, upon which we were placed, would permit. We were some three days in making the trip. Fortunately for us, the officers and men appointed to guard us, were disposed to ameliorate our condition as much as possible. Our private soldiers, crowded on the hurricane decks, were, of course, subjected to inconvenience, but the wish of the guards was evidently to remedy it as much as possible. This crowding enabled a number of them to make their escape by leaping into the river at night, as the sentries could not possibly detect or prevent their efforts at escape. Captain Day, General Judah's inspector, who was in immediate charge of us, while he was rigidly careful to guard against escape, showed us the most manly and soldierly courtesy. As the only acknowledgment we could make him, the officers united in requesting him to accept a letter which we severally signed, declaring our appreciation of his kindness. We trusted that, if he should ever be so unfortunate as to become a prisoner himself, this evidence of his consideration for our situation would benefit him.

It was habitually remarked that, in the first two years of the war at least, there was a prevalent disposition among the men of both armies who served in "the front," to show courtesy to prisoners. The soldiers who guarded us from Buffington to Cincinnati were characterized by this spirit in an unusual degree, and carried out this practice, which even those who neglect it, approve, more thoroughly, I must say, than any troops I had ever seen. We met with treatment so different, afterward, that we had occasion to remember and compare. For my own part, I was more than once compelled, during my long and chequered imprisonment, to express my sense of courteous and considerate treatment; and, as I believe, that a gentleman ought not to say, at any time or in any event, that which he can not unhesitatingly confirm, however changed may be the circumstances (every legitimate ruse-de-guerre, being, of course, an exception), I shall take great pains, in the course of this chapter, to specify wherein and by whom such treatment was accorded me, or my comrades. I am aware that this is not customary, and the contrary habit, may have become an established canon of this sort of literature, the violation of which will occasion grave criticism. But my own people will appreciate my explanation. I should have accepted no kindness at the hands of my captors; I ought to have repelled every courtesy offered me, if clearly prompted by a generous and manly spirit; if I were capable of altogether omitting mention of such acts, in a description, purporting to be truthful and accurate, of my prison experience.

In all else, my readers may rest assured that the rule shall be observed. He would be a poor-spirited prisoner, who would not tell all the mean things he knows about his jailors, and since Wirtz was hung, at any rate, such gentry have become fair game.

When we arrived at Cincinnati, we met with a grand ovation. The fact that none of the citizens had come out to meet us, when we marched around the city, had caused us to conceive a very erroneous impression regarding them. They pressed closely upon the guard of soldiers who were drawn up around us, as we were marched through the streets to the city prison, and attempted many demonstrations of their feeling toward us. There seemed to be little sympathy between the soldiers and the populace. The former muttered pretty strong expressions of disgust for the previous tameness and present boldness of the latter, and once or twice when jostled, plied their bayonets. The privates were immediately sent to camps Morton and Douglass. The officers were kept at the city prison in Cincinnati for three days. During that time, we were reinforced by a good many others, taken in the two or three days which, succeeded Buffington fight.

On the last day of our sojourn here, we learned of General Morgan's capture. We had hoped and almost felt confident, that he would escape.

We were removed from this prison on the second of July (or within a day or two of that date), and taken to Johnson's Island. At every station on the railroad, from Cincinnati to Sandusky, large and enthusiastic crowds assembled to greet us. The enthusiasm, however, was scarcely of a nature to excite agreeable emotions in our bosoms. There seemed to be "universal suffrage" for our instant and collective execution, and its propriety was promulgated with much heat and emphasis. A change seemed to have come over the people of Ohio in the past two weeks. In our progress through the State, before our capture, the people left their homes—apparently from a modest disinclination to see us. But, now, they crowded to stare at us.

When we reached Sandusky, we were transferred to a small steam tug, and, in twenty minutes, were put across the arm of the lake which separates Johnson's Island from the main land. We were marched, as soon as landed, to the adjutant's office, and after roll-call, and a preliminary scrutiny to ascertain if we had money or weapons upon our persons, although it was, perhaps, the strict rule to search—the word of each man in our party was taken—we were introduced into the prison inclosure. It was the custom, in those days, in the various prisons for the older inmates to collect about the gates of the "Bull-pen" when "Fresh fish," as every lot of prisoners just arrived were termed, were brought in, and inspect them. We, consequently, met a large crowd of unfortunate rebels, when we entered, in which were not a few acquaintances, and some of our own immediate comrades. The first man I saw, or, at least, the first one to whom my attention was attracted, was First Lieutenant Charles Donegan, of the Second Kentucky. He had been a private in the heroic Fourth Alabama, and, when his term of service had expired in that regiment, he "joined Morgan," becoming a private in Company A, of the "old squadron." When the Second Kentucky was organized, he was made a non-commissioned officer, and was shortly afterward promoted to First Lieutenant for gallantry, excellent conduct, and strict attention to duty. In the prison he met with his old comrades of the Army of Northern Virginia, and was prompt to welcome all of the "Morgan men" who "happened in," and to initiate them in the art of making life in a prison endurable. A few months before, I had visited his father, one of the most hospitable men in Huntsville, famed for that virtue, and he charged me with a message to "Charlie," which I delivered in the barracks at Johnson's Island. Lieutenant Donegan remained in prison more than twenty months—one of those men whose patient heroism will never be justly appreciated.

It is only by citing personal instances of this kind, that the history of the Southern soldiery can be written so that it will be understood.

The Gettysburg prisoners had arrived, only a few days before, and from them we heard the first intelligible account of the great battle. Not a whit was the courage and fire of these gallant representatives of the army of heroes abated. They seemed to have perfect faith in the invincibility of their comrades, and they looked for the millenium to arrive, much sooner, than for serious discomfiture to befall "Uncle Robert."

Johnson's Island was the most agreeable prison I ever saw—which is much as if a man were to allude to the pleasantest dose of castor oil he ever swallowed. However, there is little doubt but that it would have been pleasant (for a short time), if it had not been a prison. The climate in the summer is delightful, and the prospect highly gratifying—except to a man who would like to escape and can not swim. The winters, there, are said to have been very severe—but then the barracks were open and airy. We, who were shortly afterward transferred to the Ohio Penitentiary, thought and spoke of Johnson's Island as (under the circumstances), a very "desirable location." The rations were good, and we were permitted to purchase any thing we wished from the sutler. As we were there only four days, however, it is possible that some others who remained nearly two years, may be right in contending that the regime (in process of time), underwent some change.

It was not uncommon to hear men say, that they would rather be sent to that locality which is conceded by all sects to be exceedingly uncomfortable, than go again to Johnson's Island—but a shuddering recollection of the bitter winter weather, evidently induced the preference. After remaining at Johnson's Island four days, some forty of us were called for one morning, and bidden to prepare for departure—whither we were not informed. But our worst fears were realized, when we were taken off of the cars at Columbus and marched to the penitentiary. The State of Ohio claimed Morgan and his officers, as her peculiar property—because we had been captured on her soil by Michiganders, Kentuckians, etc., and demanded us, that we might be subjected to the same treatment which she inflicted upon her felons. It was rumored, also, that Colonel Streight, an Ohio officer, captured by Forrest, had been placed in the penitentiary in Georgia, and we were told that we were being penitentiaried in retaliation. It turned out subsequently that Colonel Streight was treated precisely as the other prisoners in the South, but the Governor of Ohio having gotten hold of a batch of Confederate soldiers, captured for him by troops from other States, was disposed to make the most of them, and would not consent to let them out of his hands.

Two men figured in the "Ohio raid" and the subsequent treatment of the raiders, with a peculiar eclat. The Commander-in-Chief of the department, who prepared to flee from the city where his headquarters were established, upon the approach of two thousand wearied men, whom with an army of fine troops he could not stop—was one of them. The other was the Governor of a State he could not defend; but who could torture if he could not fight. Burnside turned us over to Todd—but instructed that, "these men shall be subjected to the usual prison discipline." He could part with his prisoners and enjoin, in doing so, that they be treated as convicted felons. But his name would blister the tongue of a brave man, and I should apologize for writing it.

When we entered this gloomy mansion of "crime and woe," it was with misery in our hearts, although an affected gaiety of manner. We could not escape the conviction, struggle against it as we would, that we were placed there to remain while the war lasted, and most of as believed that the war would outlast the generation. We were told, when we went in, that we "were there to stay," and there was something infernal in the gloom and the massive strength of the place, which seemed to bid us "leave all hope behind." While we were waiting in the hall, to which we were assigned, before being placed in our cells, a convict, as I supposed, spoke to me in a low voice from the grated door of one of the cells already occupied. I made some remark about the familiarity of our new friends on short acquaintance, when by the speaker's peculiar laugh I recognized General Morgan. He was so shaven and shorn, that his voice alone was recognizable, for I could not readily distinguish his figure. We were soon placed in our respective cells and the iron barred doors locked. Some of the officers declared subsequently, that when left alone, and the eyes of the keepers were taken off of them, they came near swooning. It was not the apprehension of hardship or harsh treatment that was so horrible; it was the stifling sense of close cramped confinement. The dead weight of the huge stone prison seemed resting on our breasts. On the next day we were taken out to undergo some of the "usual prison discipline," and were subjected to a sort of dress-parade. We were first placed man by man, in big hogsheads filled with water (of which there were two), and solemnly scrubbed by a couple of negro convicts. This they said was done for sanitary reasons. The baths in the lake at Johnson's Island were much pleasanter, and the twentieth man who was ordered into either tub, looked ruefully at the water, as if he thought it had already done enough for health. Then we were seated in barber chairs, our beards were taken off, and the officiating artists were ordered to give each man's hair "a decent cut." We found that according to the penitentiary code, the decent way of wearing the hair was to cut it all off—if the same rule had been adopted with regard to clothing, the Digger Indians would have been superfluously clad in comparison with (what would have been), our disheveled condition. Some young men lost beards and moustaches on this occasion, which they had assiduously cultivated with scanty returns, for years. Colonel Smith had a magnificent beard sweeping down to his waist, patriarchal in all save color—it gave him a leonine aspect that might have awed even a barber. He was placed in the chair, and in less time, perhaps, than Absalom staid on his mule after his hair brought him to grief, he was reduced to ordinary humanity. He felt his loss keenly. I ventured to compliment him on features which I had never seen till then, and he answered, with asperity, that it was "no jesting matter."

When we returned to the hall, we met General Morgan, Colonel Cluke, Calvin Morgan, Captain Gibson, and some twenty-six others—our party numbered sixty-eight in all. General Morgan and most of the officers who surrendered with him, had been taken to Cincinnati and lodged in the city prison (as we had been), with the difference, that we had been placed in the upper apartments (which were clean), and he and his party were confined in the lower rooms, in comparison with which the stalls of the Augean stables were boudoirs. After great efforts, General Morgan obtained an interview with Burnside, and urged that the terms upon which he had surrendered should be observed, but with no avail. He and the officers with him, were taken directly from Cincinnati to the Ohio Penitentiary, and had been there several days when we (who came from Johnson's Island), arrived. It is a difficult thing to describe, so that it will be clearly understood, the interior conformation of any large building, and I will have to trust that my readers will either catch a just idea of the subject from a very partial and inadequate description, or that they will regard it as a matter of little importance whether or no they shall understand the internal plan and structure of the Ohio State Prison. For my purpose, it is only necessary that the architecture of one part of it shall be understood. Let the reader imagine a large room (or rather wing of a building), four hundred feet in length, forty-odd in width, and with a ceiling forty-odd feet in hight. One half of this wing, although separated from the other by no traverse wall, is called the "East Hall."

In the walls of this hall are cut great windows, looking out upon one of the prison yards. If the reader will further imagine a building erected in the interior of this hall and reaching to the ceiling, upon each side of which, and between its walls and the walls of the hall, are alleys eleven feet wide and running the entire length of the hall, and at either extremity of this building, spaces twenty feet in width—he will have conceived a just idea of that part of the prison in which General Morgan and his officers were confined. In the interior building the cells are constructed—each about three feet and a half wide and seven feet long. The doors of the cells—a certain number of which are constructed in each side of this building—open upon the alleys which have been described. At the back of each, and of course separating the ranges of cells upon the opposite sides of the building, is a hollow space reaching from the floor to the ceiling, running the whole length of the building, and three or four feet wide. This space is left for the purpose of obtaining more thorough ventillation, and the back wall of every cell is perforated with a hole, three or four inches in diameter, to admit the air from this passage.

We were placed in the cells constructed in that face of the building which looks toward the town. No convicts were quartered in the cells on that side, except on the extreme upper tiers, but the cells on the other side of the building were all occupied by them. The cells are some seven feet in hight, and are built in ranges, or tiers, one above the other. They are numbered, range first, second, third, and so on—commencing at the lower one. The doors are grates of iron—the bars of which are about an inch and a quarter wide, and half an inch thick, and are, perhaps, two inches apart, leaving, as they are placed upright and athwart, open spaces of two inches square between them. In front of each range of cells were balconies three feet wide, and ladders led from each one of these to the other just above it.

We were permitted to exercise, during the day, in the alley in front of our cells, although prohibited from looking out of the windows. Twice a day we were taken to meals, crossing (when we went to breakfast) a portion of the yard, before mentioned, and passing through the kitchen into the large dining-hall of the institution. Here, seated at tables about two feet wide and the same distance apart, a great many prisoners could be fed at the same time. We were not allowed to breakfast and dine with the convicts, or they were not allowed to eat with us—I could never learn exactly how it was. We crossed the yard, on the way to breakfast, for the purpose of washing our faces, which was permitted by the prison regulations, but a certain method of doing it was prescribed. Two long troughs were erected and filled with water. The inhabitants of the First Range washed in one trough, and those of the Second Range used the other. We soon obtained permission to buy and keep our own towels. In returning from breakfast, and in going to and returning from dinner, we never quitted the prison building, but marched through a wing of the dining-room back to the long wing, in one end of which was our hall.

At seven p.m. in summer (earlier afterward), we were required to go to our respective cells at the tap of the turnkey's key on the stove, and he passed along the ranges and locked us in for the night. In a little while, then, we would hear the steady, rolling tramp of the convicts, who slept in the hall at the other end of the wing, as they marched in with military step and precision, changing after awhile from the sharp clatter of many feet simultaneously striking the stone floor to the hurried, muffled rattle of their ascent (in a trot) of the stairways. Then when each had gained his cell, and the locking-in commenced, the most infernal clash and clang, as huge bolts were fastened, would be heard that ever startled the ear of a sane man. When Satan receives a fresh lot of prisoners, he certainly must torture each half by compelling it to hear the other locked into cells with iron doors.

The rations furnished us for the first ten days were inferior to those subsequently issued. The food allowed us, although exceedingly coarse, was always sufficiently abundant. After about ten days the restriction, previously imposed, preventing us from purchasing or receiving from our friends articles edible, or of any other description, was repealed, and we were allowed to receive every thing sent us. Our Kentucky friends had been awaiting this opportunity, and for fear that the privilege would be soon withdrawn, hastened to send cargoes of all sorts of food and all kinds of dainties. For a few days we were almost surfeited with good things, and then the trap fell. When piles of delicacies were stacked up in his office, the Warden of the prison, Captain Merion, confiscated all to his own use, forbade our receiving any thing more, and rather than the provisions should be wasted, furnished his own table with them.

For several weeks one or two soldiers were habitually kept in the hall with us, during the day. The turnkey, who was the presiding imp in that wing—the ghoul of our part of the catacombs—was rarely absent, but passed back and forth, prying and suspicious. Scott (familiarly Scotty) was the name of the interesting creature who officiated as our immediate keeper, for the first four months of our confinement in this place. He was on duty only during the day. At night a special guard went the rounds. The gas-burners, with which each cell was furnished, were put into use as soon as we were locked up, and we were allowed (for a time) to burn candles for an hour after the hour for which the gas was turned on had expired. We were permitted to buy books and keep them in our cells, and for some weeks were not restricted in the number of letters which we might write. Indeed for a period of nearly three months our condition was uncomfortable only on account of the constant confinement within the walls of the prison—the lack of exercise, and sun-light, and free air, and the penning up at night in the close cells. To a man who has never been placed in such a situation, no words can convey the slightest idea of its irksomeness. There was not one of us who would not have eagerly exchanged for the most comfortless of all the prisons, where he could have spent the days in the open air, and some part of the time have felt that the eyes of the gaolers were not upon him. Every conceivable method of killing time, and every practical recreation was resorted to. Marbles were held in high estimation for many days, and the games were played first, and discussed subsequently with keen interest. A long ladder, which had been left in the hall, leaning against the wall, was a perfect treasure to those who most craved active exercise. They practiced all sorts of gymnastics on this ladder, and cooled the fever in their blood with fatigue. Chess finally became the standard amusement, and those who did not understand the game watched it nevertheless with as much apparent relish as if they understood it. Chess books were bought and studied as carefully as any work on tactics had ever been by the same men, and groups would spend hours in discussing this gambit and that, and an admiring audience could always be collected at one end of the hall to hear how Cicero Coleman had just checkmated an antagonist at the other, by a judicious flank movement with his "knight," or some other active and effective piece.

In spite, however, of every effort to sustain health and spirits, both suffered. The most robust could not endure the life to which we were condemned, without injury. I am satisfied that hard labor—furnishing at once occupation and exercise—alone prevents the inmates of these prisons (sentenced to remain so many years, as some of them are) from dying early. The effect of this confinement is strange, and will doubtless appear inconsistent. It affected every man of our party with (at the same time) a lethargy and a nervousness. While we were physically and mentally impaired by it—and every faculty was dulled, and all energy was sapped—every man was restless without aim or purpose, and irritable without cause or reason. These effects of imprisonment became far more apparent and difficult to repress, after a few months had elapsed.

The method adopted in the Ohio Penitentiary, for punishing the refractory and disobedient, was to confine them in cells called the "dungeons"—and dungeons indeed they were. Captain Foster Cheatham was the first man, of our party, who explored their recesses. His private negotiations, with one of the military guard, for liquids of stimulating properties (which he thought would benefit his health) were not only unsuccessful, but were discovered by the "Head-devil," and the Captain was dragged to a "loathsome dungeon." He remained twenty-four hours and came out wiser, on the subject of prison discipline, and infinitely sadder than when he went in. The next victim was Major Higley. One of the keepers was rough to him, and Higley used strong language in return. Disrespectful language to, or about, officials was not tolerated in the institution, and Higley "came to grief." He also remained in the dungeon for the space of a solar day. He was a man of lean habit and excitable temperament, when in his best state of health—and he returned from the place of punishment, looking like a ghost of dissipated habits and shattered nervous system. Pale and shaking—he gave us a spirited and humorous account of his interview with the superior gaolers, and his experience in the dark stifling cell.

It was claimed that while punishment was invariably inflicted for violation of the rules, those rules were clearly defined. That no man need infringe the regulations—that every one could (if he chose) avoid punishment. An incident happened which did not strongly corroborate this beautiful theory. Shortly after Major Higley's misfortune, Captain Cheatham was again honored with an invitation to inspect the dungeons, and take up his quarters in one of them. He, with great modesty, protested that he had done nothing to deserve such a distinction, but his scruples were overruled and he was induced to go. The offense charged was this: An anonymous letter had been picked up in the hall—in which the prison officials were ridiculed. Merion fancied that the handwriting of this letter resembled Cheatham's—there was no other evidence. So far as the proof went, there was as much right to attribute it to one of the prison corps as to one of the prisoners, and to any other one of the prisoners as to Cheatham. After he was placed in the dungeon, where he remained forty-eight hours, and it became known upon what charge, and that he denied it, General Morgan first, and soon many others, demanded that, if another prisoner had written the letter, he should own it and suffer for it. There was not a man in the sixty-eight of our party (with four exceptions) who would have permitted a comrade to be punished for an offense committed by himself.

It was never known who wrote the letter. Captain Cheatham always denied having done so. So justice was not always so impartially administered in the sacrificial temple of the Ohio law, and the governed had it not always in their power to escape punishment.

After we had been in the penitentiary some three or four weeks, Colonel Cluke and another officer were taken out and sent to McLean barracks, to be tried by court-martial upon the charge of having violated some oath, taken before they entered the Confederate service. They were acquitted and Colonel Cluke was sent to Johnson's Island, where during the ensuing winter he died of diphtheria. He was exceedingly popular in the division, and was a man of the most frank, generous and high-toned nature. But he possessed some high soldierly qualities. In the field, he was extremely bold and tenacious—and when threatened by a dangerous opponent, no one was more vigilant and wary. He displayed great vigor and judgment on many occasions, both as a regimental and brigade commander. The news of his death excited universal sorrow among his comrades.

Shortly before Colonel Cluke's removal, Major Webber and Captains Sheldon and McCann had been brought to the penitentiary from Camp Chase. They, of course, declined the tonsorial ceremonies and were remanded to Camp Chase. In the course of two or three weeks Captains Bennett and Merriwether, of the Tenth Kentucky, were sent from Camp Chase to the penitentiary, for having attempted to make their escape, and with them came Captain Sheldon again, for the same offense. This time no questions were asked, but hair and beards came off.

Somewhat later, Major Webber was sent back also. He was placed in solitary confinement, in a cell in a remote part of the prison, and permitted to hold no intercourse with the rest of us. The reason of his receiving this treatment, was that he had written a letter in which occurred the following passage: "I can't say how long I will be a prisoner. Until the end of time; yes, until eternity has run its last round, rather than that our Government shall acknowledge the doctrine of negro equality, by an exchange of negro soldiers. I wish that all negroes, and their officers captured with them, will be hung, I am willing to risk the consequences." Webber unhesitatingly confirmed this language, stating that he had, from the commencement of the war, entertained such sentiments, and that he felt his right to express them as a prisoner of war, as well as in any other condition. He claimed that the very fact that the letters of all prisoners were examined, and suppressed if disapproved by the officer appointed to examine them, gave the prisoners a right to use such language as they chose. If the language was thought improper, the letter could be burned, and no one but the examiner would be any the wiser. This would seem to be the correct and manly view to take of the matter. If a prisoner were detected in clandestine correspondence, it was, perhaps, right and fair that he should be punished, but I do not believe that in any army whose officers are, for the most part gentlemen, a man would be countenanced, who would cause prisoners to send letters to his office for perusal, with the understanding that they should be suppressed if disapproved, and would then punish the prisoner who wrote sentiments which did not accord with his own.

There were officers in position at Camp Chase, when I was sent there some months afterward, who, I believe, could have been induced by no combination of influences to do such a thing, or to tolerate the man who would do it.

Major Webber's description of his initiation into prison usages is very graphic, and as many of my readers know him, it will be highly amusing to them, although any thing but amusing to the Major. He says: "In the office of the penitentiary, I was stripped of my clothing and closely searched. Everything in the way of papers, knife, money, toothpick, and even an old buckeye, which I had carried in my pocket all through the war, at the request of a friend, were taken from me. I was then marched to the wash-room, stripped again, and placed in a tub of warm water, about waist deep, where a convict scrubbed me with a large, rough, horse brush and soap; while a hang-dog looking scoundrel, and the deputy-warden Dean, urged the convict to 'scrub the d—d horse-thief,' and indulged in various demoniacal grins and gesticulations of exultation at my sufferings and embarrassment." The Major describes "his feelings," in the strong language of which he never lacked command; but it is unnecessary to quote from him farther—there is no man, so devoid of imagination, that he can not divine what the patients' feeling must have been under such treatment.

When two or three months had elapsed, General Morgan's impatience of the galling confinement and perpetual espionage amounted almost to frenzy. He restrained all exhibition of his feelings remarkably, but it was apparent to his fellow prisoners that he was chafing terribly under the restraint, more irksome to him than to any one of the others.

The difficulty of getting letters from our families and friends in the South, was one of the worst evils of this imprisonment; and if a letter came containing anything in the least objectionable, it was, as likely as not, destroyed, and the envelope only was delivered to the man to whom it was written. Generally, the portion of its contents, which incurred Merion's censure, having been erased, it was graciously delivered, but more than once a letter which would have been valued beyond all price, was altogether withheld, and the prisoner anxiously expecting it, was mocked, as I have stated, with being given the envelope in which it came, as evidence that he was robbed of it. The reader can imagine the feelings of a man, whose wife and children were in far off "Dixie," while he lay in prison tortured with anxiety to hear from them, and who, when the letter which told of them at last came, should be deprived of it because it contained some womanly outburst of feeling, and should be tantalized with the evidence of his loss.

The introduction of newspapers was strictly forbidden, except when Merion, as a great favor, would send in some outrageously abusive sheet, in which was published some particularly offensive lie. If the newspapers, which the convicts who occasionally passed through our hall in the transaction of their duties, some times smuggled into us, were discovered in any man's hands or cell, woe be unto him—a first class sinner could be easier prayed out of purgatory, than he could avoid the dungeon.

Captain Calvin Morgan was once reading a newspaper, that had "run the blockade," in his cell at night, and had become deeply interested in it, when the "night guard," stealing along with noiseless step, detected him.

The customary taps (by the occupants of the other cells who discovered his approach and thus telegraphed it along the range) had been (this time) neglected. "What paper is that," said the guard. "Come in and see," said Morgan. "No," said the guard, "you must pass it to me through the bars." "I'll do nothing of the kind," was the answer. "If you think that I have a paper which was smuggled into me, why unlock the door, come in, and get it." The fellow apparently did not like to trust himself in the cell with Captain Morgan, who was much the more powerful man of the two, and he hastened off for reinforcements. During his absence Morgan rolled the paper up into a small compass, and, baring his arm, thrust it far up into the ventillator at the back part of the cell. Fortunately there was in the cell a newspaper given him that day by one of the sub-wardens named Hevay—a very kind old man. Morgan unfolded this paper and was seated in the same attitude (as when first discovered) reading it, when the guard returned. The latter brought Scott with him and unlocked the door. "Now give me that paper," he said. "There it is," said Morgan handing it to him, "Old man Hevay gave it to me to-day." The guard inspected it closely and seemed satisfied. "Why did you not give it to me before," he asked. "Because," returned Captain Morgan, "I thought you had no right to ask it, and I had, moreover no assurance that you would return it." With a parting injunction to do so no more, or the dungeon would reveal him its secrets, the guard after a thorough search to find another paper (if there should have been a deception practiced upon him) left the cell. He examined the ventillator, but Morgan's arm being the longer the paper was beyond his reach. Captain Morgan's literary pursuits were suspended, however, for that night.

When the news of the battle of Chickamauga was coming in, and we were half wild with excitement and eagerness to learn the true aversion of the reports that prevailed—for every thing told us by the prison officials was garbled—we by good luck got in two or three newspapers containing full accounts of the battle. I shall never forget listening to them read, in General Morgan's cell, while four or five pickets (regularly relieved) were posted to guard against surprise. These papers were read to the whole party in detachments—while one listened, the succeeding one awaited its turn in nervous impatience. As I have said, General Morgan grew more restless under his imprisonment, every day, and finally resolved to effect his escape, at any hazard, or labor.

Several plans were resolved and abandoned, and at length one devised by Captain Hines was adopted. This was to "tunnel" out of the prison—as the mode of escape by digging a trench, to lead from the interior to the outside of the prisons, was technically called. But to "tunnel" through the stone pavement and immense walls of the penitentiary—concealing the tremendous work as it progressed—it required a bold imagination to conceive such an idea. Hines had heard, in some way, a hint of an air chamber, constructed under the lower range of cells—that range immediately upon the ground floor. He thought it probable that there was such a chamber, for he could account in no other way for the dryness of the cells in that range. At the first opportunity he entered into conversation with Old Hevay, the deputy-warden mentioned before. This old man was very kind-hearted, and was also an enthusiast upon the subject of the architectural grandeur of that penitentiary. Hines led the conversation into that channel, and finally learned that his surmise was correct. If, then, he could cut through the floor of his cell and reach this air chamber, without detection, he would have, he saw, an excellent base for future operations. He communicated his plan to General Morgan, who at once approved it. Five other men were selected (whose cells were on the first range) as assistants.

The work was commenced with knives abstracted from the table. These knives—square at the end of the blade instead of pointed—made excellent chisels, and were the very best tools for the inauguration of the labor. Putting out pickets to prevent surprise, they pecked and chiseled away at the hard floor, which was eighteen inches thick of stone cement and brick—concealing the rubbish in their handkerchiefs and then throwing part of it into the stoves, and hiding the rest in their beds. They soon dug a hole in the floor large enough to permit the body of a man to pass. The iron bedsteads, which stood in each cell, could be lifted up or let down at pleasure. Hines would prop his up, each morning, sweep out his cell (in which the aperture had been cut) and throw a carpet sack carelessly over the mouth of the shaft he had sunk, and when the guard would come and look in, every thing would appear so neat and innocent, that he would not examine further. One kick given that hypocritical carpet bag (with its careless appearance) would have disclosed the plot, at any time from the date of the inception of the work to its close. After the air chamber was reached, a good many others were taken into the secret, in order that the work might go constantly on.

The method adopted, then, was for two or three to descend and go to work, while the others kept watch; in an hour or two a fresh relief would be put on, and the work would be kept up in this way throughout the day, until the hour of locking up arrived, except at dinner time, when every man who was absent from the table had to give a reason for his absence. The work, conducted underground, was tedious and difficult, but all labored with a will. The candles which had been purchased and hoarded away, now did good service. Without them it would have been almost impossible to finish the task. A code of signals was invented to meet every possible contingency. By pounding a bar of wood upon the stone floor, those above communicated to those underneath information of every danger which threatened, and called on them to come forth, if necessary. The walls of the air chamber were two or three feet thick, and built of huge stones. Two or three of these stones were removed, and a tunnel was run straight to the outer wall of the hall. Fortune favored the workmen, at this juncture, and threw in their way an adequate tool with which to accomplish this part of their work. Some one had discovered lying in the yard through which we passed on our way to breakfast, an old rusty spade with a broken handle. It was at once determined that the said spade must be secured. Accordingly men were detailed and instructed in their proper parts, and at the first opportunity the spade was transferred to the air chamber, and put to work in digging the tunnel. This is the manner in which that valuable, that priceless, old, rusty, broken spade was gotten: One man was selected to secrete the spade about his person—him I will call No. 1. He wore, for the occasion, a long, loose sack coat. Six or seven other men were his accomplices. It was a usual occurrence for those who were awaiting their turns at the washing troughs, to romp and scuffle with each other in the yard. The conspirators were, this morning, exceedingly frolicsome. At length No. 1 fell, apparently by an accident, upon the spade, his accomplices tumbled in a heap upon him. No. 1 dexterously slipped the spade under his coat, and buttoned it up. He went into breakfast with it, and sat wonderfully straight, and carried it safely into the hall and down into the air chamber.

When the main wall of the hall was reached, the heavy stones of its foundation were removed in sufficient number to admit of the passage of a man. But it was then discovered that the tunnel led right under an immense coal pile. It was necessary that this difficulty should be remedied; but how? Without a view of the ground just outside of the wall, no one could calculate how far, or in what direction to run the tunnel, so that when it was conducted to the surface, all obstructions might be avoided. In this emergency, General Morgan engaged Scott in conversation about the remarkable escape of some convicts, which had occurred a year or two previously, and which Scott was very fond of describing. These convicts had climbed by the balconies, in front of the ranges of cells, to the ceiling, and had passed out through the skylight to the roof of the prison. Scott declared his belief that there were no two other men on the continent who could perform the feat of ascending by the balconies.

"Why," says General Morgan, "Captain Sam. Taylor, small as he is, can do it."

Thereupon a discussion ensued, ending by Scott's giving Taylor permission to attempt it. Taylor, who, although very small, was as active as a squirrel, immediately commenced the ascent, and sprang from one to the other of the balconies, until he reached the top one. He was one of the men who had been selected to escape with General Morgan, and comprehended immediately the latter's object in having him attempt this feat. It would afford him a chance to glance out of the windows at the ground just beyond the wall. As he leisurely swung himself down, he studied "the position" carefully, and his observations enabled them to direct the tunnel aright. Once during the tunneling, while Captain Hockersmith (another of the projectors of the plan) was at work underground, Scott called for him and seemed anxious to find him at once. General Morgan's presence of mind prevented a discovery, or, at least, a strong suspicion of the plot from at once resulting from Hockersmith's absence. The General said to Scott, "Hockersmith is lying down in my cell; he is sick," and he requested Scott to examine and give his opinion upon a memorial which he (the General) held in his hand, and which he proposed forwarding to Washington. It was something regarding our removal to a military prison. Scott (highly flattered by this tribute to his judgment) took the memorial, looked at it attentively for some minutes, and returned it, saying, "I think it will do first rate." It did do. In the mean time, Hockersmith had been signaled, and had "come up," and he made his appearance complaining of a serious indisposition.

While the work was going on, General Morgan and those who were to escape with him habitually slept with their faces covered and their hands concealed. This was done to accustom the night guard to take their presence in the cells for granted, by the appearance of the bulk upon the beds, without actually seeing them. This guard went the rounds at the expiration of every two hours during the night, and he would place his lantern close to each cell door, in order that the light should fill the cell and show the occupant. General Morgan used to say that a peculiar shuddering and creeping of the flesh would assail him whenever this man approached. He would frequently creep about with list slippers on his feet, and he moved then without the slightest noise. He used to remind me of a sly, cruel, bloated, auspicious, night-prowling spider.

When the tunneling approached its completion, all the other necessary preparations were made. The prison yard, into which they would emerge from the tunnel, was surrounded by a wall twenty-five feet high, and means for scaling that had to be provided. There was an inner wall running from the corner of the "East Hall" to a smaller building, in which some of the female convicts were imprisoned, but it was comparatively low, and they anticipated little difficulty in getting over it. The coverlids of several beds were torn into strips, and the strips were plaited into a strong rope nearly thirty feet in length. A strong iron rod, used for stirring the fires in the stoves, was converted into a hook, and the rope was attached to it. Rope and hook were taken down into the air-chamber, where all the "valuables" were stored.

General Morgan had managed to get a suit of citizen's clothing, and the six men who were going to escape with him, were similarly provided. The Warden had prohibited the introduction into the prison of uniform clothing, but occasionally allowed plain suits to be received. The General had also gotten a card of the schedule time on the Little Miami Railroad, and knew when the train left Columbus, and when it arrived in Cincinnati—for this he paid fifteen dollars, the only money used in effecting his escape.

Despite the strict search instituted, when we first entered the penitentiary, several of the party had managed to secrete money so that it was not found. This was now divided among the seven who were to escape. These were, besides General Morgan, Captains Thomas H. Hines, Ralph Sheldon, Sam Taylor, Jacob Bennett, James Hockersmith, and Gustavus McGee. It is plain that, as each man was locked in a separate cell, and could not get out of it by the door, without an interview with the night-guard, it was necessary to cut an opening into the air-chamber, through the floor of each cell, from which each one of the seven would escape. If these apertures were cut from the top of the floors of the cells, the risk of detection would be proportionally increased; so an accurate measurement of the distance between the cells was taken, and with Hines' cell as a point of departure, it was easy to calculate where to commence cutting from underneath, in order that the floors of all these particular cells should be perforated. A thin crust, only, of the cement was left, but to all outward appearance, the floor was as sound as ever.

By means of an arrangement which had been perfected for obtaining all absolutely necessary articles, each one of the party about to escape had procured a stout, sharp knife—very effective weapons in case of surprise and an attempt to stop their escape. When every thing was ready, they waited several nights for rain—trusting to elude the vigilance of the guards more easily in the obscurity of such a night—and taking the chance, also, that the dogs which were turned loose every night in the yard, would be driven by the rain into their kennels, which were situated on the other side of the yard from that where they would emerge. Two or three days before the effort was made, General Morgan received a letter from an Irishwoman in Kentucky, warning him not to attempt to make his escape, from which, she predicted, great evils to him would result. She alluded to his kindness to the poor in Lexington, and claimed that she was informed of the future in some supernatural manner.

On the 26th of November, General Morgan learned that there had been a change of military commandants at Columbus. Well knowing that this would be followed by an inspection of the prison and a discovery of the plot, he determined that the effort should be made that very night. His own cell was in the second range, from which it was impossible to reach the air-chamber and tunnel, but the cell of his brother, Colonel Richard Morgan, had been prepared for him, and when Scott tapped, as usual, on the stove, as a signal for each man to retire to his cell, the exchange was effected. There was a sufficient resemblance between them to deceive a man who would not look closely—especially when they were seated with their faces turned away from the door.

At any rate, Scott and the night-guard, were both deceived, and efforts were made by the occupants of the cells near to both of those, where close inspection would have been dangerous, to attract to themselves the attention of the guard when he went the rounds. As it was especially necessary, on this occasion, to know certainly when the night-guard approached, small bits of coal had been sprinkled, just before the hour for locking up on the floor of the first range, so that (tread as lightly as he would), the slinking cur could not help making loud noise.

It had been arranged that, just after the twelve o'clock visit from the guard, Captain Taylor should descend into the air-chamber and give the signal underneath the floor of each cell. Fortunately, the only man who was vile enough to have betrayed the plan, was absent in the hospital. Six hours elapsed after the locking-in; regularly during that time the night-guard went his rounds, making an awful crackling as he passed along the lower range. Sixty-odd men lay awake, silent and excited—with hearts beating louder and blood rushing faster through their veins than the approach of battle had ever occasioned. Perhaps the coolest of all that number, were the seven who were about to incur the risk.

Twelve o'clock struck, and the clang of the bell seemed to be in the hall itself—the guard passed with his lantern—a few minutes elapsed (while the adventurers lay still lest he should slip back), and then at the signal they sprang from their beds; hastily stuffed flannel shirts with material prepared beforehand, and made up bundles to lie in their beds and represent them. Then stamping upon the floor above the excavations, the thin crust of each gave way and they descended into the air-chamber. They passed one by one along the tunnel, until the foremost man reached the terminus, and with his knife cut away the sod which had of course been left untouched. Then they emerged into the open air and inner yard.

The early part of the night had been bright and clear, but now it was cloudy, and rain was falling. They climbed the low wall and descended into the large yard. The rain had caused the sentries to seek shelter, and had driven the dogs to their kennels. They moved cautiously across the yard—if detected, their knives must have saved or avenged them. Discovery would have been hard upon them, but it would have, also, been unhealthy for the discoverer. They were resolved to be free—they were powerful and desperate men—and if they failed, they were determined that others, besides themselves, should have cause for sorrow. But they reached and climbed the outer wall in safety. There was a coping upon it which they grappled with the hook, and they climbed, hand over hand, to the top. When all had ascended, the hook was grappled upon the inner shelf of the coping, and they let themselves down. When they were all on the ground, they strove to shake the hook loose, but it held fast and they were forced to leave the rope hanging. That circumstance caused the detection of their escape two hours sooner than it would otherwise have happened, for the rope was discovered at day light, and the alarm was given. But time enough had been allowed the fugitives to make good their escape. They at once broke into couples.

General Morgan and Hines went straight to the depot. Hines bought tickets to Cincinnati, and when the train came they got on it.

General Morgan was apprehensive that they would be asked for passes or permits to travel, and arrested for not having them. He saw an officer of field rank, seated in the car which he entered, and it occurred to him that if he were seen in familiar conversation with this officer, he would not, perhaps, be asked for a pass. He spoke to Hines and they seated themselves near this officer and courteously addressed him—he replied as suavely. After a short conversation, General Morgan produced a liquor flask, they were very generally carried then, and invited the officer to take a drink of brandy, which invitation was gracefully accepted. Just then the train moved past the penitentiary. "That is the hotel at which Morgan stops I believe," said the officer. "Yes," answered the General, "and will stop, it is to be hoped. He has given us his fair share of trouble, and he will not be released. I will drink to him. May he ever be as closely kept as he is now."

This officer was a pleasant and well informed gentleman, and General Morgan passed the night in an agreeable and instructive conversation with him—asking many questions and receiving satisfactory replies.

When the suburbs of Cincinnati were reached, a little after daylight, it was time to get off. General Morgan pulled the bell rope and moved to one platform; Hines went to the other, and they put the brakes down with all their strength. The speed of the train slackened and they sprang off.

Two or three soldiers were sitting on a pile of lumber, near where General Morgan alighted. "What in the h—ll are you jumping off the train for?" asked one of them. "What in the d—l is the use of a man going on to town when he lives out here?" responded the General. "Besides what matter is it to you?" "Oh nothing," said the soldier, and paid him no further attention. Reaching the river, which runs close to this point, they gave a little boy two dollars to put them across in a skiff.

In Newport, Kentucky, they found friends to aid them, and before the telegraph had given to Cincinnati the information of his escape, he was well on his way to Boone county—sure asylum for such fugitives. In Boone fresh horses, guides, and all that was necessary were quickly obtained. He felt no longer any apprehension; he could travel from Boone to Harrison, or Scott counties, thence through Anderson to Nelson, and thence to the Tennessee line; and, during all that time, no one need know of his whereabouts but his devoted friends, who would have died to shield him from harm.

A writer who described his progress through Kentucky, shortly after it occurred, says, truly: "Everybody vied with each other as to who should show him the most attention—even to the negroes; and young ladies of refinement begged the honor of cooking his meals." He assumed more than one disguise, and played many parts in his passage through Kentucky—now passing as a Government contractor buying cattle, and again as a quartermaster or inspector.

When he reached the Little Tennessee river, his serious difficulties began; in passing through a portion of Tennessee, he had met friends as truly devoted to him as any of those who had assisted him in Kentucky.

In portions of Middle Tennessee, he was so constantly recognized, that it was well for him that he was so universally popular there. One day he passed a number of citizens, and one woman commenced clapping her hands and called out, "Oh I know who it is," then suddenly catching herself, turned away. The region in which he struck the Little Tennessee river, was strongly Union, and the people would have betrayed him to a certainty, if they had discovered who he was. The river was guarded at every point, and there was no boat or raft upon it, which was not in possession of the enemy. He was, in this vicinity, joined by some thirty nomadic Confederates, and they set to work and constructed a raft for him to cross upon.

When it was finished, they insisted that he and Hines should cross first—the horses were made to swim. While General Morgan was walking his horse about, with a blanket thrown over him, to recover him from the chill occasioned by immersion in the cold water—he suddenly (he subsequently declared) was seized with the conviction that the enemy were coming upon them, and instantly commenced to saddle his horse, bidding Hines do the same. Scarcely had they done so, when the enemy dashed up in strong force on the other side and dispersed the poor fellows who were preparing to cross in their turn. He and Hines went straight up the mountain at the foot of which they had landed. It grew dark and commenced to rain—he knew that if he remained all night on the mountain, his capture would be a certain thing in the morning, and he determined to run the gauntlet of the pickets, at the base of the mountain, on the opposite side, before the line was strengthened. As he descended, leading his horse, he came immediately upon one of the pickets. As he prepared to shoot him, he discovered that the fellow slept, and stole by without injuring or awakening him.

At the house of a Union man not far from the base of the mountain, the two tired and hunted wanderers found shelter and supper, and General Morgan, representing himself as a Federal Quartermaster, induced the host, by a promise of a liberal supply of sugar and coffee, to guide them to Athens. Every mile of his route through this country was marked by some adventure. Finally Hines became separated from him. The General sent him, one evening, to a house, to inquire the way to a certain place, while he himself remained a short distance off upon the road. In a few minutes he heard shots and the tramp of several horses galloping in the opposite direction, and he knew at once that Hines was cut off from him. That night he narrowly escaped being shot—that fate befell a man mistaken for him. At length, after hazard and toil beyond all description, he reached the Confederate lines. Hines was captured by the party who pursued him from the house, and he was confined in a little log hut that night, in which his captors also slept. He made himself very agreeable—told a great many pleasant stories, with immense effect. At length the sentry, posted at the door, drew near the fire, at the other end of the room, to hear the conclusion of a very funny anecdote. Hines seized the opportunity and sprang through the door—bade the party good night, and darted into the bushes. He effected his escape and reached Dixie in safety.

When the escape of General Morgan, and the others, was discovered on the morning after it was effected—there was an extraordinary degree of emotion manifested by the penitentiary officials. The rope, hanging upon the wall, was seen by some one at day light; it was apparent that some body had escaped, the alarm was given to the warden, and his suspicion at once turned toward the prisoners of war.

About 6 a.m., a detachment of guards and turnkeys poured into the hall and began running about, unlocking doors and calling on various men by name, in the wildest and most frantic manner. For some time they were puzzled to determine who had escaped. Colonel Morgan was still taken for the General, and the "dummies" in the cells, which had been vacated, for a while, deceived them into the belief that those cells were still occupied. But at length, a more careful and calm examination revealed the fact and the method of the escape, and then the hubbub broke out afresh. In the midst of it Captain Bennett called out, "Well gentlemen, I like a moderate stir, but you are going it too brash," an expression of opinion which, to judge from the unanimous shout of approval from the prisoners and the laughter they could no longer restrain, met with their cordial indorsement.

It was generally feared that Colonel Morgan would be severely dealt with, and he expected a long term of service in the dungeon; but to the surprise and gratification of all of us, it was announced that he was thought no more guilty than the rest, and should be punished no more harshly. The first step taken was to remove all of the first range men to the third range. Then a general and thorough search was instituted. Every cell was carefully examined, every man was stripped and inspected, every effort was made, after the bird was flown, to make the cage secure.

It was the desire of every prisoner, to secure General Morgan's escape—that was of paramount importance. We were willing to trust to his efforts to effect our release. We were now constantly locked up in our cells, night and day, except when we were marched to our meals and straight back. The cells were, I have already said, very small, and the bed took up half of each. The only method we had of exercising, was to step sideways from one end of the cells to the other. The weather was intensely cold, and when the stone flooring of the hall was removed and a deep trench cut, in order that the damage done by the tunneling might be repaired, the chill arising from the damp earth was terrible.

Every thing which we had been allowed in the way of luxuries was now forbidden, except books. We were forbidden to speak while at the table, to speak aloud in our cells after the gas was lit at night, to address one of the convicts, even those who frequented the hall in which we were confined, no matter what the necessity might be. It would be difficult to enumerate the restrictions which were now imposed upon us, confinement in the dungeon being the inevitable penalty attached to the violation of any of these rules. These dungeons were really very unpleasant places in which to spend even the hours of a penitentiary life—hours which (without the proper experience) might have appeared unsusceptible of additional embitterment. I saw the inside of one of them during my stay in the "Institution," and speak advisedly when I say that the pious stock company which proposed "to build a hell by subscription" for the especially heretical, could have found no better model for their work than it. These cells were rather smaller than the cells in which we were habitually confined, and the doors were half a foot thick, with sheet-iron nailed on the outside, and so contrived that (extending beyond the edges of the door) it excluded every ray of air and light. In all seasons, the air within them was stagnant, foul, and stifling, and would produce violent nausea and headache. In summer, these places were said to be like heated ovens, and in winter they were the coldest localities between the South Pole and Labrador. The rations allowed the inmates of them were a piece of bread about the size of the back of a pocket account book (and perhaps with as much flavor) and half a tin-cup full of water, repeated twice a day. If a man's stomach revolted at the offer of food (after the foul reek of the dungeon) the crop-eared whelp of a she-wolf (who was boss-inquisitor) would pronounce him sulky and double his term of stay.

Merion, the Warden, would about realize the Northern ideal of a Southern overseer. He was an obstinate man, and his cruelty was low, vulgar, and brutal like his mind. He would have been hypocritical, but that his character was too coarse-grained to be pliant enough for successful dissimulation. The members of the Board of Directors (with one or two exceptions) were men of much the same stamp as the Warden—with rather more cultivation perhaps, and less force. He entirely controlled them all. He knew enough of medicine to pronounce quinine "a luxury," but he directed the treatment of the sick, as he did all else.

After some three weeks of close confinement, we were permitted to exercise in the hall for four hours during the day, and were locked in for the rest of the time. The nervous irritability induced by this long and close confinement, sometimes showed itself in a manner which would have amused a man whose mind was in a healthy condition. Just as soon as we were permitted to leave our cells in the morning and meet in the hall, the most animated discussions, upon all sorts of topics, would begin. These would occasionally degenerate into clamorous and angry debates. The disputants would become as earnest and excited over subjects in which perhaps they had never felt the least interest before, as if they had been considering matters of vital and immediate importance. A most heated, and finally acrimonious dispute once arose regarding General Joseph E. Johnston's hight. One party asserted positively that his stature was just five feet nine inches and a quarter. The other affirmed, with a constancy that nothing could shake, that he was no taller than five feet eight inches and a half. Numerous assertions were made by as many men, that they had frequently stood near him, and that he was about their hight. If these declarations were all as true as they were dogmatic, the General's stature must have varied in a remarkable manner, and his tailor could have had little peace of mind. Warm friendships, of long standing, were interrupted by this issue for entire days, until happily a new question was sprung, and parties were reorganized. A grave and radical difference of opinion arose as to whether Selma was on the east or the west bank of the Alabama river. Two intimate friends got into an argument regarding the relative excellence of the ancients and moderns in material civilization and the mechanical arts. The discussion lasted three weeks; during its continuance each alluded (in support of his position) to architectural and engineering triumphs, which the most learned encyclopedist might in vain consult his books or torture his memory to verify. It was at last dropped, unsettled. But for months the most casual reference by either to the Egyptian Pyramids, or the bridge over the Menai Straits, would produce a coolness between them. The battle of Waterloo was an inexhaustible theme of contention. Wellington did not wish for night on the day itself half as cordially as he would have wished for it, if he had been a prisoner at the penitentiary and condemned to listen to the conflicting opinions about his strategy.

Exchange and escape, however, were the topics of most earnest and constant thought. One or the other was the first thought which came into our minds in the morning, and the last that occupied them at night. Victor Hugo has, in his wonderful book, "Les Miserables," daguerreotyped the thoughts and the feelings of a prisoner. That book was a great favorite with the inmates of our hall and the admiration it excited was so general and honest, that (it is a literal fact) there was not more than one or two disputes about it. Two of the officers who escaped with General Morgan, Captains Sheldon and Taylor, were recaptured, and brought back to the penitentiary. They ventured into Louisville, where they were well known, were recognized, and arrested.

After General Morgan's escape, the treatment we received was not only more rigorous, but the sneaking, spying instincts of the keepers seemed stimulated. It was, of course, to be expected that they would be suspicious (especially after the lesson they had received), but these creatures evinced suspicion, not as I had been accustomed to see men show it—they stole and pried about, eaves-dropping, creeping upon and glaring at us (when they thought they could do so undetected) like cellar-bred, yellow-eyed, garbage-fed curs. Their manner gave one an impression of cold cruelty and slinking treachery that is indescribable, it was snakish.

A military guard was placed at the prison immediately after the General's escape, and for some time sentinels (with bayonets fixed) paced the hall. None of us had imagined that we could welcome the presence of Federal soldiers with so much satisfaction. The difference in the tone and manner of the soldiers from that of the convict-drivers, made it a relief to have any thing to say to the former. They were evidently disgusted with their associate goalers. There was a sergeant with this guard (named Lowe, I think,) who, while he rigidly discharged his duty, seemed desirous to avoid all harshness.

In February I was removed, at the solicitation of friends, to Camp Chase. Having made no application for this removal, nor having heard that one had been made in my behalf, I was surprised when the order for it came, and still more surprised when I learned at Camp Chase that I was to be paroled. I was permitted to go freely where I pleased within the limits of the camp, excellent quarters were assigned me, and my condition was, in all respects, as comfortable as that of the officers on duty there. Colonel Richardson, the commandant, was a veteran of the army of the Potomac, and had accepted the charge of the prison after he had been disabled by wounds. If the treatment which I received at his hands, was a fair sample of his conduct toward prisoners generally, it is certain that none had a right to complain of him, and it would have been a fortunate thing if just such men had been selected (upon both sides) to be placed over those whose condition depended so entirely upon the will and disposition of the officers in charge of them. Finding that my parole was not likely to result in my exchange, and that there was no other Confederate officer similarly indulged, I applied to be sent back to the penitentiary. Enough had reached my ears to convince me that others would be granted paroles in order to tempt them to take the oath, and I did not care to be caught in such company.

When I left Camp Chase, where every one had been uniformly polite and respectful in demeanor, and I had enjoyed privileges which amounted almost to liberty, the gloom of the penitentiary and the surly, ban-dog manner of the keepers were doubly distasteful, and the feeling was as if I were being buried alive. I found that, during my absence, the prisoners had been removed from the hall, which they had all the time previously occupied, to another in which the negro convicts had formerly slept, and this latter was a highly-scented dormitory. The cause of the removal was that (desperate at their long confinement and the treatment they were receiving) a plan had been concocted for obtaining knives and breaking out of the prison by force. A thorough knowledge of the topography of the entire building was by this time possessed by the leaders in this movement. They had intended to secure Merion, and as many as possible of the underlings, by enticing them into the hall upon some pretext, and then gagging, binding, and locking them up in the cells. Then giving the signal for the opening of the doors, they expected to obtain possession of the office and room where the guns were kept. One of the party was to have been dressed in convict garb, to give the necessary signal, in order that all suspicion might have been avoided. It is barely possible that, with better luck, the plan might have succeeded, but it was frustrated by the basest treachery.

Among the sixty-eight prisoners of war confined in the penitentiary, there were four whose nerves gave way and they took the oath of allegiance to the United States in other words, they deserted. One of this four betrayed the plan to the warden. Men were sometimes induced "to take the oath" by a lack of pride and fortitude, and absence of manly stamina, who would have done nothing else prejudicial to the cause which they abandoned, or that would have compromised their former comrades. Their were men, however, who added treachery to apostacy, and this man was one of that infamous class. The four were so fearful of exciting the suspicion of the other prisoners, and so well aware of the bitter scorn and resentment which their conduct would raise against them, that they carefully concealed their design to the last moment. It was not until our release from prison, that the proofs of the utter and base treachery of the spying and informing villain were obtained.

There is a reason why the name of this wretch should not be given here. Enough know of his crime to damn him forever in the estimation of all honorable men, and gallant and devoted men, than whom no truer gentlemen and braver soldiers served under the Confederate banner, bear the same name. His relatives (who fought throughout the war and quit with records upon which there are no stains), must not see the name (which they made honorable), associated with his shame.

Search was at once made for the knives which the prisoners had obtained and for other evidence which might corroborate the informer's report. Fifteen knives had been introduced into the hall, and were in the hands of as many prisoners. The search was inaugurated secretly and conducted as quietly as possible, during the time that the prisoners were locked in the cells, but information was gotten along the ranges that it was going on, and only seven knives were discovered. The remaining eight were hidden, so ingeniously, that, notwithstanding the strict hunt after every thing of the kind, they were not found. Merion's fury at the idea of any danger threatening him was like that of some great cowardly beast which smells blood and is driven mad with fear. All of the party were at once closely confined again, and the seven who were detected with the knives, were sent to the dungeons, where they were kept seven days, until the surgeon declared that a longer stay would kill them.

They passed the period of their confinement in almost constant motion (such as the limits of the cell would permit), and said that they had no recollection of having slept during the whole time. When they came out they were almost blind and could scarcely drag themselves along.

One of the party, Captain Barton, was so affected, that the blood streamed from under his finger nails. When I returned (after a month passed at Camp Chase), I was startled by the appearance of those, even, who had not been subjected to punishment in the dungeon. They had the wild, squalid look and feverish eager impression of eye which lunatics have after long confinement.

At last, in March 1864, all were removed to Fort Delaware, and the change was as if living men, long buried in subterranean vaults, had been restored to upper earth. About the same time one hundred and ten officers of Morgan's division, who had been confined in the Pennsylvania Penitentiary, were transferred to Point Lookout. These officers described the treatment which they received as having been much better than that adopted toward us, yet one of their number had become insane. All that I have attempted to describe, however, must have been ease and luxury compared with the hardship, hunger and harsh cruelty inflicted upon the Confederate private soldiers imprisoned at Camps Morton and Douglass and at Rock Island. These men would often actually pick up and devour the scraps thrown out of the scavenger carts. Some of them froze to death—insufficient fuel was furnished, when it was furnished at all, and the clothing sent them by friends was rarely given them. The men of my regiment told me of treatment, inflicted upon them at Camp Douglass, which if properly described and illustrated with engravings, and if attributed to Confederate instead of Federal officials, would throw the whole North into convulsions. Many of these men, of this regiment, had escaped in the first two or three months of their imprisonment, and a bitter hatred was then excited against the less fortunate. They were, in some instances, tied up and beaten with the belts of the guards, until the print of the brass buckles were left on the flesh; others were made to sit naked on snow and ice, until palsied with cold; others, again were made to "ride Morgan's mule" (as a scantling frame, of ten or twelve feet in hight, was called), the peculiar and beautiful feature of this method of torture, was the very sharp back of "the mule." Sometimes, heavy blocks, humorously styled spurs, were attached to the feet of the rider. As for the shooting of men for crossing the "dead line" (upon which, so much stress has been laid in accounts of Andersonville), that was so well understood, that it was scarcely thought worthy of mention. But an elaborate description of life in the Federal prisons is unnecessary.

The eighty thousand Confederate prisoners of 1864 and 1865, or rather the survivors of that host, have already told it far better than I can, in their Southern homes, and we have had sufficient experience of the value of sympathy away from home, to make no effort for it. Moreover, a contest with the Yankee journalists is too unequal—they really write so well, and are so liberal in their ideas regarding the difference between fact and falsehood, have so little prejudice for, or against either, that they possess, and employ, a tremendous advantage. And then the pictorials—a special artist has only to catch a conception, in a Philadelphia or New York hospital, and straightway he works off an "Andersonville prisoner," which carries conviction to those who can not read the essay, upon the same subject, by his co-laborers with the pen. What chance has a Southern writer against men who possess such resources? At Fort Delaware, General Schoeff, the commandant, placed some eighteen or twenty of us in the rooms built in the casemates of the fort, and allowed us, for some time, the privilege of walking about the island, upon our giving him our paroles not to attempt escape.

General M. Jeff. Thompson, of Missouri, was the only Confederate officer at that prison, before our party arrived, but many others from Camp Chase, came about the same time. General Thompson's military career, is well known to his countrymen, but only his prison companions know how kind and manly he can be under circumstances which severely try the temper. His unfailing flow of spirits kept every one else, in his vicinity cheerful and his hopefulness was contagious. He possessed, also, an amazing poetical genius. He wrote with surprising fluency, and his finest compositions cost him neither trouble nor thought. Shut him up in a room with plenty of stationery, and in twenty-four hours, he would write himself up to the chin in verse. His muse was singularly prolific and her progeny various. He roamed recklessly through the realm of poesy. Every style seemed his—blank verse and rhyme, ode and epic, lyrical and tragical, satiric and elegiac, sacred and profane, sublime and ridiculous, he was equally good at all. His poetry might not perhaps have stood a very strict classification, but he produced a fair, marketable sample, which deserved (his friends thought) to be quoted at as liberal figures as some about which much more was said. General Thompson would doubtless have been more successful as a poet, if he had been a less honest and practical business man. He persisted in having some meaning in all that he wrote, and only a first class poet can afford to do that.

The cunning New England method is also the safest in the long run—when a versifier suspects that he lacks the true inspiration, he had better try the confidence game, and induce the public to admire by writing that which no one can understand. It would seem, too, that writing poetry and playing on the fiddle have this much in common, that a true genius at either is fit for nothing else. The amateurs can take care of themselves, but the born-masters display an amiable worthlessness for every thing but their art. Now General Thompson was thoroughly wide-awake and competent in all practical matters.

At Fort Delaware the prevailing topic of conversation was exchange; men who were destined to many another weary month of imprisonment, sustained themselves with the hope that it would soon come. At last a piece of good fortune befell some of us. It was announced that General Jones, the officer in command at Charleston, had placed fifty Federal officers in a part of the city where they would be exposed to danger from the batteries of the besiegers. An order was issued that fifty Confederate officers, of corresponding rank, should be selected for retaliation. Five general and forty-five field officers were accordingly chosen from the different prisons, Fort Delaware furnishing a large delegation for that purpose. The general officers selected were Major General Frank Gardner, the gallant and skillful commander of Port Hudson; Major-General Edward Johnson, one of the fighting Generals of the army of Northern Virginia (which is to say one of the bravest of the very brave), and a true man, whose sterling worth, intelligence and force of character would win him respect and influence wherever those qualities were valued; Brigadier-General Stewart, of the Maryland brigade, another officer who had won promotion in that heroic army of Northern Virginia, and had identified his name with its deathless fame. There was still another of these fortunate men—fortunate in having helped to win fields where Confederate soldiers had immortalized the title—Brigadier-General Archer was the fourth general officer. A favorite officer of General A.P. Hill, he was in every respect worthy of a hero's friendship and confidence. The fifth was Brigadier-General M. Jeff. Thompson. Among the field officers who went were seven of the penitentiary prisoners—Colonels Ward, Morgan, and Tucker, Majors Webber, Steele, and Higley and myself.

We left our comrades with a regret, felt for their bad fortune, for we felt assured that our apparent ill-luck would terminate in an exchange. Colonel Coleman, who had been confined in the Fort with the party of which so many were sent on this "expedition," was bitterly disappointed at being left behind, and we regretted it equally as much. Three of our companions through so many vicissitudes, we never saw again—three of the worthiest—Captains Griffin, Mullins, and Wardour died shortly afterward.

On the 26th of June, we were put on board of a steamer, and puffed away down the Delaware river. It was confidently affirmed that we were going to be placed on Morris Island, where the Charleston batteries would have fair play at us, so that our friends (blissfully unconscious of how disagreeable they were making themselves) might speedily finish us. The prospect was not absolutely inviting, but after the matter was talked over, and General Gardner, especially, consulted (as he had most experience in heavy artillery), we felt more easy. General Thompson, who had fought that way a good deal, said that "a man's chance to be struck by lightning was better than to be hit by a siege gun." This consoled me very little, for I had all my life been nervously afraid of lightning. However, we at last settled it unanimously that, while we would perhaps be badly frightened by the large bombs, there was little likelihood of many being hurt, and, at any rate, the risk was very slight compared with the brilliant hope of its resulting in exchange.

After we got fairly to sea, very little thought was wasted on other matters. The captain of the vessel, said that there was "no sea on," or some such gibberish, and talked as if we were becalmed, at the very time that his tipsy old boat was bobbing about like a green rider on a trotting horse. It is a matter of indifference, what sort of metal encased the hearts of those who first tempted the fury of the seas, but they must have had stomachs lined with mahogany. It is difficult to believe men, when they unblushingly declare that they go to sea for pleasure. There has been a great deal of pretentious declamation about the poetry and beauty of the ocean.

Some people go off into raptures about a "vast expanse" of dirty salt water, which must, in the nature of things, be associated in every one's mind with sick stomachs and lost dinners. The same people get so tired of their interminable view of poetry, that they will nearly crowd each other overboard, to get sight of a stray flying fish, or porpoise, or the back fin of a shark sticking out of the water. This trip to Hilton Head came near taking the poetry out of General Thompson.

Ten of us were lodged in a cabin on the upper deck, where we did very well, except that for one half of the time we were too sick to eat any thing, and for the other half we were rolling and tumbling about in such a manner that we could think of nothing but keeping off of the cabin's roof. The others were stowed away "amidships," or in some other place, down stairs, and as all the ports and air-holes were shut up, when the steamer began to wallow about, they were nearly smothered, and their nausea was greatly increased. They were compelled to bear it, for they could not force their way on deck and they had nothing with which to scuttle the ship. One western officer declared to me afterward, that he seriously thought, at one time, that he had thrown up his boot heels.

When we reached Hilton Head, we were transferred to the brig "Dragoon" (a small vessel lying in the harbor), and she was then anchored under the guns of the frigate Wabash. Here we remained five weeks. The weather was intensely hot. During the day we were allowed to go on deck, in reliefs of twenty-five each, and stay alternate hours, but at night we were forced to remain below decks. A large stove (in full blast until after nightfall), at one end of the hold in which we were confined, did not make the temperature any more agreeable. The ports were kept shut up, for fear that some of the party would jump out and swim eight miles to the South Carolina shore. As there were fifty soldiers guarding us and three ship's boats (full of men), moored to the vessel, there was little reason to apprehend any thing of the kind.

The sharks would have been sufficient to have deterred any of us from attempting to escape in that way. There was a difference of opinion regarding their appetite for human flesh, but no man was willing to personally experiment in the matter. A constant negotiation was going on during these five weeks, between the authorities at Hilton Head and Charleston, which seemed once or twice on the point of being broken off, but fortunately managed each time to survive.

We were never taken to Morris' Island, although our chances for that situation, seemed more than once, extremely good. Subsequently a party of six hundred Confederate officers were taken there, and quartered where they would have the full benefit of the batteries. None, however, were injured by the shells, but three fourths of them were reduced to a condition (almost as bad as death), by scurvy and other diseases, brought about by exposure and bad food. At last, on the 1st of August, it was authoritatively announced that we were to be taken on the next day to Charleston to be exchanged. Only those who have themselves been prisoners, can understand what our feelings then were—when the hope that had become as necessary to our lives as the breath we drew, was at length about to be realized. That night there was little sleep among the fifty—but they passed it in alternate raptures of congratulation at their good luck, or shivering apprehension lest, after all, something might occur to prevent it.

But when the next day came and we were all transferred to a steamer, and her head was turned for Charleston, we began to master all doubts and fears. We reached Charleston harbor very early on the morning of the 3rd, lay at anchor for two or three hours, and then steamed slowly in toward the city, until we passed the last monitor, and halted again. In a short time, a small boat came out from Charleston, with the fifty Federal prisoners on board and officers of General Jones' staff, authorized to conclude the exchange. When she came alongside, the final arrangements were effected, but not until a mooted point had threatened to break off the negotiation altogether. Happily for us, we knew nothing of this difficulty until it was all over, but we were made very nervous by the delay. When all the details were settled, we were transferred to the Confederate boat, and the Federal officers were brought on board of the steamer which we left; then touching hats to the crew we parted from, we bade our captivity farewell.

Twelve months of imprisonment, of absence from all we loved, was over at last. No man of that party could describe his feelings intelligibly—a faint recollection of circumstances is all that can be recalled in such a tumult of joy. As we passed down the bay, the gallant defenders of those works around Charleston, the names of which have become immortal, stood upon the parapets and cheered to us, and we answered like men who were hailing for life. The huge guns, which lay like so many grim watch dogs around the city, thundered a welcome, the people of the heroic city crowded to the wharves to receive us. If anything could repay us for the wretchedness of long imprisonment and our forced separation from families and friends, we found it in the unalloyed happiness of that day.

General Jones had then (and has now), the profound gratitude of fifty of his comrades. Ever doing his duty bravely and unflinchingly, he had, now, ransomed from the enemy, men who would have consented to undergo any ordeal for that boon. The citizens of Charleston hastened to offer us the traditional hospitality of their city. General Jones had informed them of the names of our party, and they had settled among themselves where each man was to be taken care of. If that party of "ransomed sinners" shall ever become "praying members" the Charlestonians will have a large share in their petitions.

But the recollection of our gallant comrades left behind would intrude itself and make us sad, ever in the midst of our good fortune. Some of them were not released until the summer after the close of the war.

No men deserve more praise for constancy than the Confederate prisoners, especially the private soldiers, who in the trials to which they were subjected steadfastly resisted every inducement to violate the faith they had pledged to the cause.

A statistical item may not come amiss, in concluding this chapter. There were, in all during the war, 261,000 Northern prisoners in Southern prisons, and 200,000 Confederate prisoners in Northern prisons; 22,576 Northern prisoners died, and 22,535 Confederate prisoners died; or two Federals died out of every twenty-three, and two Confederates died out of every fifteen.