I might plead, with truth, "the solicitations of friends" as my apology for appearing in print; but as mine is an unpracticed pen, the public, perhaps, may demand a better reason. Without any crime I have been an inmate of the foulest of Southern prisons, and a companion of the brave men whose condition and treatment has called forth the sympathy of the nation, and which will yet call forth the condemnation of the civilized world. I was one of the party that planned and executed one of the most remarkable escapes known to history—the record of which will be enduring as that of the war itself. The labors and perils of which I was a partaker will, I am well assured, give an interest to these pages which the charm of style can never impart to a tale wanting in stirring incident. I write, then, simply because I have a story to tell, which many will take pleasure in hearing, and which, I doubt not, in after years will employ a more skillful pen than mine.

Those with whom I have sat around the camp-fire, shared the weariness of the march, and the dangers of the battle, will like my story none the less for being plainly told; and my companions in Libby, and the partners of my flight, will think of other matters than brilliant sentences and round periods, as they read these pages. I claim no leadership in the enterprise of which I write—the time has not yet come to give honor to whom honor is due; the reason of my silence in this respect will appear in the course of my narrative.

When I began these pages I had no intention of carrying the reader beyond my escape from Libby. I have, however, been induced to add an account of Sherman's great campaign against Atlanta; and while this will, perhaps, have less interest for the general reader, it will possess more for those who were with me in that memorable march. My friends, I am sure, will be indulgent; may I express the hope that all others will have their sympathies too much aroused for our brave boys, still in prison, to be critical?

I. N. Johnston.