Part 2

On arriving at the Old Capitol, we were halted at the entrance by the sentry patroling the pavement in front of the prison door, who called out with a loud voice, “Corporal of the guard; Post No. 1.” This brought out the corporal, with his musket at his shoulder, and he escorted us inside.

Entering the prison from First Street, we passed through a broad hallway, which was used as a guard room, and thence into a room where prisoners were first taken to be questioned and searched. I found the lieutenant in charge more courteous than any of those in whose custody I had been. After receiving my commitment from the guard who brought me from the Provost-Marshal’s office, he inquired if I had any arms or other prohibited goods in my possession. I replied that the only article I had which might come within the forbidden class was a small pocket-knife, which I took from my pocket and handed him. He smiled as he gave it back, and made no further search. He asked me if I had been to supper, and receiving a negative reply, led me to a dirty, dismal room, which I afterward learned was the mess-room. Here, grouped around a big stove was a gang of negroes, one of whom, at the lieutenant’s command, brought out a chunk of beef, a slice of bread over an inch thick, and a cup of coffee (?), sweetened, but without milk. This was set out on a table, of what material constructed it was impossible to determine on account of the accumulation of dirt. The meat was served in a tin plate which looked as though it might have been through the Peninsular campaign.

Though I failed, no doubt, to do full justice to the repast set before me by the good-natured lieutenant, I certainly appreciated his good intentions and his honest efforts to entertain me with the best at his command.

The lieutenant sat and talked with me for some time before taking me to my room. He asked me if I would take the oath of allegiance to the Government. I told him I would not. He asked if I would be willing to take an oath to support the Constitution of the United States. “Yes,” said I, “but not an oath to support the Government or Administration.” He asked if I were living in a Northern city and came to Washington and went into business, would I in that case take the oath. I told him I would not. I said, “If I were in the South, even, and that iron-clad oath” (as it was called) “was offered to me, I would not take it.”[A]

He then accompanied me upstairs to Room No. 16, and here, after the door was unlocked, I was ushered into my future quarters. I was welcomed and introduced by one of my fellow-prisoners to the others of the party, some of whom had been brought in that same day.

Room No. 16 was a spacious room, with one very large arch window opposite the door from which the room was entered. This window was directly over the main entrance to the building on First Street, and in by-gone days it lighted up the former Senate Chamber. In the middle of the room a huge cylinder stove formed the centerpiece, while around and against the walls were twenty-one bunks or berths, arranged in three tiers, one above the other. There were a couple of pine tables, each about five feet long, with a miscellaneous collection of chairs, benches and home-made apologies for seats.

When the building was used as the Capitol, this floor contained the Senate and House of Representatives, but after its abandonment by Congress the floor was cut up into five rooms, now numbered from 14 to 18--No. 16 being the largest. The doors of all opened into a large hall, from which a broad stairway led to the floor below.

After spending a couple of hours in swapping stories and getting better acquainted, the whole party adjourned to their up-and-downy beds.

_Sunday, February 1, 1863._--My first night in my new quarters was a very uncomfortable one. An old blanket spread over the hard boards, with a piece of wood morticed in at the head for a pillow, was the bed on which I was expected to sleep. All night the steady tramp of the sentry up and down the hall outside of our room door, with the clanking of arms, the challenging of the guards and the calls of the relief through the night, kept me awake, until at last tired nature gave way and the god of sleep closed my weary eyes. How long I slept I know not, but when I woke it was as if awaking from a troubled dream. I looked around at my surroundings and then lay down again on my bunk, pondering on the events of the past night. After a while I got up and took a wash. There was but little time required for dressing. Soon the door was thrown open and there was a call to breakfast. Being totally unacquainted with the daily routine, I mechanically followed the crowd, without knowing where it would lead me. It led me to the mess-room. It might have led me to a worse place, but it would have been difficult to find.

It was a long, dirty, gloomy-looking room, with nothing in its appearance to tempt the appetite, and the food looked as though served at second-hand. The odor which assailed the nostrils seemed as if coming from an ancient garbage heap. The waiter stood at the head of the long board table, with a handful of tin cups filled with a liquid by courtesy called coffee. He would, with a dextrous twist of the wrist, send them spinning along down the table, leaving each man to catch one of the flying cups before it slid past. Fortunately, the waiter had by practice acquired sufficient skill to enable him to shoot a cup in your direction without spilling more than one-half of its contents. With this was served a chunk of beef and a slice of bread. The beef was left untouched by those who had the privilege and the means of providing their own food, but the bread was good, and a generous slice. I saw my companions slipping their quota of bread under the breasts of their coats, and I did the same.

After a half-hour’s recreation in the prison yard, we went back to our rooms and were locked in. In our room a table was spread and we had breakfast of ham, sausage, bread, butter and tea.

Room No. 16 faces the east front of the Capitol, and by standing or sitting back a short distance from the window we can look out and see the passers-by. No persons, however, are allowed to show any signs of recognition. If a person is seen loitering in passing the prison, or walking at a pace not considered satisfactory by the guard, he soon receives a peremptory command to “pass on,” or, “Hurry up, there,” and if this warning is not heeded the offending person, whether male or female, is arrested and detained.

This morning, two gentlemen walking down on the opposite side of the street, looked across and smiled. One of my room-mates raised his hat and bowed. One of the gentlemen did the same. Immediately we heard the sentry under the window call out: “Corporal of the guard, Post No. 1,” and an officer coming out, the person was pointed out, with the remark, “That man bowed over here.” A guard was instantly dispatched after him, and he was brought over, but was released in a short time.

Dinner to-day consisted of boiled beans and rusty-looking fat pork, with molasses (the molasses thin as water), served up in a dirty tin plate. There being neither knife, fork nor spoon given out with it, the only way the mixture could be eaten was by dipping it up with the bread and thus conveying it to the mouth.

When we went back to our room we prepared dinner from our own supply of provisions.

This afternoon three young ladies passing the prison looked over very pleasantly at the prisoners, who were in sight at the window, much to the displeasure of the guard, who stopped his walk and stood watching them. Finally, one of them smiled and nodded her head. At this moment came the call--“Corporal of the guard, Post No. 1.” The young ladies had by this time reached the corner of the street. Turning around and seeing the soldier coming after them, they waved their handkerchiefs and ran down the street. The sentry, after picking his way through the mud across the street, turned back and gave up the chase.

For supper we had a piece of bread, without butter, and a cup of coffee (?), without milk.

The bill of fare here given for the three meals of this day would serve, with but little variation, for the entire time of my detention.

One of the prisoners, a Confederate soldier, whom I met in the yard to-day, told me that he was just recovering from a fever, and although he had an excellent appetite, his stomach was weak and he could not eat the food set before him; that as he had no money to purchase anything else, he was compelled to go hungry.

With the exception of the bread, which is good (thanks to Superintendent Wood), the food dealt out here is poor in quality and insufficient in quantity. I noticed some of the boxes were marked “White House,” from which I inferred the contents were condemned army stores.

Those who can afford to do so club together and, having obtained permission, purchase such articles as the sutler will procure for them. The goods kept in stock by this dignitary are neither very choice nor varied, chiefly tobacco, cigars, cakes, candy, pies, etc. For our mess in Room 16, we select one man as treasurer, and he purchases our supplies, such as coffee, tea, sugar, cheese, and he occasionally has a large ham boiled. All of these articles the sutler furnishes at prices far beyond their market value; but we are glad to get them, and compelled from necessity to submit to the extortion.

Prisoners having money or friends outside of the prison can obtain many necessaries and enjoy comforts which are denied those less fortunate. A friend (Mrs. Ennis), living near the prison, sends dinner in to me every day. There is always enough to feed three or four abundantly, and none of it is ever wasted.

We take turns in the household work--cooking and cleaning up--two men being detailed for this duty each day. It is unnecessary to say our cooking arrangements are very simple.

In our room there are two, one, I think, a Yankee deserter, known as “Dutchy” and “Slim Jim,” who are unable to contribute their quota to the commissary fund, but as they can make a pot of coffee or tea, and wield a broom or wash a dirty dish, they are always ready to make up their deficit by taking the place of room-mates afflicted with hook-worm or victims of inertia.

Having our meals in our own room, we can take the whole half-hour allowed at meal time for recreation in the prison yard, which gives us an opportunity to mingle with prisoners from other rooms than our own. This meeting of old friends and comrades, and the making of new acquaintances, is a source of great pleasure to us and a relief from the monotony of what would otherwise be the dull routine of prison life.

_Monday, Feb. 2._--To-night two men were brought into our room. They say they were employed in General Halleck’s office, and are confined here for absenting themselves without leave. They are looked upon with suspicion by our party, who fear they may be spies.

Persons are often put in the rooms with prisoners, who, while posing as prisoners themselves, are really spies or detectives in the employ of the officials. They associate with the prisoners in their rooms, and also in the yard during the time allowed for recreation, and by assuming an air of injured innocence as victims of oppression, seek to gain their confidence with the intention of betraying them. If they can succeed in overcoming their suspicions and induce the prisoners to speak freely, these detectives report the conversations to their employers.

_Wednesday, Feb. 4._--Superintendent Wood said last night that he would allow the party in Room 16 (as they were not satisfied with the prison fare), if they preferred it, to receive the money in lieu of rations, and supply themselves. This was agreed to.

Mr. James Fullerton came to see me to-day. An official seated himself directly in front of us during the interview, and when Mr. Fullerton proceeded to ask me if I had any idea as to the person who had me arrested, the official interrupted him, saying he would be allowed to speak only of family affairs. Mr. Fullerton said he only wished to find out something of the nature of the charges against me, in order to furnish rebutting testimony. He was twice interrupted while attempting to ask me questions.

I had written a note to my wife, asking her to send me a change of clothing and some articles necessary here, for even with frequent changes it is difficult to keep free from vermin. To-day I asked Mr. Drew, the clerk, if it had been sent. He said, “Why, you have sent her all the word you wanted to send.” I said, “I have sent nothing but the note which you still retain.” “Oh, then,” said he, “I will send that. I thought you had written before.” Had I not called his attention to this note it would not have been delivered.

This was the first and last letter I sent out during my term of imprisonment, as I found all letters had to go first to the Provost-Marshal’s office for inspection, and then it was doubtful when they would reach their destination, if at all. A young man named Hurst wrote a letter to his father, who was residing in Washington City, and nine days passed before it was delivered.

A young man named Moore died to-night in one of the adjoining rooms. He was arrested without any specific charge. Though he was very ill at the time, he was marched eight miles. This proved too great a strain for him, and he died soon after his arrival here. His poor old mother was with him at the time of his death. Knowing his condition, and fearing he would not survive the effects of the long journey, she followed after. She was greatly excited. Throwing up her hands, she exclaimed: “I have lost all. I am ruined. My poor boy was all that was left to me, and now you have robbed me of him. But if there is a just God He will not suffer my wrongs to go unpunished.”

Towering up in front of our window rises the stately dome of the Capitol, its top being prepared for the statue of “Freedom.” What a contrast! What a spectacle from a prison window!

Some newspapers received to-night contain rumors from Charleston of the raising of the blockade, and also accounts of some dashing exploits of Wheeler’s Cavalry, consequently there is great rejoicing among the Confederate prisoners, who can scarcely contain themselves. The news soon spread, and cheers were given in every room where they are confined. The officers on duty were very lenient, and went around endeavoring to quiet the prisoners, saying the noise sounded badly in the street, and had a damaging effect. Some of the guards, however, were in a very ugly mood, and as one of our men went from the room to get water, one of the soldiers on guard made a wicked thrust at him with his bayonet.

_Thursday, Feb. 5._--Snowing hard this morning and continuing until evening, when it turned to rain.

Received parcel to-day from home, containing clothing, etc.

Every day from eight to twelve wagons pass the prison, laden with dead horses and mules, from the camps around Washington. From this alone one can form an idea of the number of animals used up by the army.

_Friday, Feb. 6._--Colonel Doster, Provost-Marshal, paid a visit to the prison to-night. He came into our room. On being asked by Mr. Hunter concerning his case, he said: “Gentlemen, your cases have all been decided by military governors.”

_Sunday, Feb. 8._--A great many ladies and gentlemen pass and repass the prison, many merely from curiosity, perhaps, and the guards are very vigilant to see that they exchange no signals or glances with prisoners. This afternoon two ladies bowed to our window, and a corporal was sent after them. He followed them about half a block, and we could see him talking to them for some little time, but he came back without them.

A little later, two old gentlemen stopped on the street opposite the prison. One of them took from his pocket a small spy-glass, which he applied to his eye and took a careful survey of the building, to the great discomfort of the sentry, who called to him several times to pass on. The old gentleman paid no attention to the call, and the sentry asked the officer if he should arrest him. The old man then coolly put up his glass, waved his hand and passed on.

To-day being Sunday, the superintendent, Mr. Wood,[B] went through the prison, making the announcement at each door, that all who wished to hear the Gospel according to Jeff Davis could go down to the yard, where a Secesh preacher would give it to them (this was the Rev. Mr. Landstreet, a Confederate chaplain, who is imprisoned here), and all who wanted to hear the Lord God according to Abe Lincoln could be accommodated in Room 16.

Mr. Wood professes to be an infidel, and therefore, while his partisan feelings are very strong on the question of duty and devotion to the Union cause, he is not disposed to view it from a Gospel standpoint. I have heard, however, that he was born and baptized in the Catholic Church, but left it, and in the days of Know-Nothingism became a prominent leader in that party. I went down to the yard, not so much to hear the reverend preacher (though my preference, if any, would have led me to select him) as to enjoy a smoke and a social chat with some of my friends from the other rooms.

_Monday, Feb. 9._--The Tenth New Jersey Regiment is the prison guard here. Among them are many who combine the qualities of soldier and gentleman, but there are some who lack both. The latter, I am glad to say, are in the minority.

Last night before going to our bunks, we were shaking the coal stove. The grate was choked and it was hard to rake out. A guard was sent up to the room, and one said gruffly:

“What is all this noise about?”

“We are raking the stove,” said one of our party.

“No, you are not,” replied the fellow; “I know what you are doing--you are dancing, and if I hear any more of it, some of you will get in the guard house.” Being prisoners, we have to submit to this insolence.

This morning, as I was standing at the window looking out, I heard the sentinel on the sidewalk under the window order a prisoner in the next room to go from the window, or he would get a ball through him. I was standing about a foot back from the bars when the sentry, an ill-looking fellow, called out to me:

“Get away from that window.”

“I am not touching the bars,” said I. I had been told by prisoners long confined in the Old Capitol that a prisoner was permitted to look out of the window so long as he did not touch the bars.

“I will put a ball through you, damn you,” said the brute, at the same time cocking his gun and aiming at me. As I thought the cowardly rascal might shoot, and I would only be exposing myself foolishly, I drew back.

When I related this affair to a fellow-prisoner, Mr. Augustus Williams, he told me that he was a prisoner in the Old Capitol at the time young Wharton was shot, and his room was on the same floor.

It was either in the latter part of March or first of April, 1862, that Jesse W. Wharton, a young man about twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, son of Professor Wharton, of Prince George County, Md., was deliberately murdered by a man belonging to the 91st Pennsylvania Regiment, then on guard duty at the prison. Wharton was standing at the window of his room when the sentry called out to him: “Get away from that window, or I will blow your damned head off.” Wharton turned away, walked across the room and again stood at the window as before. The guard, on seeing him, repeated his command, or words to the same effect. Wharton, feeling that as he was violating no rule the guard would not attempt to carry out his threat, paid no further attention, but stood with his arms folded. The sentry (I cannot call him soldier) fired, and the ball struck Wharton in the left hand, passed through the right arm, breaking the bone of the elbow, entered the right side, coming out near the spine. He staggered, and would have fallen, but some of his fellow-prisoners caught him and lowered him gently to the floor. He lingered for seven or eight hours. Before he died he called for the lieutenant commanding the post, and when he came in, the dying man said: “I am dying, and you are the man who caused my death.” He said he heard the lieutenant give the man the order to fire.

Williams also mentioned another case, that of Harry Stewart, son of Dr. Frederick Stewart, of Baltimore, a young man less than twenty-five years of age. He had been to Richmond, and on his return was arrested as a spy and sent to the Old Capitol. One of the sentinels, a member of the 86th Regiment New York Volunteers, agreed for a bribe of fifty dollars to allow him to escape by lowering himself from the window to the pavement below. Stewart waited until the hour appointed, when this particular sentry should be on guard. He then let himself out of the window and was lowered but a few feet when the sentry cried, “Halt!” and fired, the ball striking Stewart’s right leg, splintering the knee-bone. He was quickly drawn up by his room-mates, and the prison surgeon amputated the limb. The shock was too great, however, and he died in a short time after the operation. The money (fifty dollars) was found in his pocket, wrapped up in paper, upon which was written, “This is the money I promised you.”

Augustus Williams, to whom I am indebted for these facts, is a citizen of Fairfax County, Virginia. Living near Vienna, and being within the Union lines, he was arrested and taken to the Old Capitol. There being no charge against him, except refusal to take the oath, he was released after a short term of imprisonment. Going back to his home, he was again picked up by the first party of troops raiding in his neighborhood, and returned to the Old Capitol. This occurred so frequently that Superintendent Wood came to look upon him as a regular visitor, and would greet him on his arrival with a handshake, and say:

“Hello, Gus; you’re back again. You couldn’t stay away from us very long.”

“No,” he would reply. “You fellows treat me so well when I am here. And then, it’s such a nice trip to go back home by way of Fortress Monroe and Richmond.”

Some of the prisoners who have gone out recently are suspected of having purchased their freedom at a cash valuation.

A man named George Hammett was brought in on Saturday night with a number of prisoners. He was captured on the Potomac River, and is charged with attempting to run the blockade. He was called down from the room this morning, and on his return said that he told Superintendent Wood he was willing to take the oath. Wood told him that hereafter no one would be released on simply taking the oath; that he might be released on payment of a sum of money--from one to six hundred dollars. These blockade runners, I suppose, are thought to have money, and this, no doubt, is but a plan to extort money from them.

Emanuel Weiler was released to-day. He was taken with Aaron J. King on charge of carrying contraband goods.

_Tuesday, Feb. 10._--This morning two ladies passing the building bowed to prisoners at our window. A guard was sent out and brought them in. They were released after fifteen or twenty minutes’ detention, Brave soldiers! How fortunate the weather continues cool so that the ladies cannot _bare_ arms, as it might interfere with the prison arrangements, making it necessary to double the guard in order to insure the safe keeping of the prisoners and protect our timorous guards.

After dinner a guard came into the room and escorted me down before Captain Parker, who told me to take a seat, while he proceeded to look over a paper he held in his hand.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“I have resided in this city for the past seven or eight years,” I answered.

“Where were you born?”