Part 12

At the time of the escape of the fifteen, a number of officers were secretly engaged in “tunnelling out.” There were two plans connected with this tunnel. The first was that all who wished to escape should pass out on the same night and then scatter in small parties. We knew that some of these parties would be caught—we also thought that some would escape, and every man hoped that he would be in a lucky party. The second plan rested in the breasts of but three or four officers, and they hardly ventured to speak of it to each other. It was that on some dark night we would pass all able-bodied men out, form them in the neighboring woods, march boldly down the road, and surprise the guard in their quarters; then after burning the Confederate arsenal and workshops at Tyler, we would seize upon horses sufficient to mount the party, and push without ceasing for the Sabine and our lines beyond.

About one hundred feet beyond the north side of our enclosed camp stood two large trees. The spot was known as the “Quartermaster’s Grave,” for there slept Lieutenant John F. Kimball, Quartermaster of the 176th New York. The grave, carefully enclosed by a wicker fence, was between the two trees. The sentries’ walk was close to the stockade and parallel to the grave. Within our enclosure the “shebangs,” though not built upon any plan, had nevertheless sprung up with somewhat of the regularity of streets. One, however, called from its Indiana owners, the Hawk-eye, stood detached, and only about sixteen feet from the stockade. This cabin was taken for our starting point. In one corner a shaft was sunk eight feet in depth and length by four in width. From the bottom of this shaft the tunnel started. It was just high enough for a man to sit erect and work, and just wide enough for two men to meet and pass by each other. Two men worked in it at the same time, the one excavating and the other removing the earth. Their tools consisted of an old sword-bayonet, a broken shovel and a small box.

The first difficulty met was in establishing the grade and direction of the tunnel. The top of it at the shaft was less than five feet below the surface, while the posts of the stockade stood four and a half feet deep. It was necessary to go well below them, and therefore necessary to start with a descending grade. Beside the Quartermaster’s grave were three others. They projected over a line drawn from the shaft to the largest tree, and we designed that the tunnel should come out through the roots of this tree like a fox-earth. The wicker fence with the trunk and shadow of the tree, formed so perfect a screen from the sentries that a hundred men could have passed out on a stormy night with only remote chances of detection. Yet as the graves projected over the line I have mentioned, it was necessary for us to deflect from our true course until we should pass them, and then turn and work toward the tree. To bore under ground in the dark, and hit such a mark as the tree could not be done by chance or guess-work. We also must know the exact distance of the point where we should turn from our deflecting course; for if we turned too soon we should run into the graves, and if we turned too late we should shoot beyond the tree.

The difficulty of grade and direction was speedily disposed of. A pocket-compass and a small vial were soon procured, and Mr. Johnson, engineer of the gun-boat “Diana,” with admirable skill combined them into a good surveyor’s compass and level. The direction of the tree was taken, the amount of our deflection estimated, and the compass-level handed to the workmen with orders to keep on a certain grade and course.

To ascertain the exact distance of the tree was a harder task. For this three methods were suggested. It was first proposed that an officer should go out for wood, and as he passed this part of the stockade, some one should request him to copy the inscription on a head-board. He would then come up to the stockade for a pencil, and thence walk directly to the tree, counting his steps as he went. The objection to this was that it might excite suspicion, and draw attention to the tree.

The second method was to form an interior triangle, which should be equal to an imaginary exterior triangle. To do this it was indispensable that we should have “a given angle” and a “given side” of each. Our pocket-compass was too small to take angles, and moreover this had to be done literally within a few inches of the sentries and before their eyes. It was advisable, therefore, to measure and establish our given angle without instruments, and in the most artless manner.

Now every body possessed of a smattering of geometry knows that in a right-angled triangle the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other sides. Yet very few people can turn that knowledge to any practical account. This theorem, however, enabled us readily and accurately to establish a right-angle, and to use it as our “given angle.” It was done in this way: we took a cord and measured off and marked with pins, ten feet, eight feet, and six feet. By squaring these numbers it will be seen that 10^2 = 8^2 + 6^2. Hence by bringing our line into the shape of a triangle (the pins designating the angles), we formed of it a right-angled triangle.

It was not to be supposed that a Texan sentry, seeing us measuring with a cord on the inside of the stockade, would ever dream that we were measuring distances on the outside. Yet it was desirable that our measurements should be few and quickly done. After thus marking the line, and also measuring upon it twenty feet, Captain Torrey, of the 20th Iowa and myself, carried it up to the Hawk-eye cabin, dropped it on the ground, and quickly drew it into the form of the little triangle—A J K. As soon as the side A J came on a line with the tree, one of us glanced along the other side A K and noted the point B where its projection struck the stockade. He then quickly measured twenty feet in this direction, and stuck a peg in the ground at C. He measured twenty feet more and placed another peg at D. Here we re-set the triangle, which gave us the new direction D E. One of us then walked down this course till he found himself on a line with the peg C and the tree. Here we placed another peg, F. We then picked up the cord and came away. When the guard was relieved, and a new set of sentries stood around the stockade, we went back and measured the distance from F to D. It was equal to the distance from the cabin to the tree.

The third method was suggested by Captain Torrey. It was to take the altitude of a triangle by trigonometry. A table of logarithms remaining in the possession of a naval officer, enabled us to do this. Captain Torrey laid off the base of his triangle well down in the camp, out of sight of the sentries. To measure the angle at A he described a circle on the back of a large chess-board, and divided it as accurately as he could into degrees. When the altitude B T was thus obtained, all that remained necessary to be done was to measure the distance from the base to the corner of the “shebang” (B C), and subtract it from the altitude B T. The results obtained by these two methods were substantially the same.

A great deal of earth comes out of such a hole. It was estimated that we brought out two cart loads a day. For the first day or two our plan was simply to carry it from the cabin after dark. Now this might escape notice, but if it once attracted observation, and that observation should continue from night to night, detection was certain. The boldest course is always the safest, and therefore it was determined that all the earth should be carried out in broad daylight. Accordingly a number of officers were detailed for this work. They never went for a bucket of water without filling the bucket with earth; none carried out a bag or basket empty. Little by little, the contents of the tunnel were distributed around the camp. Some was thrown in the paths and trampled down—some in the ravine, and covered with ashes, and some was used to bank up “shebangs.” It was scattered so perfectly that many of our own number were at a loss to know what had become of it.

A sentinel constantly watched the gate. When any Confederate visitor entered, a signal was given, the work stopped within the tunnel, and a blanket was spread over the shaft. Yet all these precautions did not satisfy our anxiety. The ingenious engineer of the “Diana” was again called in. He skilfully arched over the shaft, leaving a hole at one end, over which he placed the meal-box of the Hawk-eye. The bottom of this box was movable. When work was suspended in the tunnel the bag of meal and cooking utensils were thrown into the box, and it became as honest a looking box as a man could have. When work was to begin again the box was emptied, the bottom was lifted out, and there appeared a dark hole, through which a man could drop down into the shaft below.

Yet still our anxiety grew with the work. We knew that if suspicion ever fell on any “shebang” it would fall on this one. We, therefore, determined to push a sap to an inner cabin, and pass all the earth through to the less suspicious building. A wet morning gave us a pretext for digging a trench. The trench was speedily roofed and covered with earth. When fully completed, one end of it entered the shaft, and the other opened in the second “shebang.” The operation then was this: a workman in the tunnel filled a small box with earth; a second one in the shaft drew out the box, and lifted it into the “baby-jumper” (as the sap was called); a third drew it through, and emptied it in the second “shebang.”

Yet all this precaution was deemed insufficient. The “baby-jumper” was enlarged so that a man could crawl through; the box was removed, and the shaft was covered over entirely. On the very day that this was completed, the gate suddenly opened, and Colonel Allen came in. He walked rapidly to the Hawk-eye (whither he had never gone before), and contrary to his invariable custom, entered it unasked and unannounced. He saw only a bare earth floor.

It was plainly desirable that information of the projected movement should be sent to our army, and accordingly a message to that effect was duly forwarded to our lines by the Confederate authorities in the following letter:

CAMP FORD, _March 19, 1864_,

DEAR N——

“Letters came yesterday for some of• us•, and it will please J—— to know that hers did not _escape_ this time. About a dozen of us have had letters containing news to 15th ult. There were two from mother, and one dated April 7th from C—— for me. On the whole _we_ will not complain of our luck. I am even willing to scatter them more equally amongst the prisoners, and indeed to let others have a few of mine.

“We feel certain the blockaders at• Sabine• and Galveston keep ours. Maj. Hyllested assures us, he sent a flag off with them at least three times. Let F—— look out• for them. Some were sent in September, others in October, November and December, I think, but will not be sure as to all of these months. Those which go _by Shreveport_ and Red River seem to get through and reach their destination in _some_ cases.

“Stevenson (as I wrote to you) whom we left sick at Iberia, is here nearly well. Let his family know this.”

The key to this letter had been previously sent out by an exchanged prisoner. It early became apparent that secret correspondence might be useful to us and of advantage to the government. But it was necessary that it should be both secret and unsuspected. An ordinary cipher would have been as worthless as any contraband letter. My first idea was to take a certain word of every line to convey the hidden message. But this I found lengthened the letter too much, and I therefore added to these every blotted and underscored word. If a person were sure that his correspondent knew the key, and if he were allowed to coin facts and write nonsense, this correspondence would be easy enough. But it became somewhat difficult when written under the following conditions; viz., 1. To write briefly; 2. To use such words and subjects as a prisoner in that camp would naturally use; 3. To state in the body of the letter the personal information I wished to communicate; for I was never sure my key had reached my correspondent. Yet a very little practice removed much of the difficulty, and for six months, every letter carried out its twofold intelligence. If now the reader will collate the fifth word of every line, the words marked thus• and those in _italics_, the inner meaning of the foregoing letter will become apparent.

News now arrived of the advance of our army up the Red River. The leaves were coming out, and the time was slowly approaching when we expected to use the tunnel. The officer who had been selected to direct the work, well know that when this time should arrive it would be absolutely impossible to prevent the whole camp from talking of it, and that one careless word might ruin everything. He therefore sought to conceal the real situation of the affair, by concealing the real distance to the tree, and under-rating the amount of work actually performed. Every precaution was taken to divert attention from the progress of the work; for the inspection of the shrewd Colonel betokened that some foolish word had been overheard by the sentries, or else that we had a secret spy in camp. There were then a few straggling privates within the stockade, and suspicion pointed at two of these. A constant watch was kept upon them; and orders were given that all conversation on the subject should cease.

The night of the fifteenth of April would be the first on which the moon would rise late enough for a sufficient number of men to pass out; and on the fifteenth of April it was designed that the tunnel should be finished and the sally made. On the ninth, news arrived that a great battle had begun at Mansfield. On the tenth, rumors came, saying that the Confederate General had possessed sufficient courage to move forward and strike our invading army. On the eleventh, we heard that he had struck it in detail, routing it and driving it back toward Alexandria. On the thirteenth, Colonel Allen received orders to prepare for four thousand new prisoners. On the fifteenth, the stockade was moved back six hundred feet, and our unfortunate tunnel left high and dry in the middle of this new enclosure.

XI. EXCHANGE.

The work upon the tunnel was interrupted for a day by an event, which I think must be without a parallel in any other prison-camp. At the breaking out of the rebellion, Miss Mollie Moore was a school girl of sixteen. After Galveston was re-taken by the Confederates, the “Houston Telegraph” was adorned with several heroic ballads, written by the young lady, whom the editor sometimes called “our pet,” and sometimes the “unrivalled star of Texan literature.” The 42d Massachusetts had been quartered in a warehouse on the wharf of Galveston, and had passed the night previous to their capture in fighting, all of which the ballad described thus:

“Beneath the Texan groves the haughty foemen slept.”

The literary taste of a simple, half-educated people is never very high, and it is not surprising that this childish composition so nicely equalled the taste of its readers, as to be deemed a marvel of genius, and actually to be published with General Magruder’s official report. Miss Mollie became the literary genius of Texas, and her effusions were poured forth through the “Houston Telegraph” and the “Tyler Reporter” and the “Crocket Quid Nunc” in most lavish streams. This strong incentive to write, and these ready opportunities to publish were not altogether abused by the young authoress, who rapidly improved. Judging her by the other poems that adorned those papers, she indeed appeared to be the “unrivalled star of Texan literature.” I am fortunate in being able to introduce her to northern readers by an extract from:

AN INVITATION.

TO MISS LIZZIE IRVINE, OF TYLER.

The autumn sunset’s fairy dyes Have faded from the bonding skies Grey twilight (she with down-cast eyes And trailing garments) passeth by; And thro’ the cloud-rifts shine the stars, As sunbeams burst thro’ prison bars; And on the soft wind, faintly heard, The warbling of some twilight bird Comes floating sylph-like, clad with power, To whisper, “This is love’s own hour!”

· · · · ·

’Tis autumn—and with summer fell The climbing vines of Sylvan Dell; Our flowers too withered when the pall Crept over summer; and the fall Of dry leaves, eddying thro’ the air, Has left the tall trees brown and bare: And more—at winter’s high behest, The crisp fern waves a tattered crest Above the stream, whose crystal pride The river-screen was wont to hide. But think not all are faithless! no, Not all doth Summer yield her foe, Tho’ Winter grasp each flower and vine— He cannot claim the fadeless pine, And high upon our rough hill-steeps, His watch the crested holly keeps. Ah would that Love could thus defy The storms that sweep our wintry sky!

· · · · ·

Come wander with me where the hill Slopes downward to the waters still, Where bright among the curling vines The sevres berry scarlet shines. And on yon brown hill’s bosky side, Where flames the sumach’s crimson pride, The steeps and tangled thickets glow With rude persimmons golden show; And down the dell, where daylight’s beams Make golden pathways by the streams, Where whispering winds are never mute, The hawthorn hangs her ebon fruit.

Come wander with me! near the spring The partridge whirs on mottled wing, And where the oozy marshes rest The wild duck heaves her royal breast, And when the winds are faintly stirred, The “sound of dropping nuts” is heard.

· · · · ·

Come thou! a bright and golden bar Comes quivering from yon yellow star, And sweeps away as spirits flee, To bear my vesper thought to thee. Come thou! a zephyr sweet and mild Comes whispering where the starlight smiled, And floats as Love’s own spirits flee, To bear my vesper wish to thee. Come thou! a spirit wanders by, With gentle brow and tender eye, And flies as Love alone can flee, To bear my vesper prayer to thee. Come thou! and when the hour as now Hangs heavy shades on day’s cold brow, When stars are glowing in the skies, The blessed stars, Love’s radiant eyes, When faintly on the breeze is heard, The hymning of some brooding bird— Ah how the twilight hour will be Love’s dearest hour to thee and me!

It seems impossible that a young lady able to write such correct and pleasing verse could be brought down by a bad subject to the following inflated nonsense, which is a stanza from a terrific piece called “The Black Flag,” “Dedicated to the Southern Army:”

· · · · ·

Let our flag kiss the breeze! let it float o’er the field, Not a heart will grow faint, not a bay’net will yield; Let the foe _drive_ his hosts o’er our land and the sea, To the banquet of Death prepared by the free! Unfurl our dark banner! be steady each breast, Till the red light of Victory hath lit on its crest! Let it hang as the vulture hangs, heavy with woe, O’er the field where our blades drink the blood of the foe!

_Chorus_—It shall never be lowered, the black flag we bear, It shall never, never, never, no never, etc., etc., etc.

There was a young lieutenant among the prisoners given to collecting all sorts of scraps and curiosities, and so he addressed a note to Miss Mollie, begging for her autograph and copies of any poems she might be able to spare. Within a reasonable time there came a copy of the “Invitation” and an autograph of the “Black Flag,” and a reproachful letter to Lieutenant Pearson. There was also a letter to Colonel Allen, not intended for Yankee reading. It expressed a little repentance for writing so cruelly to an unfortunate prisoner—avowed a wish to treat even invaders with politeness, and wound up with the Eve-like conclusion, “But I could not resist the temptation. Yours truly, MOLLIE E. MOORE.”

One or two other causes at the same time combined to induce Miss Mollie to visit Camp Ford, and one lucky morning Mrs. Allen escorted her in. She was one of those girls that men are a little afraid of, and that other girls do not like; she had a slender figure, a thin face, light hair, light blue, dreamy eyes, and she was accompanied by the object of the “Invitation.” There was not much of the poetess in her bearing, for she was very neatly dressed, a ready talker, and quite sharp at repartee. Yet when Colonel Burrill was presented to her as one of the “haughty foemen,” she colored, and showed a little pretty embarrassment. The friend was her exact opposite, with dark hair, dark eyes, very shy and silent and reserved, and much the prettiest Texan it was ever my luck to see.

About the same time a second notable incident occurred, being no less than a literary contest between prisoners and the outside world. One of our number had received some attention from the Houston editor, in return for which he sent him a few verses, entitled, “Pax Vobiscum.” These lines so exactly accorded with the yearning for peace, that they awakened great interest, and after a while were re-published, with the editorial avowal that they were written by a Yankee prisoner. Another literary lady, middle-aged, married, and rather stout (so I was informed), but who called herself by the infantile name of “Maggie of Marshall,” thereupon came out with a poem, addressed to “the noble prisoner,” in which she styled him, “The northern by birth but the southern in soul,” and urged him to come straight over and fight on their side. The “noble prisoner” had no earthly intention of deserting, so he wrote a second poem for the “Tyler Reporter,” in which he defined his position. “When Mistress Maggie of Marshall found that her blandishments were all thrown away, she became deeply indignant, and immediately wrote her second poem for the “Reporter,” wherein the “noble prisoner” was turned into a puritan and a murderer and a son of Cain, and finally turned adrift with the contemptuous pity:

“Behold this Ephraim to his idols joined— Let him alone.”