Chapter VI: Part 6

CAMP LAWTON, Millen, Ga., Nov. 1.—Arrived at our destination not far from midnight, and it was a tedious journey. Two died in the car I was in. Were taken from the cars to this prison in what they call ambulances, but what I call lumber wagons. Are now congregated in the south-east corner of the stockade under hastily put up tents. This morning we have drawn rations, both the sick and the well, which are good and enough. The stockade is similar to that at Andersonville, but in a more settled country, the ground high and grassy, and through the prison runs a stream of good pure water, with no swamp at all. It is apparently a pleasant and healthy location. A portion of the prison is timber land, and the timber has been cut down and lays where it fell, and the men who arrived before us have been busily at work making shanties and places to sleep in. There are about six thousand prisoners here, and I should judge there was room for twelve or fifteen thousand. Men say they are given food twice each day, which consists of meal and fresh beef in rather small quantities, but good and wholesome. The rebel officer in command is a sociable and kindly disposed man, and the guards are not strict, that is, not cruelly so. We are told that our stay here will be short. A number of our men have been detailed to cook the food for the sick, and their well being is looked to by the rebel surgeon as well as our own men. The same surgeon who for the last ten days had charge of us in Savannah has charge of us now. He does not know over and above much but on the whole does very well. Barrels of molasses (nigger toe) have been rolled inside and it is being issued to the men, about one-fourth of a pint to each man, possibly a little more. Some of the men, luxuriantly, put their allowances together and make molasses candy of it. One serious drawback is the scarcity of dishes, and one man I saw draw his portion in his two hands, which held it until his comrade could find a receptacle for it.

Nov. 2.—Have seen many of my old comrades of Andersonville, among whom is my tried friend Sergt. Wm. B. Rowe; were heartily glad to see one another; also little Bullock who has improved wonderfully in appearance. Everyone is pleased with this place and are cheerful, hoping and expecting to be released before many weeks; they all report as having been well treated in Savannah and have pleasant recollections of that place; from what could be seen of the city by us prisoners it seems the handsomest one in America. Should judge it was a very wealthy place. My duties as nurse are hard, often too much so for my strength, yet the enforced exercise does me good and continue to improve all the time. A cane will be necessary to my locomotion for a long time as am afraid myself permanently injured; my cane is not a gold headed one; it is a round picket which has been pulled off some fence. Very cheering accounts of the war doings. All who want to can take the oath of allegiance to the confederacy and be released; am happy to say though that out of all here, but two or three has done so, and they are men who are a detriment to any army. The weather now is beautiful, air refreshing, water ditto; all happy and contented and await coming events with interest. Part of the brook, the lower part, is planked and sides boarded up for sanitary privileges; water has also been dammed up and a fall made which carries off the filth with force. Plenty of wood to do cooking with and the men putter around with their cooking utensils such as they have. Sort of prize fight going on now.

Nov. 3.—About a hundred convalescents were taken outside to-day to be sent away to our lines the officials told us. At a later hour the commander came inside and said he wanted twelve men to fall into line and they did so, myself being one of the twelve; he proceeded to glance us over and on looking at me said: “Step back out of the ranks, I want only able-bodied men.” I stepped down and out considerably chagrinned, as the general impression was that they were to go to our lines with the convalescents who had been taken outside before. He marched off the twelve men and it then leaked out that they were to be sent to some prison to be held as hostages until the end of the war. Then I felt better. It is said all the sick will be taken outside as soon as they get quarters fixed up to accommodate them. Think that I shall resign my position as nurse. Would rather stay with the “boys.” Land is no longer with the sick but has been turned into the rank and file, also Dakin. Dakin, Rowe and Land are all together, and if the sick are taken outside I shall join my old comrades and mess with them. But few die now; quite a number died from the removal, but now all seem to be on the mend. I am called, contrary to my expectations, a good nurse; certainly have pity for the poor unfortunates, but lack the strength to take care of them. It needs good strong men to act as nurses.

Nov. 4.—The fine weather still continues. Just warm enough, and favorable for prisoners. Food now we get but once a day—not all we want, but three times as much as issued at Andersonville and of good quality. The officer in command, as I have said before, is a kind hearted man, and on his appearance inside he was besieged by hundreds of applications for favors and for the privilege of going outside on parole of honor. He began granting such favors as he could, but has been besieged too much and now stays outside. Has, however, put up a letter box on the inside so that letters will reach him, and every day it is filled half full. Occasionally he takes to a letter and sends inside for the writer of it, and that one answered is the occasion of a fresh batch, until it is said that the poor man is harrassed about as much as the President of the United States is for fat offices. As I have before remarked in my diary, the Yankee is a queer animal.

Nov. 5.—Hostages taken out. Everything is bright and pleasant and I see no cause to complain, therefore won’t. To-morrow is election day at the North; wish I was there to vote—which I ain’t. Will here say that I am a War Democrat to the backbone. Not a very stiff one, as my backbone is weak.

Nov. 6.—One year ago to-day captured. Presidential election at the North between Lincoln and McClellan. Some one fastened up a box, and all requested to vote, for the fun of the thing. Old prisoners haven’t life enough to go and vote; new prisoners vote for present administration. I voted for McClellan with a hurrah, and another hurrah, and still another. Had this election occurred while we were at Andersonville, four-fifths would have voted for McClellan. We think ourselves shamefully treated in being left so long as prisoners of war. Abe Lincoln is a good man and a good president, but he is controlled by others who rule the exchange business as well as most other things. Of course our likes and dislikes make no difference to him or any one else. Yes, one year ago to-day captured. A year is a good while, even when pleasantly situated, but how much longer being imprisoned as we have been. It seems a lifetime, and I am twenty years older than a year ago. Little thought that I was to remain all this time in durance vile. Improving in health, disposition and everything else. If both breeches legs were of the same length should be supremely happy. Should make a bon-fire to-night if I wasn’t afraid of celebrating a defeat. Had lots of fun hurrahing for “Little Mac.”

Nov. 7.—A rather cold rain wets all who have not shelter. Many ladies come to see us; don’t come through the gate, but look at us through that loophole. Any one with money can buy extras in the way of food, but, alas, we have no money. Am now quite a trader—that is, I make up a very thin dish of soup and sell it for ten cents, or trade it for something. Am ravenously hungry now and can’t get enough to eat. The disease has left my system, the body demands food, and I have to exert my speculative genius to get it, am quite a hand at such things and well calculated to take care of myself. A man belonging to the Masonic order need not stay here an hour. It seems as if every rebel officer was of that craft, and a prisoner has but to make himself known to be taken care of. Pretty strong secret association that will stand the fortunes of war. That is another thing I must do when I get home—join the Masons. No end of things for me to do: visit all the foreign countries that prisoners told me about, and not forgetting to take in Boston by the way, wear silk under clothing, join the masons, and above all educate myself to keep out of rebel prisons. A person has plenty of time to think here, more so than in Andersonville; there it was business to keep alive. Small alligator killed at lower part of the stream.

Nov. 8.—All eager for news. Seems as if we were on the eve of something. So quiet here that it must predict a storm. Once in a while some pesky rebel takes it upon himself to tell us a lot of lies to the effect that our armies are getting beaten; that England joins the Confederacy to whip out the North; that there is no prospect of ending the war; that we are not going to be exchanged at all, but remain prisoners, etc., etc. If he is a good talker and tells his story well it makes us all blue and down-hearted. Then, pretty soon, we are told more joyful news which we are ready to believe, and again take heart and think of the good times coming. Would like to hear the election news. Wonder who is elected? Feel stronger every day, and have a little flesh on my bones. As the weather gets cool, we are made painfully aware of the fact that we are sadly deficient in clothing. Will freeze if compelled to stay through the winter. Coverlid still does duty although disabled by past experience, same as all of us. We talk over the many good traits of Battese and others who are separated from us by death and otherwise. The exploits of Hendryx we will never tire of narrating. What a meeting when we can get together in future years, and talk over the days we have lived and suffered together. Exchange rumors fill the air. One good sign—the rebels are making no more improvements about this prison; they say we are not to stay here long. We hear that our troops are marching all through the South. Guess that is the reason why they think of moving us all the time. All right, Johnny Rebels, hope we are an elephant on your hands. Jeff Davis denounced by the papers, which is a good sign. Occasionally get one in camp, and read it all up. No library here. Not a scrap of anything to read; principal occupation looking for stray news.

Nov. 9.—This diary would seem to treat of two things principally, that of food and exchange. Try to write of something else, but my thoughts invariably turn to these two subjects. Prisoners of war will know how to excuse me for thus writing. A dead line has also been fixed up in Camp Lawton, but thus far no one has been shot. Rebel doctors inside examining men who may be troubled with disease prison life might aggravate. Those selected are taken outside and either put in hospitals or sent to our lines. Yankee ingenuity is brought into play to magnify diseases, and very often a thoroughly well man will make believe that he is going to die in less than a week unless taken away. Have laughed for an hour at the way a fellow by the name of Sawyer fooled them. The _modus operandi_ will hardly bear writing in these pages, but will do to tell. Have made a raise of another pair of pants with both legs of the same length, and I discard the old ones to a “poor” prisoner. An advantage in the new pair is that there is plenty of room, too, from being three or four sizes too large, and the legs as long as the others were short. My one suspender has a partner now, and all runs smoothly. Although Bullock is fleshing up and getting better in health, he is a wreck and always will be. Seems to be a complete change in both body and mind. He was a favorite in our regiment, well known and well liked. Rowe is the same stiff, stern patrican as of old, calmly awaiting the next turn in the wheel of fortune.

Nov. 10.—Pleasant and rather cool. My hair is playing me pranks. It grows straight up in the air and only on the topmost part of my head. Where a man is generally bald, it’s right the other way with me. If there is anything else that can happen to make me any more ridiculous, now is the time for it to appear. About all I lack now is to have an eye gouged out. A friend says that the reason my hair grows the way it does is because I have been scared so much, and it has stuck up straight so much, that it naturally has a tendency that way. Perhaps that is it. If I thought we were to stay here for any length of time would open up a hair cutting shop; but should hate to get nicely started in business and a trade worked up, then have an exchange come along and knock the whole thing in the head. We are not far from the railroad track, and can listen to the cars going by. Very often Confederate troops occupy them and they give the old familiar rebel yell. Once in a while the Yanks get up steam enough to give a good hurrah back to them. Seems to be a good deal of transferring troops now in the South. I watch all the movements of the rebels and can draw conclusions, and am of the opinion that Mr. Confederacy is about whipped and will soon surrender. It certainly looks that way to me. Rumors that we are to be moved.

Nov. 11.—Very well fed. There it goes again. Had determined not to say anything more about how we were fed, and now I have done it. However, I was not grumbling about it any way. Will merely add that I have an appetite larger than an elephant. Will also say that there are rumors of exchange, for a change—a subject that has been spoken of before. Cannot possibly refrain from saying that I am feeling splendidly and worth a hundred dead men yet. Have two dollars in Confederate money and if I can sell this half canteen of dish-water soup shall have another dollar before dark. “Who takes it? Ah, here ye are! Sold again; business closed for to-night, gentlemen. Early in the morning shall have a fresh supply of this delicious soup, with real grease floating on top.” Shutters put up and we settle down for the night without depositing in the bank. Shan’t go to sleep until ten or eleven o’clock, but lay and think, and build those air castles that always fall with a crash and bury us in the debris. Often hear the baying of hounds from a distance, through the night—and such strange sounds to the Northern ear. Good night. In rather a sentimental mood. Wonder if she is married?

Nov. 12.—Everything quiet and running smoothly. Waiting for something. Have just heard the election news—Mr. Lincoln again elected, and “Little Mac” nowhere. Just about as I expected. Returns were rather slow in coming in, evidently waiting for the Camp Lawton vote. Well, did what I could for George; hurrahed until my throat was sore and stayed so for a week; know that I influenced twenty or thirty votes, and now can get no office because the political opponent was elected. ’Tis ever thus. Believe I would make a good postmaster for this place. There is none here and should have applied immediately, if my candidate had been elected. More sick taken away on the cars; rebels say to be exchanged. Appears to be a sort of mystery of late, and can’t make head nor tail of their movements. Would not be surprised at any hour to receive news to get ready for our lines. Don’t know that I have felt so before since my imprisonment. Have lived rather high to-day on capital made yesterday and early this morning. Just my way—make a fortune and then spend it.

Nov. 13.—To-day had an incident happen to me; hardly an incident, but a sort of an adventure. When I was nurse on one or two occasions I helped the hospital steward make out his report to his superiors, and in that way got a sort of reputation for knowing how to do these things a little better than the ordinary run of people, and rebels in particular. A rebel sergeant came inside at just about nine o’clock this morning and looked me up and said I was wanted outside, and so went. Was taken to a house not far from the stockade, which proved to be the officers head-quarters. There introduced to three or four officers, whose names do not occur to me, and informed that they were in need of some one to do writing and assist in making out their army papers, and if I would undertake the job, they would see that I had plenty to eat, and I should be sent North at the first opportunity. I respectfully, gently and firmly declined the honor, and after partaking of quite a substantial meal, which they gave me thinking I would reconsider my decision, was escorted back inside. Many thought me very foolish for not taking up with the offer. My reasons for not doing so are these: I would be clearly working for the Confederacy; can see no real difference in it from actually entering their army. If I occupied that position it would relieve some rebel of that duty, and he could stay in the ranks and fight our men. That is one reason. Another is the fact that instead of their letting me go to our lines with the first that went, I would be the very last to go, as they would need me to do duty for them until the last moment. Was always willing to do extra duty for our own men, such as issuing clothing on Belle Isle, also my nursing the sick or in any way doing for them, but when it comes to working in any way for any rebel, I shall beg to be excused. Might have gone out and worked in the printing offices in Savannah had I so wished, as they were short of men all the time, in fact could hardly issue their papers on account of the scarcity of printers. And so I am still loyal to the Stars and Stripes and shall have no fears at looking my friends in the face when I do go home.

Nov. 14.—The kaleidoscope has taken another turn. Six hundred taken away this forenoon; don’t know where to. As I was about the last to come to Millen, my turn will not come for some days if only six hundred are taken out each day. Rebels say they go straight to our lines, but their being heavily guarded and every possible precaution taken to prevent their escape, it does not look like our lines to me. Probably go to Charleston; that seems to be the jumping off place. Charleston, for some reason or other, seems a bad place to go to. Any city familiar with the war I want to avoid. Shall hang back as long as I can, content to let well enough alone. Some of my friends, of which Bullock is one, flanked out with those going off. What I mean by “flanked out” is crowding in when it is not their turn and going with the crowd. Hendryx and I did that when we left Belle Isle, and we brought up in Andersonville. Will let those do the flanking who want to, I don’t.

Nov. 15.—At about six or seven o’clock last night six hundred men were taken away, making in all twelve hundred for the day; another six hundred are ready to go at a moment’s notice. I don’t know what to think. Can hardly believe they go to our lines. Seems almost like a funeral procession to me, as they go through the gate. Rowe and Hub Dakin talk of going to-day, if any go, having decided to flank. I have concluded to wait until it is my turn to go. If it is an exchange there is no danger but all will go, and if not an exchange would rather be here than any place I know of now. LATER.—Eight hundred have gone, with Rowe and Dakin in the crowd, and I am here alone as regards personal friends. Could not be induced to go with them. Have a sort of presentiment that all is not right. STILL LATER.—Six hundred more have gone, making 2,600 all together that have departed, all heavily guarded.

Nov. 16.—A decided thinness in our ranks this morning. Still house keeping goes right along as usual. Rebels not knowing how to figure give us just about the same for the whole prison as when all were here. Had a talk with a rebel sergeant for about an hour. Tried to find out our destination and could get no satisfaction, although he said we were going to our lines. Told him I was a mason, odd-fellow, had every kind of religion (in hopes to strike his), and flattered him until I was ashamed of myself. In a desultory sort of way he said he “reckoned we war goin’ nawth.” Well, I will write down the solution I have at last come to, and we will see how near right I am after a little. Our troops, Sherman or Kilpatrick or some of them, are raiding through the South, and we are not safe in Millen, as we were not safe in Andersonville, and as was plainly evident we were not safe in Savannah. There is the whole thing in a nutshell, and we will see. Six hundred gone to-day.

Nov. 17.—It is now said that the prisoners are being moved down on the coast near Florida. That coincides with my own view, and I think it very probable. Will try and go about to-morrow. Hardly think I can go to-day. LATER.—The to-day’s batch are going out of the gate. Makes me fairly crazy to wait, fearful I am missing it in not going. This lottery way of living is painful on the nerves. There are all kinds of rumors. Even have the story afloat that now the raid is over that drove us away from Andersonville, we are going back there to stay during the war. That would be a joke. However, I stick to my resolution that the rebels don’t really know themselves where we are going. They move us because we are not safe here. They are bewildered. Believing this am in a comparatively easy state of mind. Still I worry. Haven’t said a word in a week about my health. Well, I am convalescing all the time. Still lame, and always expect to be; can walk very well though, and feeling lively for an old man.

Nov. 18.—None being taken away to-day, I believe on account of not getting transportation. Notice that rebel troops are passing through on the railroad and immense activity among them. Am now well satisfied of the correctness of my views as regards this movement. Have decided now to stay here until the last. Am getting ready for action however. Believe we are going to have a warm time of it in the next few months. Thank fortune I am as well as I am. Can stand considerable now. Food given us in smaller quantities, and hurriedly so too. All appears to be in a hurry. Cloudy, and rather wet weather, and getting decidedly cooler. My noble old coverlid is kept rolled up and ready to accompany me on my travels at any moment. Have my lame and stiff leg in training. Walk all over the prison until tired out so as to strengthen myself. Recruiting officers among us trying to induce prisoners to enter their army. Say it is no exchange for during the war, and half a dozen desert and go with them. Even if we are not exchanged during the war, don’t think we will remain prisoners long.

Nov. 19.—A car load went at about noon, and are pretty well thinned out. Over half gone—no one believes to our lines now; all hands afraid of going to Charleston. Believe I shall try and escape on the journey, although in no condition to rough it. Am going to engineer this thing to suit myself and have a little fun. Would like to be out from under rebel guard once more. When I can look around and not see a prison wall and a gun ready to shoot me, I shall rejoice. Have edged up to another comrade and we bunk together. Said comrade is Corporal Smith, belonging to an Indiana regiment. While he is no great guns, seems quite a sensible chap and a decided improvement on many here to mess with. The nights are cool, and a covering of great benefit. My being the owner of a good blanket makes me a very desirable comrade to mess with. Two or three together can keep much warmer than one alone. It is said that a number of outsiders have escaped and taken to the woods. Another load goes to-night or early in the morning. My turn will come pretty soon. Nothing new in our situation or the prospects ahead. Food scarce, but of good quality. More go and I go to-morrow.

Nov. 20.—None as yet gone to-day and it is already most night. My turn would not come until to-morrow, and if none go at all to-day I will probably not get away until about day after to-morrow. Shan’t flank out, but await my turn and go where fate decrees. Had a falling out with my companion Smith, and am again alone walking about the prison with my coverlid on my shoulders. Am determined that this covering protects none but thoroughly good and square fellows. LATER.—Going to be a decidedly cold night, and have “made up” with two fellows to sleep together. The going away is the all absorbing topic of conversation. Received for rations this day a very good allowance of hard-tack and bacon. This is the first hard-tack received since the trip to Andersonville, and is quite a luxury. It is so hard that I have to tack around and soak mine up before I am able to eat it. There is a joke to this. Will again go to bed as I have done the last week, thinking every night would be the last at Camp Lawton.

Nov. 21.—Got up bright and early, went to the creek and had a good wash, came back, after a good walk over the prison, and ate my two large crackers and small piece of bacon left over from yesterday, and again ready for whatever may turn up. Lost my diminutive cake of soap in the water and must again take to sand to scrub with, until fortune again favors me. Men are very restless and reckless, uncertainty making them so. Try my very best not to have any words or trouble with them, but occasionally get drawn into it, as I did this morning. Came out solid however. Is pretty well understood that I can take care of myself. NOON.—Five hundred getting ready to go; my turn comes to-morrow, and then we will see what we will see. Decided rumors that Sherman has taken Atlanta and is marching toward Savannah, the heart of the Confederacy. All in good spirits for the first time in a week.

ESCAPE BUT NOT ESCAPE.

MOVED FROM CAMP LAWTON AFTER A SOJOURN OF TWENTY DAYS—DESTINATION
BLACKSHEAR, GA.—JUMP OFF THE CARS AND OUT FROM REBEL GUARD FOR
SIX DAYS—A HUNGRY TIME BUT A GOOD ONE—CAPTURED AND MAKE THE
ACQUAINTANCE OF TWO OTHER RUNAWAYS WITH WHOM I CAST MY FORTUNES,
ETC., ETC.

Nov. 22.—And now my turn has come, and I get off with the next load going to-day. My trunk is packed and baggage duly checked; shall try and get a “lay over” ticket, and rusticate on the road. Will see the conductor about it. A nice cool day with sun shining brightly—a fit one for an adventure and I am just the boy to have one. Coverlid folded up and thrown across my shoulder, lower end tied as only a soldier knows how. My three large books of written matter on the inside of my thick rebel jacket, and fastened in. Have a small book which I keep at hand to write in now. My old hat has been exchanged for a red zouave cap, and I look like a red headed woodpecker. Leg behaving beautifully. My latest comrades are James Ready and Bill Somebody. We have decided to go and keep together on the cars. One of them has an apology for a blanket, and the two acting in conjunction keep all three warm nights. LATER.—On the cars, in vicinity of Savannah en-route for Blackshear, which is pretty well south and not far from the Florida line. Are very crowded in a close box car and fearfully warm. Try to get away to-night.

IN THE WOODS NEAR DOCTORTOWN STATION, NO. 5, Ga., Nov. 23.—A change has come over the spirit of my dreams. During the night the cars ran very slow, and sometimes stopped for hours on side tracks. A very long, tedious night, and all suffered a great deal with just about standing room only. Impossible to get any sleep. Two guards at each side door, which were open about a foot. Guards were passably decent, although strict. Managed to get near the door, and during the night talked considerable with the two guards on the south side of the car. At about three o’clock this A. M., and after going over a long bridge which spanned the Altamaha River and in sight of Doctortown, I went through the open door like a flash and rolled down a high embankment. Almost broke my neck, but not quite. Guard fired a shot at me, but as the cars were going, though not very fast, did not hit me. Expected the cars to stop but they did not, and I had the inexpressible joy of seeing them move off out of sight. Then crossed the railroad track going north, went through a large open field and gained the woods, and am now sitting on the ground leaning up against a big pine tree _and out from under rebel guard_! The sun is beginning to show itself in the east and it promises to be a fine day. Hardly know what to do with myself. If those on the train notified Doctortown people of my escape they will be after me. Think it was at so early an hour that they might have gone right through without telling any one of the jump off. Am happy and hungry and considerably bruised and scratched up from the escape. The happiness of being here, however, overbalances everything else. If I had George Hendryx with me now would have a jolly time, and mean to have as it is. Sun is now up and it is warmer; birds chippering around, and chipmunks looking at me with curiosity. Can hear hallooing off a mile or so, which sounds like farmers calling cattle or hogs or something. All nature smiles—why should not I?—and I do. Keep my eyes peeled, however, and look all ways for Sunday. Must work farther back toward what I take to be a swamp a mile or so away. Am in a rather low country although apparently a pretty thickly settled one; most too thickly populated for me, judging from the signs of the times. It’s now about dinner time, and I have traveled two or three miles from the railroad track, should judge and am in the edge of a swampy forest, although the piece of ground on which I have made my bed is dry and nice. Something to eat wouldn’t be a bad thing. Not over sixty rods from where I lay is a path evidently travelled more or less by negroes going from one plantation to another. My hope of food lays by that road. Am watching for passers by. LATER.—A negro boy too young to trust has gone by singing and whistling, and carrying a bundle and a tin pail evidently filled with somebody’s dinner. In as much as I want to enjoy this out-door Gypsy life, I will not catch and take the dinner away from him. That would be the height of foolishness. Will lay for the next one traveling this way. The next one is a dog and he comes up and looks at me, gives a bark and scuds off. Can’t eat a dog. Don’t know how it will be to-morrow though. Might be well enough for him to come around later. Well, it is most dark and will get ready to try and sleep. Have broken off spruce boughs and made a soft bed. Have heard my father tell of sleeping on a bed of spruce, and it is healthy. Will try it. Not a crust to eat since yesterday forenoon. Am educated to this way of living though, and have been hungryer. Hope the pesky alligators will let me alone. If they only knew it, I would make a poor meal for them. Thus closes my first day of freedom and it is _grand_. Only hope they may be many, although I can hardly hope to escape to our lines, not being in a condition to travel.

Nov. 24.—Another beautiful morning, a repetition of yesterday, opens up to me. It is particularly necessary that I procure sustenance wherewith life is prolonged, and will change my head-quarters to a little nearer civilization. Can hear some one chopping not a mile away. Here goes. LATER.—Found an old negro fixing up a dilapidated post and rail fence. Approached him and enquired the time of day. (My own watch having run down.) He didn’t happen to have his gold watch with him, but reckoned it was nigh time for the horn. Seemed scared at the apparition that appeared to him, and no wonder. Forgave him on the spot. Thought it policy to tell him all about who and what I was, and did so. Was very timid and afraid, but finally said he would divide his dinner as soon as it should be sent to him, and for an hour I lay off a distance of twenty rods or so, waiting for that dinner. It finally came, brought by the same boy I saw go along yesterday. Boy sat down the pail and the old darkey told him to scamper off home—which he did. Then we had dinner of rice, cold yams and fried bacon. It was a glorious repast, and I succeeded in getting quite well acquainted with him. We are on the Bowden plantation and he belongs to a family of that name. Is very fearful of helping me as his master is a strong Secesh., and he says would whip him within an inch of his life if it was known. Promise him not to be seen by any one and he has promised to get me something more to eat after it gets dark. LATER.—After my noonday meal went back toward the low ground and waited for my supper, which came half an hour ago and it is not yet dark. Had a good supper of boiled seasoned turnips, corn bread and sour milk, the first milk I have had in about a year. Begs me to go off in the morning, which I have promised to do. Says for me to go two or three miles on to another plantation owned by LeCleye, where there are good negroes who will feed me. Thanked the old fellow for his kindness. Says the war is about over and the Yanks expected to free them all soon. It’s getting pretty dark now, and I go to bed filled to overflowing; in fact, most too much so.

Nov. 25.—This morning got up cold and stiff; not enough covering. Pushed off in the direction pointed out by the darkey of yesterday. Have come in the vicinity of negro shanties and laying in wait for some good benevolent colored brother. Most too many dogs yelping around to suit a runaway Yankee. Little nigs and the canines run together. If I can only attract their attention without scaring them to death, shall be all right. However, there is plenty of time, and won’t rush things. Time is not valuable with me. Will go sure and careful. Don’t appear to be any men folks around; more or less women of all shades of color. This is evidently a large plantation; has thirty or forty negro huts in three or four rows. They are all neat and clean to outward appearances. In the far distance and toward what I take to be the main road is the master’s residence. Can just see a part of it. Has a cupola on top and is an ancient structure. Evidently a nice plantation. Lots of cactus grows wild all over, and is bad to tramp through. There is also worlds of palm leaves, such as five cent fans are made of. Hold on there, two or three negro men are coming from the direction of the big house to the huts. Don’t look very inviting to trust your welfare with. Will still wait, McCawber like, for something to turn up. If they only knew the designs I have on them, they would turn pale. Shall be ravenous by night and go for them. I am near a spring of water, and lay down flat and drink. The “Astor House Mess” is moving around for a change; hope I won’t make a mess of it. Lot of goats looking at me now, wondering, I suppose, what it is. Wonder if they butt? Shoo! Going to rain, and if so I must sleep in one of those shanties. Negroes all washing up and getting ready to eat, with doors open. No, thank you; dined yesterday. Am reminded of the song: “What shall we do, when the war breaks the country up, and scatters us poor darkys all around.” This getting away business is about the best investment I ever made. Just the friendliest fellow ever was. More than like a colored man, and will stick closer than a brother if they will only let me. Laugh when I think of the old darky of yesterday’s experience, who liked me first rate only wanted me to go away. Have an eye on an isolated hut that looks friendly. Shall approach it at dark. People at the hut are a woman and two or three children, and a jolly looking and acting negro man. Being obliged to lay low in the shade feel the cold, as it is rather damp and moist. LATER.—Am in the hut and have eaten a good supper. Shall sleep here to-night. The negro man goes early in the morning, together with all the male darky population, to work on fortifications at Fort McAllister. Says the whole country is wild at the news of approaching Yankee army. Negro man named “Sam” and woman “Sady.” Two or three negroes living here in these huts are not trustworthy, and I must keep very quiet and not be seen. Children perfectly awe struck at the sight of a Yankee. Negroes very kind but afraid. Criminal to assist me. Am five miles from Doctortown. Plenty of “gubers” and yams. Tell them all about my imprisonment. Regard the Yankees as their friends. Half a dozen neighbors come in by invitation, shake hands with me, scrape the floor with their feet, and rejoice most to death at the good times coming. “Bress de Lord,” has been repeated hundreds of times in the two or three hours I have been here. Surely I have fallen among friends. All the visitors donate of their eatables, and although enough is before me to feed a dozen men, I give it a tussle. Thus ends the second day of my freedom, and it is glorious.

Nov. 26.—An hour before daylight “Sam” awoke me and said I must go with him off a ways to stay through the day. Got up, and we started. Came about a mile to a safe hiding place, and here I am. Have plenty to eat and near good water. Sam will tell another trusty negro of my whereabouts, who will look after me, as he has to go away to work. The negroes are very kind, and I evidently am in good hands. Many of those who will not fight in the Confederate army are hid in these woods and swamps, and there are many small squads looking them up with dogs and guns to force them into the rebel ranks. All able-bodied men are conscripted into the army in the South. It is possible I may be captured by some of these hunting parties. It is again most night and have eaten the last of my food. Can hear the baying of hounds and am skeery. Shall take in all the food that comes this way in the meantime. Sam gave me an old jack knife and I shall make a good bed to sleep on, and I also have an additional part of a blanket to keep me warm. In fine spirits and have hopes for the future. Expect an ambassador from my colored friends a little later. LATER.—The ambassador has come and gone in the shape of a woman. Brought food; a man told her to tell me to go off a distance of two miles or so, to the locality pointed out, before daylight, and wait there until called upon to-morrow. Rebel guards occupy the main roads, and very unsafe.

Nov. 27.—Before daylight came where I now am. Saw alligators—small ones. This out in the woods life is doing me good. Main road three miles away, but there are paths running everywhere. Saw a white man an hour ago. Think he was a skulker hiding to keep out of the army, but afraid to hail him. Many of these stay in the woods day-times, and at night go to their homes, getting food. Am now away quite a distance from any habitation, and am afraid those who will look for me cannot find me. Occasionally hear shots fired; this is a dangerous locality. Have now been out four days and fared splendidly. Have hurt one of my ankles getting through the brush; sort of sprain, and difficult to travel at all. No water near by and must move as soon as possible. Wild hogs roam around through the woods, and can run like a deer. Palm leaves grow in great abundance, and are handsome to look at. Some of them very large. Occasionally see lizards and other reptiles, and am afraid of them. If I was a good traveler I could get along through the country and possibly to our lines. Must wander around and do the best I can however. Am armed with my good stout cane and the knife given me by the negro; have also some matches, but dare not make a fire lest it attract attention. Nights have to get up occasionally and stamp around to get warm. Clear, cool nights and pleasant. Most too light, however, for me to travel. The remnants of yesterday’s food, have just eaten. Will now go off in an easterly direction in hopes of seeing the messenger.

Nov. 28.—No one has come to me since day before yesterday. Watched and moved until most night of yesterday but could see or hear no one. Afraid I have lost communication. In the distance can see a habitation and will mog along that way. Most noon. LATER.—As I was poking along through some light timber, almost ran into four Confederates with guns. Lay down close to the ground and they passed by me not more than twenty rods away. Think they have heard of my being in the vicinity and looking me up. This probably accounts for not receiving any visitor from the negroes. Getting very hungry, and no water fit to drink. Must get out of this community as fast as I can. Wish to gracious I had two good legs. LATER.—It is now nearly dark and I have worked my way as near direct north as I know how. Am at least four miles from where I lay last night. Have seen negroes, and white men, but did not approach them. Am completely tired out and hungry, but on the edge of a nice little stream of water. The closing of the fifth day of my escape. Must speak to somebody to-morrow, or starve to death. Good deal of yelling in the woods. Am now in the rear of a hovel which is evidently a negro hut, but off quite a ways from it. Cleared ground all around the house so I can’t approach it without being too much in sight. Small negro boy playing around the house. Too dark to write more.

Nov. 29.—The sixth day of freedom, and a hungry one. Still where I wrote last night, and watching the house. A woman goes out and in but cannot tell much about her from this distance. No men folks around. Two or three negro boys playing about. Must approach the house, but hate to. NOON.—Still right here. Hold my position. More than hungry. Three days since I have eaten anything, with the exception of a small potatoe and piece of bread eaten two days ago and left from the day before. That length of time would have been nothing in Andersonville, but now being in better health demand eatables, and it takes right hold of this wandering sinner. Shall go to the house towards night. A solitary woman lives there with some children. My ankle from the sprain and yesterday’s walking is swollen and painful. Bathe it in water, which does it good. Chickens running around. Have serious meditations of getting hold of one or two of them after they go to roost, then go farther back into the wilderness, build a fire with my matches and cook them. That would be a royal feast. But if caught at it, it would go harder with me than if caught legitimately. Presume this is the habitation of some of the skulkers who return and stay home nights. Believe that chickens squawk when being taken from the roost. Will give that up and walk boldly up to the house.

RE-CAPTURED.

HOME GUARDS GOBBLE ME UP—WELL TREATED AND WELL FED—TAKEN TO
DOCTORTOWN AND FROM THENCE TO BLACKSHEAR—THE TWO BUCK BOYS AS
RUNAWAYS—RIDE ON A PASSENGER TRAIN—PROSPECTS AHEAD, ETC.