Chapter X: Prison Life at Elmira, N. Y

We reached Elmira prison August 2, 1864, and as we marched through the city quite a curious crowd followed us and commented on the appearance of the Rebels, as they termed us. We had been preceded by some fifteen hundred prisoners from the former prison at Point Lookout. As Elmira was a new prison, the government had not built any barracks, and we were comfortably quartered in tents; and the tents were located some fifty feet from the stockade, and no one was allowed to go between the tents and fence or stockade.

The prison camp contained some forty acres of land about one mile above the city, and near the Cheming River, a beautiful, clear, limpid mountain stream of very pure water. The stockade that surrounded the camp was much like the one at Point Lookout, but built of heavier material, and the ends of the upright planks going some eighteen inches into the ground. The planks were about sixteen feet high, and nailed to heavy sills, which were supported by large posts set deep in the ground. The stockade was about sixteen feet high, and three feet from the top was the parapet walkway or beat of the guards, who were stationed some forty feet apart, and were relieved every two hours by other guards. Commencing at nine o’clock at night, or at taps, they would cry out their posts all through the hours of the night, as, “Post No. 1, nine o’clock; all is well,” which would be taken up by all posts, and repeated all around the stockade. Inside the stockade, about fifty feet apart, were large coal oil lamps nailed near the center of the stockade, with large reflectors, which were lit after nightfall, and the guards on the parapet would be able to see any one approaching.

The tents in which we slept were struck every morning in order for inspection. The prisoners in one of the tents had a false floor laid and covered with dirt hard packed so it would have the same appearance as the ground floor in the other tents. Under this false floor was one of the prisoners, digging day and night. There were six occupants of this particular tent, and by making a detail one man was digging all the time. They were tunneling to get under the fence. The tunnel was only about two feet under the ground, and they had to go about sixty feet distance to get under the fence; the only implement they had was a large knife. They had a small box to which was attached a string at both ends, and when the fellow at the farther side had filled his box he gave a pull of the string, and the other fellow just under the false floor of the tent would pull the box under the floor, pile up the dirt, and at night they would remove the false floor, gather the dirt in their hands, fill their haversacks, and scatter the dirt along the new-made streets. When they reached the upright planks of the stockade they had to go over a foot lower than the tunnel in order to get under the end of the planks. Finally the tunnel was completed, and one of the boys crawled through, poked his head on the outside, and came and reported bright moonshine, disclosed the camp of the guards under patrol across the street, and a number of pieces of artillery in position along the camp; so they waited for the moon to go down before they commenced their underground journey. The plan was that the last of the six to leave should notify as many of the prisoners as he could, in order that they might take advantage of it; but only fifteen got out, and we heard that they reached Canada in safety.

I had charge of and was sergeant, by Federal appointment, of Ward Thirty-six. My duty was to call the roll once a day, make out the daily ration report, and to report the sick sent to the hospital and convalescents received from the hospital. While out calling the roll the morning the boys made their escape, I saw a number of the guards with picks in their hands, and they excavated the tunnel up to the tent and carried away and destroyed the false bottom. I was surprised to see how crooked the tunnel was, yet underground it was so dark that they could not make it straight. The tunneling ceased after that successful attempt.

It is fortunate that I kept a diary in Elmira prison, which refreshes memory of the many scenes I witnessed during my sojourn there, and the following survivors of the camp are now living and can testify to my statements: Alphonso S. Allen, Nashville, Tenn.; L. T. Webb, Nashville, Tenn.; R. W. Miller, Nashville, Tenn.; W. S. Riddle, Nashville, Tenn.; W. G. Lloyd, Lewisburg, Tenn.: P. D. Houston, Lewisburg, Tenn.; D. B. Anderson, Gallatin, Tenn.; H. M. Cartmell, Lebanon, Tenn.; Stokely Jacobs, Murfreesboro, Tenn.; Richard Messick, Beech Grove, Tenn.

In a military prison it was very difficult to get information from the outside world. No papers were allowed, and the papers received had been opened and read; if there was anything contraband, you did not get it. When you wrote a letter it was left unsealed, and when the prison authorities examined it they stamped it “Prisoner’s letter, approved,” and then sealed and mailed it. Money was contraband of war, for a fellow might bribe his way out; therefore, whenever a remittance came to a prisoner it was turned over to the sutler, who opened an account with the owner, and he could purchase all he wished so long as the funds held out; but when money went, a prisoner’s credit was _non est_.

Until I reached prison I did not know what a slave to habit man was. I have seen men go hungry a day and save their rations and trade them for tobacco. I have seen a prisoner discharge a quid of tobacco from his mouth and another one pick it up, dry and smoke it. They used the black navy tobacco, sold in prison at the rate of one dollar per pound. They would cut it into little squares; each square would be called a chew, and five chews five cents. We had all kinds of trades and traffics, and tobacco was one of the mediums of exchange. We had many barbers, and they would shave you for five chews of tobacco. When the barber would get more tobacco than he needed, he would sell five chews for a small loaf of bread, valued at five cents, or he could purchase a small piece of meat or a fresh rat, each valued at five cents. These barbers carried square boxes with them, upon which they set their patients; and a fellow would have to be very patient, as they never used a hone or strap except their boots and shoes, and it was hard to tell which was the worst sufferer, the barber or his customer.

Before the fall season opened the government had erected forty-two wards, capable of holding and sleeping three hundred men each, with bunks three high on each side; also two large hospitals, and one large cook house where the light bread was baked and soup and meat cooked. Adjoining the cook house was a large shed with tables that would accommodate three hundred men, and there were in the shed about twenty tables which were higher than my waist when standing. Of course they were higher to a small boy. Seats were not allowed. The men were marched in in two ranks, and separated at the head of the table, making one rank face the other. Each man had a plate and spoon; in the plate were his bean soup and beans, by the side of his plate was a small piece of light bread, and on the bread a thin ration of salt pork. The rations were thus prepared: A baker who lived outside would come in daily and superintend the baking. In the cook house were a large number of iron kettles or caldrons in which the meat and beans were boiled. I suppose these caldrons would hold fifty gallons. The salt pork was shipped in barrels and rolled up to the caldrons, and with a pitchfork tossed in, then the beans—I have heard the boys say four beans to a gallon of water. Now when this is boiled down it gets very salty, and after three weeks of a diet of this kind a prisoner will commence to get sick. I thought for a while that the government was retaliating on us on account of Andersonville, but I afterwards believed that it was done by the army contractors. We had the same kind of a scandal in the corned beef business during the Spanish-American War; we would nowadays call them grafters. So I can say without hesitancy that the death rate here was higher than at any other prison North or South. The life of the prison did not average seven months, because it was not opened till July, 1864, and prisoners arrived till December, 1864, when the maximum of twelve thousand had been received. There are two thousand nine hundred and seventeen graves in the cemetery, and over two thousand died who were exchanged to go home and die, and many died before they reached home. A prisoner eating this diet will crave any kind of fresh meat. Marching through the camp one day was a prisoner in a barrel shirt, with placard, “I eat a dog”; another one bearing a barrel, with placard, “Dog Eater.” The barrel shirt was one of the modes of punishment. The shirt was made by using a whisky or coal oil barrel, knocking out one end and in the other boring a hole so as to get the head through, and then putting on a placard to indicate the crime. It appeared that these prisoners had captured a lapdog owned by the baker who came into camp daily to bake the bread. The baker made complaint to Colonel Beall, and said that his wife and children would not have taken one hundred dollars for the dog. As the prisoners had nothing to pay with, they were treated to the barrel shirt. The punishment was a two hours’ march followed by a soldier with a bayonet, and they were not allowed much rest till the two hours were completed. I saw another barrel shirt, “I told a lie.” A prisoner did not have much compunction of conscience, especially if he had lied to deceive the commandant, which he conceived to be his religious duty. A prisoner carrying a barrel shirt, “I stole my messmate’s rations,” was hissed all around the camp; and deservedly so, because a man who would steal from his messmates in prison deserved the most severe punishment; while the ones who carried the placard “Dog Eater” had the sympathies of the entire camp, because many of them would have enjoyed a piece of the fresh meat. When twitted about it, they said: “It was not a common cur, but a Spitz, and tasted like mutton.”

On account of the waste from the commissary a great many rodents from Elmira ran into the prison. As there were not any holes in which they could hide, it was an easy catch for the boys by knocking them over with sticks, and there was quite a traffic in them. As there was very little currency in prison, tobacco, rats, pickles, pork, and light bread were mediums of exchange. Five chews of tobacco would buy a rat, a rat would buy five chews of tobacco, a loaf of bread would buy a rat, a rat would buy a loaf of bread, and so on. I am glad that I did not have to go on this diet; but I have tasted a piece of rat, and it is much like squirrel. I bought one for one of my men who was sick. I had friends in Louisville, Cincinnati, Baltimore, Hoosick Falls, N. Y., and was kept well supplied with everything I needed until an order was issued saying that we would have to get a permit to ask for anything in the North. I suppose this was done because we were arousing too much sympathy. When cut off from the North, I fell back on Nashville friends. On August 19, 1864, the sutler received orders not to sell us any fruits or vegetables, but it was rescinded in about two weeks. In the meantime I was prepared for it. I had sent out and bought a sheet-iron stove and had it erected in my office, which was a room about eight by ten in the front end of the ward. I had three bunks, and three of the boys stayed with me. One did the cooking, one the washing, and the other attended to the sick in the ward; and by reference to my diary I find that I weighed, on the cook house scales, one hundred and eighty-one pounds. As sergeant of the ward I had to make the requisitions for rations for the ward, also for the sick in the ward, and I rarely made a correct one, and the mistake was always in my favor, and the extra rations thus obtained sufficed for three of us. We would take the salt pork and give it about three boilings in fresh water together with the beans, and when fried the pork would taste like fresh meat; on account of the diet the hospitals were all filled, and many sick were in the wards. There was a young man named Stroup, from South Carolina. He was a nephew of Squire W. D. Robinson, of Nashville. I had been writing to the Squire for Stroup, and money was sent to him, and he had been examined by the doctor for exchange; but I was satisfied that he would not leave the prison alive, and one morning as I knelt by his bunk and pressed his clammy brow with my hard hand, he feebly said “Mother,” and his soul passed into the beyond. But it was not mother’s hand; mother was in the far Southland, and I thought, “O the power of a mother’s love!” and when a child could forget a mother’s love it would be below the instincts of a brute.

The bunks extended the length of the ward on each side, leaving an aisle in the center and two stoves in each ward, and the prisoners were not allowed to get very close to them in zero weather. With an open building, the heat was not very intense. The bunks were three high, and the boys occupying the top bunk had to do some climbing. They were wide enough to sleep two medium-sized men. Each one was allowed only a pair of blankets, and so had to sleep on the hard board; therefore, in extreme weather four slept in the space of two, using one pair of blankets to sleep on, which gave three for cover. Two of them slept with their heads toward the east, and two with heads toward the west, and of course had to be on their sides; and when ready to change positions, one would call out, “All turn to the right”; and the next call would be, “All turn to the left.” The turns had to be made as stated, or there would be collisions. Of course the men did not disrobe in extreme cold weather, and on awakening in the morning their feet would be in each other’s faces.

Comrade W. S. Riddle, of Nashville, had not been in prison very long, and did not know all the rules, and one day he got hold of a cracker box and was whittling off shavings when the sergeant came along and asked: “What are you doing?” Will replied: “I am trying to make a softer bed; that board nearly breaks my back.” The sergeant said: “Throw out those shavings, sir; you are not allowed to litter up the ward.” Not a straw or shaving was allowed in the ward. Each man was required to fold up his blanket in the morning and deposit it in the bunk. Comrade Riddle was horrified one day to see four prisoners sitting in a bunk playing poker, when in a near-by bunk was a dying prisoner. But such is war: a man’s sensibilities are dwarfed. To illustrate the severity of prison life, Riddle went into Elmira with a squad of six, and he was the only one to get out alive. By reference to my diary, I note that we had almost daily inspection in the wards, and every ten days we had what the officers called “muster” on the outside. In the ward inspection the boys were formed in two ranks inward face, hat in hand, while the Federal inspection officer passed down one line and returned by the other. I think this was to keep the officer in military training. In the muster on the outside my diary says that on one occasion the boys were held in line two hours on a very cold day and in snow ankle-deep. This was very rough on the boys from the extreme South, and they shivered as with chills.

My diary says that Major Richmond ordered me to the guardhouse for throwing water on the street. The guardhouse was a room about forty feet square, without any light or ventilation; it was like a dungeon. I said to the guard: “Wait until I write a note to Major Colt.” In this note I said: “Officer of the day, Major Richmond, ordered me to the guardhouse for throwing water on the street. It was not dirty water, but from the dipper, as I saw some sediment in it previous to drinking. I respectfully ask that you give me a hearing, that I may vindicate myself.” I was in the guardhouse, or dungeon, only a few hours when Major Colt ordered my release.

One night the boom of cannon saluted our ears, and a solid shot passed through Ward No. 5, and came near hitting some of the occupants. I heard later that the boys were making a noise, and the artillerymen thought that an insurrection was brewing, and they wanted us to know that the artillery was in position and ten guns always shotted for an emergency.

No civilians were allowed in the prison except on permit from the President or the Secretary of War, so an enterprising citizen with an eye to business erected across the street from the prison a large observatory, reached from below by winding stairs. He charged ten cents for admission, and kept the platform filled all day. His customers used spyglasses, and scrutinized the camp with much curiosity. I suppose they got their money’s worth. The baker, the preacher, and Horace Greeley were the only visitors that I saw previous to the surrender of General Lee. Mr. Greeley made some sneering remark about Southern chivalry, so when the time came that I should choose between General Grant and Mr. Greeley for President I voted for General Grant. I thought it was a magnanimous act when he said, “Boys, take your horses, go home, and go to work”; and later, when the Federal authorities attempted to disturb the parole of General Lee, he said, “It cannot be done so long as I am in command of the army.”

I find in my diary of November 8, 1864, the following entry: “The election appears to pass off quietly in Elmira; no demonstration at night. I believe it would be to the best interests of the South that old Abe be elected, because if General McClellan is elected it would tend to solidify the Northern Democrats.” There was quite an anti-war party in the North, and we expected much disturbance at the November election, and there were local disturbances; but the government had so many soldiers at its command that all mobs were quickly dispersed.

I find in my diary of November 9, 1864: “Some of the prisoners broke into the commissary last night and stole quite a lot of provisions, and an order was issued by Captain Whitson that if the provisions were not returned no more meals would be issued.” It was roll call before the stolen articles were returned and we got our dinner.

On November 10 we had our regular muster, and heard that President Lincoln was reëlected. In November, 1864, the boys commenced to get quite a lot of small change in the following way; and it illustrates that “necessity is the mother of invention,” for without any previous knowledge the men engaged in the manufacture of gutta-percha rings which were afterwards sold and distributed throughout the North and South. The machine with which the rings were made was a simple one, and made with a knife. The upright or drill was whittled out of a cracker box, and at the point was a needle, a horizontal bar with a hole in the center and a string tied at each end, the strings reversing at the top of the drill. Near the needle or drill was a wheel which gave the drill a rotary action. By moving the hand up and down the wheel moved forward and backward, drilling very rapidly. To get the gutta-percha buttons, they approached the guards quietly and said: “Bring us some gutta-percha buttons, and we will make you some rings; also bring in some five- or ten-cent pieces of silver, so that we can make settings for the rings.” With a knife the inside of the button was cut out to fit the finger; then with the drill two or three buttons were riveted together, and with a hammer the silver was flattened out and cut with the knife into shapes of two hearts joined together and two hands joined. In some instances the men would get hold of a mussel shell highly colored, and insert a small seal in the ring. I have bought and given away many of these rings, North and South, and have some now in Nashville for which I paid two dollars and a half. The next procedure was to dispose of the rings, which was done by the guards smuggling them to the city, selling them, and dividing the proceeds with the prisoners; and I believe in nearly every instance the guards were honest in returning a part of the proceeds of the sale. Generally their commissions were about one-half. There were also prisoners at work on horsehair watch guards or necklaces. They were made in a manner similar to the way that ladies work with a crochet needle, except the boys’ needles were whittled out of pine. To make a hook, they cut out of a white beef bone a form representing a snake’s head, and on top of this was carved a small dog or other animal in a sitting position. To the hook was attached a Bible in a small clasp. It was amusing to see men rob the horses’ manes and tails to get the horsehair. These horses pulled the wagons that hauled the wood and commissaries inside the prison. Finally the horses were about to lose their hair appendages, and a guard was sent with each wagon.

The authorities at Elmira had an admirable system regarding the burial of the dead, and I have said that the care of the dead was better than that bestowed on the living. When a prisoner died, his name, company, and regiment were written on a slip of paper and pinned on the lapel of his coat. If he did not have a coat, it was pinned on his vest; and if the vest was gone, then it was pinned on the shirt. The body was removed to a house called the dead house, a building some thirty by forty feet in size. In this building were a large lot of boxes made out of poplar, not coffin-shaped, but straight boxes that resembled gun boxes; and into the box the body was deposited. On the lid of the box was nailed a headboard. The inscription was removed from the body, and copied in large letters—the name, company, regiment, and the date of death of deceased. The inscription was then put into a dry mineral-water bottle, corked perfectly tight, and placed under the armpit. Each grave was numbered, and an alphabetically arranged book kept in which the names were entered, and opposite the names were the numbers of the graves. In 1901 I stood by the graves of two thousand nine hundred and seventeen of our dead, and time had swept away each wooden headboard, but by digging into the graves I could have identified each body by the inscription in the mineral-water bottles.

From January 25 to January 29, 1865, there is not an entry in my diary. On the 29th of January, 1865, I find this entry: “On January 25, 1865, I was sent to the smallpox hospital, and returned on January 29, and the boys were all glad to see me.” My experience as a smallpox patient was very trying. I was taken with a severe chill, with pains in my spine and back of my head. Comrade Stokely Jacobs, now living near Murfreesboro, was my bunkmate, and he was suspicious of my case, and kept me hid from the doctor. Stokely says that I was delirious for two days, and climbing up and down the bunk. When I came to myself, I was out calling the roll of the ward. I noticed that my hands were badly pimpled, but as we did not have a mirror I could not see my face. Before I finished the roll call along came Dr. Burchard, one of the prison surgeons. I have often wondered if this was the Dr. Burchard, author of “Rum, Romanism, and Rebellion,” that helped dig the political grave of Mr. Blaine. The Doctor looked at me and said: “Toney, you have the smallpox.” “No, Doctor,” I replied; “I have had a case of varioloid, and the fever has left me, and I cannot communicate smallpox to the other prisoners; besides, Doctor, let me show you”; and I pulled off my coat, rolled up my sleeve, and exposed a perfect scar. “Now you know, Doctor, that I have not got the smallpox.” He said that I was not a physician and not competent to diagnose my own case, and that I must go at once, without further parleying.

The cold was below zero, and the hospital was across a little lake inside the prison walls, and the patients were in A tents—_i. e._, tents shaped as the letter A, and having a capacity of three patients each. I walked across the lake on the ice, and commenced my search at the head of the row of tents, trying to find some bedfellows who had as light an attack as mine. Nearly all the tents were filled with patients who had the confluent type, but finally I found a tent with two patients—one very bad and the other lighter—and I crawled in.

We did not see a doctor while there, but once a day a waiter brought us some tea and bread. As the hospital was some distance from the cook house, and the weather below zero, the tea was cold when it reached us. My bedfellows could not eat or drink anything, and I had all the rations, yet I could not get enough. The second night one of our bedfellows died, and all the vermin came to us, and we had plenty of company. The vermin will leave a body as soon as it gets cold. We had about eight blankets, but could not keep warm; and to make the situation worse, the men who died were dragged out and left in front of the tents, and in whatever position a man was when death overtook him in that position he froze. Some with arms and legs extended presented a horrible sight.

On the 29th of January, so my diary reads, I was ordered to the cook house for a bath, and my nice suit of gray was burned; and as the authorities did not keep any uniforms of gray, I donned a suit of blue, so in the picture I do not resemble “the boy in gray.” I buttoned up my coat and was feeling comfortable as “the boy in blue,” when the sergeant, who was robing me, took out his knife and commenced to cut off my skirt. “Hold on, sergeant,” I said; “don’t disfigure my uniform in that manner.” He continued to cut until my skirt was gone, and then replied: “If I had left that frock intact, you might have walked out as one of our guards.” And I guess I would have attempted it.

The fever had left my eyes in bad condition, and I went to the sutler and bought a pair of green-goggle spectacles, which materially changed my appearance; so when I reached Ward Thirty-six I jumped in the door and yelled, “Attention!” The boys quickly fell in line, hats in hand, thinking I was the Federal sergeant on an inspection. As I started down the center to inspect the line they grabbed and hugged me, for when I left for the hospital many thought that they would not see me again, because they had heard of so many deaths there.

Whenever there was any news favorable to the Federals, it was bulletined on the inside; but of course the unfavorable news we did not hear. So on April 10, 1865, was bulletined the surrender of General Lee. On referring to my diary on April 10, 1865, I find: “This is a dark day for us, and the officers celebrated by getting drunk.”

As it is well known, the surrender took place at Appomattox Courthouse April 9, 1865, and the capitulation papers were signed in the McLean homestead the next day. General Grant was accompanied by two of his staff and General Lee by Colonel Marshall, of his staff, and in the picture General Lee is in the act of signing the papers. The McLean homestead is about ten miles from where I was born, and some years ago a Northern capitalist bought the house, tore it down, and intended to transport it to Chicago to become an adjunct to the old Libby prison as a war museum; but the Libby prison venture failed, as it should have failed, and the McLean homestead at last accounts was in Appomattox, packed in sections ready for transportation to Chicago. I will say here that the Libby prison erected at Chicago was intended not so much as a monument to the inhumanity of the Southern people as it was to fill some enterprising citizens’ pockets with the shekels.

I read from my diary previous to the surrender of General Lee that I saw a number of prisoners at headquarters making application to take the oath; these men were called “oath-takers,” and they were ostracized by the men who were standing by their convictions of right. We had more respect for the men who stood guard over us than for these oath-takers. They were the men who reported to the commandants of the prison any infractions of the rules, thinking thereby to gain favor with the Federal authorities; but they were mistaken, because Colonel Beall, Major Colt, Captain Brady, and Major Richmond, Federal officers of the prison, had very little respect for them, and very properly so.

Referring to my diary April 15, 1865, I find this: “This has been another dark day for us. About eight o’clock in the morning the news flashed through the prison, ‘President Abraham Lincoln assassinated by a Rebel.’” Immediately after hearing this, one indiscreet prisoner yelled out, “It is a good thing; old Abe ought to have been killed long ago!” The guards immediately rushed on him, and I thought that he would get the bayonet; but they trotted him to the headquarters of Colonel Beall, who ordered him tied up by the thumbs. This is a very cruel mode of punishment. A man is tied by the thumbs and pulled up till he is on his tiptoes, and there is no way to relieve the pressure. If he tries to relieve the thumbs, the toes get it; and if the toes are relieved, the thumbs are in trouble. In a very short time he will faint, and is then cut down.

April 15, 1865, appeared as if pandemonium had broken loose; the guards were excited, and we did not know but that some of us would get shot or the bayonet. No one sympathized with the fellow tied up, because he jeopardized so many lives. I believe the artillery would have been turned on us but for the guards who were stationed throughout the camp. Looking back to the scene, I believe it very unfortunate for the South that President Lincoln was assassinated. I do not believe we would have had the five years of carpetbag rule and other troubles incident to the reconstruction policy adopted by the government. I believe President Lincoln would have said: “The South has made a mistake in secession; and you have not seceded, because you cannot draw an imaginary line separating this country. We are Americans; let us be friends and brothers again.”

Of course we were uncertain as to our fate, and would have felt easier if President Lincoln rather than President Johnson had been guiding the affairs of the nation, for the reason that we knew President Johnson hated and had no use for Rebels or, as he called them, “secessionists.” However, on our return home we had the pleasure of meeting him, and to know him was to love him; and before he was elected to the United States Senate he had won many friends, who at one time had cordially hated him. Once upon a visit to Greeneville, Tenn., I went from the little, insignificant tailor shop of A. Johnson to the handsome monument on the hill, and I thought of the possibilities of the American youth.

On April 24, 1865, we had sergeant’s call, and upon assembling at headquarters directions were read from the Secretary of War to furnish:

1. A list of those who were citizens.

2. The names of those who had made application to take the oath of allegiance previous to the surrender of General Lee.

3. A list of those who had not made application to take the oath.

4. A list of those who refused to take the oath of allegiance.

In making out the list of my ward, No. 36, I gave the names of seven who refused to take the oath. In regard to the first order, with reference to citizens, many prisons contained citizens who were called “butternuts,” who sympathized with the South, and sometimes uttered treasonable sentiments.

On May 24, 1865, a new form of oath was received in camp, to which all must subscribe before leaving. This delayed the release of the boys.

On June 7, 1865, my diary reads: “The New York _Herald_ says: ‘Orders will soon be issued to release all prisoners below the rank of major who will take the oath of allegiance.’” On June 8, 1865, orders were received to release all privates who would take the oath. The prison rules were now relaxed, and visitors could come and go with all liberty; and the prison was kept pretty lively in the daytime, and the boys did a fine business selling rings and other trinkets, and took in quite a lot of shinplasters and five- and ten-cent pieces of silver.

There were twenty-eight men who hesitated about taking the oath. They felt that they would perjure themselves, as they had taken the oath of allegiance to the Southern Confederacy. The month of July was near, and there were two hundred and fifty-one sick prisoners in the hospitals who could not be moved and were not in condition to take the oath. Colonel Beall was anxious to close the prison, and we asked him what he would do with the twenty-eight who refused to take the oath. He said that he would send us to Dry Tortugas to die of yellow fever. About that time I received a letter and money from Judge Whitworth, and the letter said that I had better come home and go to work, and I had begun to think before the letter came that it would be the best thing to do. So the twenty-eight subscribed to the oath, and were at the depot waiting for the train when an enterprising photographer set up his camera and said: “Boys, you should take a picture home to show the folks how you looked the day you got out of prison. I will charge you only a quarter.” I told him to fire away. I was the only one of the twenty-eight that had a quarter, and I took the center of the group. I was clad in a light hat and a linen duster. After getting out of prison I first went to a restaurant and then to a clothing store, and fixed myself for traveling. I got a shave also, the first one in many months.

The effect of the prison diet can be seen in the faces of the men. One has lost his teeth and has his jaw tied up with a rag, another is as pale as a ghost, and several of them are very dark. One poor fellow can be seen on the right with a blanket twisted and thrown around him; he is too weak to stand, and is sitting down. The bad effect produced on the men is called scurvy, and is caused by eating salt pork. I am standing in the center, and weighed about one hundred and eighty pounds. If the tintype picture would show color, I would appear as rosy as a young lady. Colonel Beall had given me transportation to Louisville for each of the boys, and I said: “Boys, you must keep close to me; if you straggle off, you will have to walk home.” The Big Four had not then been completed to Cincinnati, nor the Louisville and Nashville from Cincinnati to Louisville, so we had to go via Indianapolis, at which point we missed connection, and I took the squad around the city sight-seeing.

There were many of the boys in blue with guns. It appeared to me as an army post. As we were strolling a squad of Union soldiers, recognizing us as the boys in gray, commenced singing, “Hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree.” As we approached they continued to sing, and I yelled out, “Why not hang some of the privates?” They replied with an oath that they would hang us, and started toward our group, when I said: “Come on, boys; it is train time.” And we did not get hanged.

It can also be noticed in the picture that one of the boys had captured a blue army vest, over which he wears a gray coat. Another one has a cotton haversack supported by a cotton string, to which is attached a tin cup. He is supposed to be on the lookout for buttermilk, coffee, or probably something stronger. The old slouched hats that had seen hard service were quite noticeable. The picture is unique and antique—unique as the only one ever taken of the group, and antique in being over forty years of age.

Here is another picture over forty years of age, the survivors of Company B, Rock City Guards, taken in August, 1865. Where are the one hundred and four who marched out so gayly from the old Academy in 1861, when the bands were playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me”? Seventy-two of them had filled soldiers’ graves; thirty-two had returned to their homes; and in August, 1865, they were much scattered, and we could get together only seventeen, who are herewith produced.