Prison Life in the Old Capitol

Prison Life in the Old Capitol

On the evening of Saturday, January 31, 1863, between seven and eight o’clock, an officer in full uniform, but unarmed, came into a bookstore on Seventh Street, Washington, D. C., where I was then engaged, and asked for the proprietor, Mr. Russell. I pointed out Russell. The officer then asked him if he knew a Mr. Williamson. Russell answered, “Yes.”

“Is he a printer?” asked the officer.

“Yes.”

“Is he the only one of that name that you know?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“There he is,” answered Russell, pointing toward me.

The officer walked over to me and said:

“Sir, you will have to come along with me.”

“All right,” said I.

He then went to the door and called in a soldier he had left standing guard outside, and said:

“Take charge of that man.”

I asked the officer if I would be permitted to call at my home in order to acquaint my family with the cause of my absence. He said I would not; that I must go to the Provost-Marshal’s office. I obtained permission to send a note to my wife, stating that I was under arrest. Putting on my hat and coat, I was marched to the corner of Eighth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. Here we halted, and the officer called out to another soldier, who stood there holding his sword, which he took from the man and buckled on. Placing me between the two guards, we all marched up Pennsylvania Avenue to the Provost-Marshal’s office. The Marshal was not in, but his assistant said:

“Do you belong in Washington?”

“I do,” said I.

“Haven’t you been South lately?”

“Yes,” I said; “I came from Richmond on the third of last August.”

“Have you reported yourself to the military authorities?”

“I have not.”

He next asked me if I would take the oath of allegiance to the Government. I told him I would not; that I could not think of doing so. He said I would have time enough to think about it, as it might be necessary to do so before I could obtain my release. That I was charged with having been in Richmond, and also with being accessory to the imprisonment of some Union citizens.

I again asked if I would be permitted to go home under escort of a guard, so as to acquaint my family with the cause of my absence and also to get a change of clothing and some few articles necessary for me during the time I might be kept under arrest. This request was denied, and I was marched off under guard to the Old Capitol Prison, at the corner of First and A Streets.

The building known as the Old Capitol had a memorable history. Built in 1800, it was originally designed for a tavern or boarding-house, but owing to bad management it proved a failure and was closed shortly before the War of 1812.

In August, 1814, when the British troops under General Ross entered Washington, they burned the Capitol and other public buildings, and the Government bought this old tavern or boarding-house, in which Congress should hold their sessions and public business be transacted until the Capitol could be rebuilt.

The interior of the building was completely renovated and reconstructed, and here both Houses sat for a number of years. Within its walls two Presidents were inaugurated, and here some of our most distinguished statesmen began their careers. It was in this building the Hon. John C. Calhoun died.

When it was abandoned by Congress upon the completion of the Capitol, it was called the “Old Capitol,” as a distinctive title. After that it underwent a number of changes as boarding-house, school, etc., until, in 1861, it was taken by the Washington authorities to be used as a prison.

A row of houses on the adjoining block, known as Duff Green’s Row, was afterward taken and used as an annex to the Old Capitol, and for the same purpose. It was called the “Carroll Prison.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, Feb. 5.—Snowing hard this morning and continuing until evening, when it turned to rain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is all this noise about?”

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

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

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

“Get away from that window.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are you from?” he asked.

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

“Where were you born?”

“I was born in Baltimore and lived there until I came to Washington.”

“What is your occupation?”

“Printer; but since November I have been engaged in a bookstore on Seventh Street.”

“You have been South during the war?”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I was employed at Ritchie & Dunnavant’s.” (Ritchie & Dunnavant did the printing for the State and Confederate governments).

“Do you know Henry Howe?”

“I do, sir.”

“Did you ever have any difficulty with him?”

“I did. Mr. Howe and a man named Daniels came to Richmond while I was there. They took board at a house kept by Mrs. Graves, on Franklin Street, where I was boarding. On the night of July 3d or 4th, I had a sum of money stolen from my pockets. Mr. Howe and his friend slept in the room adjoining mine. The door between the rooms was left open, while the doors leading from the rooms into the hall were locked. The pants, in the pockets of which I had the money, were hung on a hook near the door, and in the morning the money was gone. Mr. Howe had been boarding in the house for about five weeks without paying any board. That morning he and his friend Daniels left and went to another boarding-house. Before leaving, Howe told Mrs. Graves he would not take his baggage away until he paid her all he owed. He put his clothes in Daniels’ trunk, and they left with one trunk. The next day Daniels came to me and said: ‘Howe has stolen your money. You know, he had none before he left, and now he has plenty, and he is lying in a beer house on Main Street, drunk.’ I took Daniels to a detective, to whom he repeated this story. The detective arrested Howe. He was kept in prison for about a week. When brought before the Mayor of Richmond (Joseph Mayo) for final examination, the Mayor said:

“‘I am confident one of you two men took that money, but as there are two of you, it is possible one may be innocent, therefore I am obliged to release you both. But I will give you twenty-four hours to leave the city, and if you do not leave within that time I will have you arrested under this act (reading them the vagrant act) and put to work in the chain-gang.’”

“Have you ever taken an oath of allegiance to the South?” asked Captain Parker.

“No, sir,” I replied.

“Would you take an oath to this government?”

“No, sir; I would not.”

“That is very strange. That you will not take an oath to support a government under whose flag you live and which protects you. And you born in Maryland, a loyal State, as she has proved to be by the vote of her people.”

As I was a prisoner in his hands, I knew it would be folly on my part to enter into an argument on this question, but I said:

“I will not take an oath of allegiance. You take an oath of office which is binding on you so long as you hold office, but you ask me to take an oath of perpetual allegiance—‘at any and all times hereafter, and under all circumstances.’ You have shown no act of mine to prove me disloyal, and I think you have no right to demand such oath.”

“Your refusal to take the oath is sufficient proof of your disloyalty. How long have you been here, sir?”

“A week last Saturday. I was arrested and brought here, and have not been able to learn either the name of my accuser or the nature of the accusation.”

“I will inform you, then, that Mr. Howe is the principal witness against you. I have done with you for to-day, sir.”

I then left him and went back to my room. Here one man is judge, jury and witness.

There are a number of men here in close confinement. We can see them as they are taken out in the yard daily in charge of a guard. None of the other prisoners are allowed to speak to them.

I have been fascinated with the reading of Byron’s “Prisoner of Chillon” and with Dumas’ picture of the “Man With the Iron Mask,” of the mysteries and miseries of the Bastile, and the wretched prisoners who were immured within its dismal walls. I have felt my blood tingle when I read of men who had not been convicted of any crime, and, in some instances, who had committed no crime, yet had been confined for years—often uncared for and forgotten, under the infamous system of the lettre de cachet. I regarded them mostly as sensational stories—as fiction—but here the picture is faithfully copied—the lettre de cachet, the prison, the murder—all here in the stern reality.

Many persons confined here were arrested, robbed of everything they possessed, and kept merely on suspicion for weeks, and even months, without examination or trial, and sometimes, after an examination and no proof of charges, being still detained.

The occupants of the rooms on the same floor with Room 16 (Rooms 14, 15 and 18), are mostly farmers from Virginia, living either within the Union lines or on disputed territory. Because of their refusal to take the oath of allegiance, they are arrested and brought to the Old Capitol. They were robbed of their personal property, their negroes run off, and in many instances their houses and farm buildings destroyed.

Among the prisoners with me in Room 16 is an old gentleman named Henry Love. He and his son Llewellyn are both prisoners. The old gentleman seems completely broken down. In telling me the story of his treatment, he said:

“I kept a hotel, and also farmed, near Dumfries, Virginia. I had a farm of 200 acres, all under cultivation, except about 25 acres in wood. My house was taken by Federal troops and used as a hospital, leaving me only three rooms for myself and family. They killed seventeen head of cattle, some of the finest cows you ever saw; my stock was all choice breeds. One cow, with her second calf, was killed, her hindquarters cut off, and the balance, with the calf, left to rot. They killed forty hogs, took two of my best horses, Black Hawks, killed all my poultry; took two stacks of hay, two entire crops of corn, wheat and oats, and two hundred and seventy pounds of bacon. They destroyed all my shrubbery and fences. My place is now as bare as the palm of your hand.”

He was afterward taken prisoner, then released on parole, but is now again under arrest. He was called before Parker, who told him there were no charges against him, but as he was a Secessionist he would have to keep him for a while.

Another is James Johnson, of Clarke County, Virginia, who was taken from his home by a raiding party. He was robbed of everything, his horse stolen, and he has been kept a prisoner for two months. He is sick all the time; appears to be in an advanced stage of consumption.

Mr. Redmond Brawner, who lived at Manassas, lost everything, and he, with his family, were compelled to become refugees. He was arrested, and is now a prisoner here.

Mr. James F. Kerfoot, of Millwood, Clarke County, Virginia, when arrested was buying cattle for the Confederate Government. He had in his possession $18,000 belonging to the Government and $400 of his own money. He was stripped of everything.

Another of my room-mates is Mr. George S. Ayre, of Loudoun County, Virginia. At the outbreak of the war he was a wealthy farmer and cattle dealer. He owned one of the finest improved farms in the county and slaves enough to cultivate it. The army under General Geary camped in the neighborhood of his farm, and one day loaded up twenty-six four-horse wagons with corn and provender, and in return the quartermaster gave receipts. Since then he has suffered at the hands of raiding parties, and now is arrested and imprisoned here.

[Mr. Ayre was released a short time before I was and returned to his home. In the Fall of 1863, General Hunter threatened Lynchburg, where Mr. Ayre had a quantity of tobacco stored. Fearing it might be destroyed, he went South, disposed of it, and started for home with the proceeds of the sale. When near James City, in Culpeper County, he met a scouting party from Meade’s army, who first carried him to headquarters and then to Washington, where the Provost-Marshal took from him his money, amounting to $80,000 in Virginia money, a $1,000 bond, and some valuable papers, and held him as a hostage for a Captain Samuel Steers, who was captured by Mosby’s men. He was held a prisoner for nine months.

His slaves all remained with him, and he continued to cultivate his land, consequently he had good crops on hand in November, 1864, when General Sheridan sent his forces into Loudoun to destroy crops and property in his futile efforts to drive out Mosby and his men, who continued to occupy the same ground until after the surrender of General Lee. Mr. Ayre then had three crops of wheat in the stack. The Union troops burned 8,000 bushels of wheat, 130 tons of hay, 70 acres of corn in the shock, a new barn with all his machinery and farming implements, and drove off 80 fine improved sheep.C

After the war he put in a claim, through his Representative in Congress, endeavoring to recover something for these losses, but his claim was bandied about from committee to committee, and from Congress to the Court of Claims, while the poor old man, now in his 93d year, penniless and broken in health, is unable to get a cent from the Government in return.]

Wednesday, Feb. 11.—We received some newspapers to-day, and in them I see it stated that Captain Wynne escaped from the Old Capitol Prison on Monday night last, by breaking out a panel of his door. This no doubt gave rise to the ghost story which was going the rounds of the prison at that time, of the ghost without a head who frightened the wits out of some of the sentries.

I heard a great commotion in the prison to-day, and as the noise approached nearer and grew more distinct, I could detect the cry of “Fresh fish! Fresh fish!” which I was afterward told announced the arrival of a fresh lot of prisoners. Among them were a number of blockade runners—eleven white and six negroes. Two of the whites were put in our room. At the advent of a new prisoner, the old ones gather around, anxious to hear the latest news from the outside world.

Captain Thomas Phillips had an interview with Captain Parker to-day. He was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment.

Phillips was captain of a vessel captured while attempting to run the blockade into Wilmington, N. C. His clothes and money, together with his quadrant and charts, were all taken from him.

Blockade running is a dangerous but, when successful, a very profitable business. Of the few ports of the Southern Confederacy used for running the blockade, that of Wilmington, N. C., is the one most frequently chosen, from the fact of there being two entrances, or channels, leading into the Cape Fear River, on which the city of Wilmington is situated, the south entrance being protected by Fort Fisher and Fort Caswell; the north, or new inlet, by Fort Fisher and a small land battery.

[One of the strongest inducements for running the blockade was the enormous value of cotton outside of the Confederacy. A vessel laden with provisions, medical stores, arms and munitions of war for the Confederate Government, effecting an entrance, discharging her load and taking in a return cargo of cotton, which would perhaps yield a profit of five or six hundred per cent., if successful in evading the blockading squadron, would certainly furnish a strong incentive for other daring adventurers to take the risk of a voyage.

The high rate of wages paid to master and crew was always a sufficient inducement to secure a complement of hardy and efficient men for the enterprise.]

Three ladies called at the prison to-day. After they left the building, one of them looked up, and seeing some of the prisoners at the window, bowed to them. The guard called out to the corporal, who started a soldier after them. He pursued them down the street, but returned shortly after, saying they refused to return with him. Of course, we were all pleased with the result.

Thursday, Feb. 12.—Our time is spent in reading, when we have anything to read; card playing, dominoes, or checkers. Newspapers we get occasionally. Some devote much of their time to smoking, others to relating stories of adventures, with an occasional song and dance.

Among the songs is one, written before my advent into this, my prison home, by some one, of whose name even I am ignorant; but being a picture of our prison life, as well as a faithful expression of the sentiments cherished at the time in the breasts of many who dared not give them utterance outside of these prison walls, without the risk of punishment or exile, I give it here entire and unaltered.

Song

Air—Villikins and His Dinah.

All persons confined in the Capitol jail
Must know that habeas corpus shall never avail
In taking them hence, for ’twas lately decreed
That laws are denied to all men of our creed.

Chorus

So let’s be contented, whatever may come,
We’ll live upon hope in the absence of rum;
And in water we’ll drink, when affected with drought,
A health to old Jeff and success to the South.

Now, this one advantage ’tis ours to claim—
Though prisoners in fact, yet proud of that name;
While others their statutes pull down from their shelves
We legally make other laws for ourselves.

Chorus

Abe Lincoln, full gorged with imperial power,
Destroying the work of long years in an hour,
Makes anarchy reign, heaping sin upon sin,
Whilst we are establishing order within.

Chorus

On the streets, in the halls where the multitude throng,
To speak certain things is essentially wrong,
But here we’re more free, be it spoken or sung;
There’s a lock on the door, but no lock on the tongue.

Chorus

Outside, if you drill with a stick for a gun,
You are called a vile Rebel, and treated as one;
But here we’ve a barrack in every room,
In lieu of a gun, we disport with a broom.

Chorus

We’re healthy within, but there’s danger without,
For wherever you turn there’s a gun at your snout,
But here we’re as safe as a bug in a rug,
And the adage is false, “There’s death in a jug.”

Chorus

But heed not the twaddle of tyrants and knaves;
Though they the laws make, they cannot make us slaves;
Unheeding the wrong and maintaining the right,
We’ll stick to our creed to the end of the fight.

Chorus

Old Capitol Prison, Washington, 1862.

This would be one feature of the program, with “Maryland, My Maryland,” “Dixie,” “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” and a song, the chorus of which ran—“Ain’t You Glad You’re Out of the Wilderness?” but which a few months later was changed to “Ol’ Joe Hooker, Come Out of the Wilderness.”

When the singing would lag a little, Fax Minor, on whom the sound of music or singing caused a contraction and extension of the muscles, producing an effect like pulling the strings of a supple-jack, would jump up and execute a regular plantation break-down.

Some of our room-mates were gifted with good voices, which, though untrained or uncultivated, were pleasing to the ear, and, combined with the sentiment of the songs, had an inspiring effect on the listeners, like the strains of martial music on the lagging footsteps of the marching soldier.

One day as they were singing “Maryland, My Maryland,” Gus Williams, getting up from a bench near the stove, where he sat whittling a stick, advanced toward the group of singers and said:

“You boys sing that well, but I’ve heard ‘My Maryland’ sung here in the old building in a way that would make you feel like jumping out of the window and swimming across the Potomac. When Belle Boyd was here I was on the same floor. She would sing that song as if her very soul was in every word she uttered. It used to bring a lump up in my throat every time I heard it. It seemed like my heart was ready to jump out—as if I could put my finger down and touch it. I’ve seen men, when she was singing, walk off to one side and pull out their handkerchiefs and wipe their eyes, for fear some one would see them doing the baby act.

“She left soon after I came in. I was glad to know that she was released, but we all missed her. Even some of the Yankees, although they would not show it while she was here; but when she was sent away they missed her sweet singing—Rebel songs though they were. One of them told me it made him feel sad to hear her sing.

“And on Sundays, when there was preaching down in the yard, she would be allowed to come down and sit near the preacher. If you could only have seen how the fellows would try to get near her as she passed. And if she gave them a look or a smile, it did them more good than the preaching. You wouldn’t hear a cuss word from any of them for a week, even if one of the guards would swear at them or threaten them.”D

Friday, Feb. 13.—George Hammett, Davis, Gardner and George were released this afternoon upon taking the oath.

Saturday, Feb. 14.—A number of prisoners were brought in to-day. There are said to be 450 prisoners here at present, the greater portion of them being citizens.

Last night I was awakened by hearing an unusual commotion throughout the building. This morning there were a number of prisoners in the guard house. It is said that Captain Darling and George Adreon escaped. The sentinel was bribed, and a greater number would have escaped but for the indiscretion of the prisoners. They were so jubilant at the prospect of getting out, that they had some whiskey sneaked into the room and treated the sentinel. They made him drunk, so that he had to be taken off post, and he was put in the guard house. The new man being ignorant of the deal made with his comrade, the whole scheme failed. There is a standing order to sentinels on each floor to allow not more than two men to leave their rooms at a time. Trusting to their arrangement with the sentry, the prisoners who were in the plot would leave singly on this night, at slight intervals, until the guards, seeing so many more going out than the rules permitted, became suspicious and reported their suspicions. Consequently, as each prisoner left his room and went down stairs, he was quietly taken to the guard house, until the number of absentees from the rooms became so numerous the prisoners themselves grew suspicious, and the exodus was stopped.

It is an easy matter to get whiskey here. A bright young contraband, whose ebony face gives proof of the purity of his Congo blood, comes into our room every morning to remove the ashes and refuse. For a trifling sum Charlie will bring in two flasks of whiskey in the breast pockets of his coat, and afterward take back the empty flasks. Many of the prison guards are ready to do the same when asked.

Mr. James Fullerton came to see me to-day. He told me my wife went to the Provost-Marshal’s office last Tuesday and asked for a pass to visit me, but was refused.

Sunday, Feb. 15.—Stephen R. Mount, of Loudoun County, Virginia, aged sixty-eight, was put in our room to-day. There is another old gentleman here, named Randolph, aged seventy-five. He is also from Virginia.

An order was issued to-day that no more singing of Rebel songs will be tolerated. Also, that any prisoner bowing or otherwise noticing persons passing on the street, will be put in the guard house.

There are no printed rules for our guidance placed where they can be seen, and no official instructions as to how we are to act, or to whom we shall make known our necessities. A knowledge can only be gained from conversing with prisoners who have been a long time in the prison, or from actual observation, or from seeing punishment inflicted upon some poor wretch for a violation of an unwritten law. One can only do as you see others do, and if you blindly follow a willful or ignorant transgressor, you must take the punishment of a guilty person.

The daily routine may be summed up as follows:

The first call in the morning is when the door is thrown open and breakfast announced. All in the room then scamper down to the yard and into the mess-room already described.

About nine o’clock the door is again opened and a voice shouts in tones loud enough to be heard by all, “Sick Call.” Then all who have need of medicine or treatment go to the hospital, located in a two-story wooden building, an extension of the main building, and reached by a flight of steps leading up from the prison yard.

The next sensation is the dinner call. This gives the prisoners a half-hour, most of which, if not all, is spent in the yard. The yard is about one hundred feet square, partly paved with bricks or cobble-stones.E On the side of this yard, extending from this wooden building occupied as sutler’s shop, mess-room and hospital, and running back to the gate, is a one-story stone building in which are the cook house, guard house and wash house. Back of this building are the sinks used by the prisoners. These are wide trenches with a long wooden rail in front, after the manner of the trenches in the camps, except that when those in the camps become offensive they are filled in with earth and new ones dug. The presence of these sinks, used for months by several hundred men, it may be safely said, did not contribute to the beauty of the scenery or add sweetness to the tainted air. Any further description, I think, is better left to the imagination than expressed in words.

After returning to our rooms there is another lull until supper-time, when we enjoy the freedom of the prison yard until it is rudely broken into by the gruff voice of the sergeant: “Time’s up. Go to your rooms.”

Next comes the roll-call, when the prisoners are lined up in their respective rooms to answer to their names as called.

Lastly, taps is sounded, by the guard marching through the halls and calling out at the doors of the rooms: “Lights out.” At this warning cry every light must be extinguished, and the prisoners are compelled to go to their bunks or sit in the dark. And here is where our rusty fat pork, saved by us from the mess-room table, is made do good service.

One night we sat around the stove, with a quantity of this over-rich food, contributed by the inmates of our room, one of whom sat in front of the stove and threw in piece by piece as it burned away. This shed a light over the room, and it was seen by the sentry pacing his beat in front of the building. He called out “Corporal of the guard, Post No. 1.”

In a few minutes the sound of approaching footsteps was heard in the hall outside, the door was thrown open and a corporal with guard entered.

“What are you doing with a light here?” said he.

“We have no light here,” was the reply.

“You have,” said the corporal, “we can see it plainly from the street.”

“Oh, that is only a piece of fat meat we threw in the stove.”

The corporal, although he saw the flickering remains through the open stove door, marched away with an incredulous and unsatisfied air.

Tuesday, Feb. 17.—Captain Parker called me down this afternoon. He told me he had received a letter from Mr. James Fullerton, stating that my wife was ill, and my eldest child very ill with dropsy after scarlet fever. He said that under the circumstances he would grant me a parole for one day only, to see them. I was accordingly released to report to Superintendent Wood at five o’clock to-morrow. On reaching home, I found my son Henry lying ill, delirious, and so changed I could scarcely recognize him.

Wednesday, Feb. 18.—At Home.—Mrs. Fullerton called this morning. She said she had been to the prison and had carried a few things, including my wife’s picture. The officer who received them said he would give them to me. She then handed him a note from my mother, stating that my wife was recovering from her illness and was able to go about the house. When requested to hand me this the officer said: “There can be no communication, unless it goes through the Provost-Marshal’s office.” So I had been denied this slight gratification, of knowing that my wife, whom I left suffering from an attack of typhus fever, was improving in health. This afternoon I went to prison and reported myself to Captain Higgins. I told him my child was very ill; that the disease was just at its height and his recovery doubtful. That under the circumstances I would like to have my parole extended for a short time, until I saw how the disease would likely terminate. He told me he would see Captain Parker. After hearing my request, Parker asked if I could get a certificate to the effect that my child was dangerously ill. Told him I could. He said: “If you will bring me such certificate from the attending physician, I will grant you a parole until Friday, at 5 P.M.” He added, “As you are living in this city and refuse to take the oath, it proves that your sympathy is with the South.” After leaving the prison I went to the office of Dr. Toner and procured the required certificate.

Thursday, Feb. 19.—This morning went to headquarters of Military Governor, and gave the certificate to Captain Parker, according to agreement.

From a conversation which I overheard while standing on the steps at the Provost-Marshal’s office, one can get a faint idea of the state of society now existing under the infamous spy system. A sergeant and corporal were standing near the doorway, conversing with a citizen:

Sergeant—You know he is a Secessionist?

Citizen—Yes.

Sergeant—Then go in and report him.

Citizen (smiling and shrugging his shoulders)—I don’t like—

Corporal—You have gone too far now; you must go in and report him.

Sergeant—Your name won’t appear at all in this.

The citizen still appeared to hesitate, but the two were still urging him when I passed on.

Fostered by partisan hatred or private malice, a system of espionage has been established which is felt on every side. Servants and employees are tampered with, witnesses are bought or threatened. Actions or expressions, in themselves perfectly innocent, are perverted and by misconstruction made to assume an air of treason or disloyalty. In this way persons are often arrested and imprisoned for months without trial or without even knowing the nature of the charge against them or the name of their accuser.

Friday, Feb. 20.—Henry passed a very uneasy night. The doctor says he is not so well this morning as yesterday; still, he says he has hopes of saving him. I hope for the best, yet fear the worst. This afternoon, between four and five o’clock, reported myself at the Old Capitol. After having my valise searched, I retired to my room, where I found a number of prisoners in addition to those I left when I went out on parole.

Captain Phillips was released from guard house this afternoon. A few days ago he asked Wood to give him a parole. Wood refused, and said no paroles would be granted. Phillips said a man who was confined under similar circumstances to himself had been given a parole on the day his vessel was to be sold. Soon after this interview I saw Phillips and Wood running around the yard, both much excited. Phillips said, “Come on; I will show you the man.” Wood said, “Go on; I’ll prove either you or him to be a liar.” When Phillips found the man, Wood was not to be found.

A day or two after this, Phillips was going into the office to pay the clerk, Mr. Drew, for a pair of spectacles, when Wood, who was in the office at the time, called out to him in a rough manner, and Phillips went out and closed the door. When he got to his room a guard came up and took him to the guard house, from which he was only released to-day. Wood said he had not intended to keep him there so long, but had forgotten him.

How faithfully does history repeat itself. How many unfortunates have been arrested, thrown into prison, and their accusers having accomplished their object in placing them in durance, cared no more about them, and their jailers were totally indifferent in the matter. Wood said the principal cause for his punishment was the indifference with which Phillips appeared to treat him.

Sunday, Feb. 22.—I was told there are over five hundred prisoners here now. When those in our room were counted last night there were found to be thirty-four. A number of fresh fish have been brought in since my return.

Sixty-two prisoners were brought here from Camp Chase. Some have been imprisoned for fifteen months. About twenty of them have no charge against them except refusal to take the oath.

Goldsmith said that while he was in the guard house a Union soldier was put in who was drunk and noisy, and the lieutenant came in, slapped him in the face and kicked him several times.

One of my fellow-prisoners is an old gentleman from Virginia, named John B. Hunter. He is over sixty years of age. He is detained without any charge whatever, but as a hostage for a man named Stiles, who has made himself notorious as a spy and detective, and by acting as guide in piloting raiding parties through Virginia. Mr. Hunter was called down last night by Captain Parker, who told him information had been received that Stiles had been released, and that he, too, would be released. That he could leave the prison then or wait until to-day. He has been in prison forty-two days altogether, and his health is now very poor.

Another of my room-mates is John Carr, of Fauquier County, Va.; he is a widower, who was about to be married. As he was journeying on to the home of his intended bride, where all the preparations had been made for the approaching nuptials, he was rudely seized by a scouting party and landed here in the Old Capitol. He has been unfortunate in his matrimonial ventures. He was married to his second wife a few years before the war, and started on a bridal tour through some of the Western States. It happened that the cholera was raging at the time in some parts of the West, and while going down the Mississippi River on a steamboat his wife was suddenly taken ill with cholera and died on the boat. The passengers became frightened and put him ashore with the dead body of his wife at a desolate spot on the banks of the river, at night and in a heavy storm. He was compelled to remain there through the long, dreary night, sitting beside the corpse, holding a blanket over it to protect it from the rain, and keep the wind from blowing away the covering. The splash of the water, the puffing and snorting of the boats on the river, with the shrill blast of their whistles or the bellowing of their signals in passing each other, found an echo in the moaning and shrieking of the angry wind. These mingled sounds to the sad watcher in his lonely vigil seemed a requiem for the dead.

Tuesday, Feb. 24.—Three of the prisoners brought in last Saturday were Italians—Peter Eorio, Raphael Rinaldi and Marco Comastri. They appear to be very intelligent men, and I have derived much pleasure from conversing with them. They have been in this country about three years. Living in the South, and wishing to return to their native country, they asked and received permission from the Confederate authorities to pass through the lines; having first procured certificates to the effect that they were citizens of Italy and as to their intentions. On their arrival in Washington they were arrested and brought to this place.

To-day the Commission appointed to try political prisoners commenced their sittings.

Fourteen prisoners were sent off to-day upon taking the oath. Quite a number have been released lately by so doing. Many of them say they do not regard the oath—that it is unconstitutional, unlawful, and not in any sense binding.F

Wednesday, Feb. 25.—This morning one of the negroes in the breakfast room accused a prisoner of taking two pieces of bread instead of one, which is supposed to be one man’s portion. Although the man denied having done so, the negro persisted in saying he had, and the man was put in the guard house.

Peter and John Flaherty were called before Parker. They are British subjects and are provided with British protection. They had been at work for some time in Richmond, and were on their way North when arrested. Parker asked them why they left Richmond. “Thinking to do better, sir,” promptly replied Peter. They were released with the injunction to leave the city within forty-eight hours.

Thursday, Feb. 26.—Three more prisoners brought into our room—twenty-nine now in all. Some Yankee sutlers were brought in lately. They are very bitter in denouncing the Federal Government.

It is rumored an attempt will be made by some of the prisoners to escape. The matter was talked over to-day in our room. Many plans were suggested as being feasible and attended with but little danger. One said it would be an easy matter, when we were out in the yard, and the wagon came in to deliver bread, for the prisoners to make a rush for the gate, and before the gate could be closed quite a number could get out.

“But the guards would fire on us, and some of us would be killed,” said Fax Minor.

“Of course,” was the reply, “somebody might be shot—perhaps killed. We must expect that. But many would get away safely.”

“Yes, that is all true,” returned Fax; “but just suppose there was only one killed, and that one was poor Fax—what then?”

A noticeable character in the prison yard at one time during the half-hour allowed for recreation was a Hebrew named Fleggenheimer. He was captured while attempting to run the blockade on the Potomac, and his goods confiscated. Like Rachel of old, he would not be comforted, but was continually bewailing his loss. One of my room-mates, John Pentz, of Baltimore, finding that sympathy only added fuel to the fire of his distress, sought to divert his thoughts into another channel by bantering him.

“Oh, Sledgehammer” (as Pentz was accustomed to call him), “don’t worry; you’ll soon be out of this place, and it won’t take you long to make up what you lost.”

“Ah, but, Mr. Benty, I lose more ash five t’ousand dollars.”

“Well, you can get that back in the profit of one good trip.”

“And den it vash all borrowed monish.”

“Then that is so much the better—you won’t lose anything.”

“Oh, you don’t know all, Mr. Benty. My poor wife, she yust git a leetle baby, unt ven she hear dis it makes her right down stone dead.”

From conversations had with Western prisoners, I judge there is more intense bitterness of feeling in the West, particularly in Missouri and Kentucky, than in the Eastern border section. One old Missourian in our room said he was from Schuyler County, and had been in prison since the 12th of August. That one of the prisoners in the Court House, named Ford, was shot with a pistol by one of the guards.

He said the Union men were called “Sheepskins,” and they perpetrated the most villainous outrages. That on one occasion a party arrested a man, and while carrying him through the village, some little boys playing marbles, cried out: “Here comes the militia,” and ran away. One of the “Sheepskins” fired into the crowd of children and killed a boy twelve years old. They picked the child up, carried him to his home, and threw him in the door to his mother, saying: “Here is one we’ve kept from growing up to be a damned Secesh.”

Another man told me he was in prison with some of the men who were executed by General McNeil. He said he was playing cards with Wade when he was called out. Wade put down his cards, saying he knew he was called out to be killed. There was among the doomed men one old man with a large and helpless family. A brave young hero volunteered to take the old man’s place, saying he had none to leave behind to regret him or feel the loss. He was accepted. His savage executioners, dumb to this noble exhibition of heroism and self-sacrifice, sent him off on his coffin with the others.

I afterward learned the facts concerning this brutal tragedy:

In the Fall of 1862, the Confederates, under Colonel James Porter, captured the town of Palmyra, and during their occupancy a man named Andrew Allsman, an ex-soldier of the Third Missouri Cavalry (said to have been a spy), disappeared.

After the Confederates evacuated the town and McNeil returned, he learned of the abduction of Allsman, and thereupon issued a notice, that unless Allsman was returned within ten days he would retaliate upon the Rebel prisoners then in his hands. At the expiration of the ten days, ten prisoners then in his custody: Willis Baker, Thomas Humston, Morgan Bixler, and John Y. McPheeters, of Lewis County; Herbert Hutson, John M. Wade and Marion Lair, of Ralls County; Captain Thomas A. Sidner, Monroe County; Eleazer Lake, Scotland County, and Hiram Smith, Knox County, were selected—ten men, to give up their lives for one man missing.

Three Government wagons drove to the jail, with ten rough board coffins. The condemned men were taken from the prison, seated upon their coffins in the wagons, and driven to the place of execution—the Fair Ground. There the coffins were arranged in a row, six or eight feet apart. Thirty soldiers of the Second Missouri State Militia were drawn up in line facing the coffins. The ten men knelt upon the grass between the coffins. A prayer was offered up by Rev. R. M. Rhoades, and the prisoners each took his seat upon the foot of his coffin. Two accepted bandages; the others refused. The officer in command then stepped forward and gave the command: “Ready—aim—fire!” Two of the prisoners fell backward upon their coffins, dead. Captain Sidner sprang forward and fell with his face to the soldiers, and died immediately. He had requested the soldiers to aim at his heart. The other seven were not killed, and the reserves were called and put an end to their lives with their revolvers.

Among the Camp Chase prisoners are three little boys, their ages ranging from ten to fourteen. I saw one in the yard to-day. The men called him “John Morgan’s Orderly.” He was dressed in gray and seemed a shrewd, bright little fellow. He told me he was fourteen years of age. That he had been with John Morgan, and was captured while carrying a letter from General John C. Breckenridge to General John Morgan. He said he had been in prison thirteen months.

The second boy was held on charges similar to the one first mentioned. The third, and youngest, says he does not know why he was arrested, or why he was brought here.

Friday, Feb. 27.—Boyd Barrett and others, ill with smallpox, were removed in ambulances to-day.

Messrs. Ayre, Carr, and Brawner were called to-day and the oath offered them. They refused to take it and were marked for exchange.

It is said one of the prison officials was going around the yard last night, dressed in Confederate uniform, endeavoring, by offering bribes, to test the fidelity of the guards.

Saturday, Feb. 28.—I slept but little last night. Some prisoners who were put in the room were very noisy, and I was cold. I had one sheet and one blanket, and I had to take my overcoat for a covering. When I got warmed up, the mice became lively and commenced a game of tag. They appear to think it fine fun chasing one another under the board pillow at my head, and then running over my bunk and crawling about through the folds of my blanket. When I shake them off they scamper away, only to return when they see I am quiet again.

There is also a large force of bedbugs in the room, and they send out detachments and raiding parties to all the different bunks, and draw their full supply of rations from the occupants. Sometimes we get together and have a round-up, and a promiscuous slaughter, regardless of age or sex. But they must recruit from the other side, like the Yankee army, as we can notice no diminution in the forces. I suppose, like the poor, we will always have them with us.

Owing to the dirty and overcrowded condition of the building, we have another pest in the shape of an insect, smaller than the one just mentioned, but equally bloodthirsty, who makes his presence felt, and has reduced us to such a condition that we have to scratch for a living.

This morning, while standing near the window, I saw two little boys, ten or twelve years of age, standing on the street corner, opposite the prison. They were looking down the street and did not hear the guard calling to them to leave the corner. Presently a corporal was sent over and the children, now in the act of moving on, were arrested and brought into the prison. I stood at the window for some time, but I did not see them pass out.

Six prisoners brought into our room to-day. Thirty-seven now in the room, with bunks for twenty-one; the balance sleep on the floor as best they can. At night the floor is completely taken up by sleeping men, so we can only walk the floor by stepping over them. They roll themselves in their blankets and go to sleep.

Frank Thornton released on parole to-day. John Pentz went out at night.

A man in Room 15 threw a piece of bread out of the window into the street. In consequence of this, all the inmates of the room, twenty-eight in number, were confined to the room during the half-hour usually allowed for recreation, and put on bread and water diet—two pieces of bread being allowed them daily.

Monday, March 2.—Commission in session to-day.

The surgeon came in and made inquiries as to the number in our room, etc. Thirty-nine in room—beds for twenty-one. Call for all who desire to be vaccinated to come into the hospital.

In the dull uniformity of prison life every trifling event which breaks the monotony and diverts the attention, for the time, from the unpleasant reality of our situation is seized upon and becomes a subject of conversation. To-day a drove of mules was passing the prison on their way to some of the camps or corrals, and this brought out a number of stories illustrating peculiar traits or features of that useful and much-abused creature—the mule.

“When the Confederate army was encamped at Manassas,” said Bennett, “after the battle of Bull Run, the mules, being fastened to the wagons by their halters, after eating their supply of provender, would start in, biting and chewing the feed-boxes and wagon bodies. They were not satisfied with the quantity of long-feed that was dealt out to them and sought to make good the deficiency by chewing up the wagons. To prevent the total demolition of wagons, details of men were sent out daily to cut and bring in loads of hoop-poles for belly-timber, as Bennett termed it. These were spread out before the mules who no doubt found the wood in its crude state as appetizing as when fashioned into wagons or feed-boxes.”

“An old friend of mine, Dr. Green,” said John Carr, “was at one time induced to purchase a lot of mules. They were sold at a sacrifice, and knowing there was a constant demand for mules in army circles, he flattered himself that he had been cut out for a sharp trader, but had always before that time missed his opportunity; that he had made a good investment, and now having the long-delayed opportunity, he would surely get all there was in it. So when he had paid his money he patted himself on the back—figuratively—in a patronizing manner and turned a round dozen well-conditioned mules into his pasture.

“In this field where he had put the mules his riding-horse was accustomed to graze. A close intimacy sprang up between the mules and the horse. On Sunday, when Dr. Green brought up his horse in order to attend service at the village church, he noticed a commotion among the mules, but paid no further attention to them.

“While riding to church with his wife, however, he heard a noise on the road behind them, a tramping of hoofs, with a nickering and braying. Soon the mules came in sight, frisking about and apparently delighted to overtake their newly-found friend and comrade, the horse. They refused to be sent back, and the Doctor and his wife rode into town to church at the head of a drove of mules.”

Tuesday, March 3.—Last night about midnight I was awakened by a noise and great commotion in the building. A man in the adjoining room cried out lustily, “Fire! Fire!” Then there was a knocking at the doors. The flames were breaking out through a board partition which cuts off a portion of our room, making an entry to the adjoining room. The fire had not gained much headway, however, and a little water soon extinguished it. For a time there was great confusion and excitement. The guard at the door, as soon as he was aware of the fact, cried out “Corporal of the guard, Post No. 5—Fire!” Then the word was passed from sentinel to sentinel, until it rang through the building. Men were jumping out of their bunks, hastily putting on their clothes, some cursing, calling for things they were unable to find—“Where’s my pants?” “Where’s my boots?” In the confusion one man would grab up an article belonging to another—often a misfit. I lay quietly in my bunk for a while. I felt there could be little danger from fire occurring in the rooms occupied by either the prisoners or guards; for if by any mischance a fire should break out, it would soon be discovered and quickly extinguished. Or, if in the outhouse or kitchen, they, being small buildings, the fire could be put out before it communicated to the main building—the prison itself.

At the time of the greatest excitement one man said: “Look out of the window and see the light. The building is on fire.” When this light was found to proceed from the rising moon, it had a quieting effect on the panic. A sergeant came in with a light and searched around to find out how the fire originated. After this a lieutenant with a few privates came in under arms, and examined thoroughly and questioned, but no one appeared to know how it started. If the fire had progressed to any great extent before discovery, no doubt many of the prisoners would have escaped as it would have been impossible for the guards to have kept in check the large number of prisoners now in the building.

Wednesday, March 4.—Congress adjourned to-day. From the prison window we saw the flag lowered.

At night Superintendent Wood came to the door and called me out of the room. He walked over and sat at the foot of the stairs in the big hall leading to the floor above, and told me to sit down beside him. He asked me where I belonged. I said:

“I am a citizen of Washington. This is my home.”

“What were you doing South?” asked Wood.

“Working at my business.”

“Where did you work?”

“At Ritchie & Dunnavant’s.”

“What kind of work was done there?”

“They did the State printing and a portion of the Government work.”

“When did you go South?”

“Just before the commencement of hostilities.”

“How did you get back?”

“I came across the Potomac River.”

“You didn’t bring any letters, or anything of that kind?”

“No; I brought nothing but my wife and children.”

“Are you willing to take an oath to support the Government?”

“No, sir.”

“Then we will have to send you back South.”

I said, “Mr. Wood, I am in your hands, a prisoner, and powerless to resist. I am obliged to submit to whatever disposition you may make of me.”

“A couple of gentlemen called to see me about you,” said Mr. Wood, “and I am anxious to do all I can for you. You know that this city is in a special manner under the care and jurisdiction of the President and Congress, and if you are a citizen of this place you ought to submit to the law.”

“But, Mr. Wood,” said I, “there is no law to compel me to take this oath.”

“You violated the law when you crossed the Potomac.”

“In what manner?”

“In running the blockade.”

“This city is my home. I was South with my family. How could I get home with them without crossing the Potomac. What law did I violate?”

“I have no time to spare,” said Mr. Wood, as he arose and walked away, and I went back to my room.

One more prisoner brought into our room—thirty-seven now in.

Thursday, March 5.—Boyd Barrett returned. He had a slight attack of varioloid. Haskins, of South Carolina, who was taken away with him, died of smallpox. Another of the party is in a fair way of recovery.

At night about one hundred and fifty Union soldiers were brought in; mostly for desertion and insubordination. They are very bitter in their denunciation of the Government. They seem to care but little for the guards, and do pretty much as they please. Whether from fear or sympathy, the guards appear indifferent to their words or behavior. Some of the soldiers say they “enlisted to fight for the Union and not for the nigger.” One said, “If they bring up all the men who are dissatisfied, the Government will have to build more prisons.”

Friday, March 6.—My wife came to see me. A corporal came up and escorted me down to the reception room. On entering the room we were seated in chairs placed opposite each other, and at a distance of about three or four feet apart. Then a little puppy, who acts as a clerk or detective, took his seat in a chair which he drew up in front of, and between the chairs occupied by myself and wife; where he could not fail to hear every word that passed. Then he threw himself back in his chair with an air of self-importance, as if to say, “Now you can go on, with my permission.” He interrupted our conversation several times by volunteering remarks altogether uncalled for. My wife said that my mother and she were worried about me at home, as they heard I would be sent away. Hearing this the fellow turned to a lieutenant who was in the room, and asked in a tone which could be heard across the room:

“Can you give me the number and names of the prisoners in Rooms 15 and 16, as they are about to be sent away?”

He knew I was in Room 16, and thought to annoy us by asking this question. At the end of fifteen minutes our conversation was abruptly brought to an end. My wife was compelled to take the oath before she was allowed to see me.

She told me that my son Henry had taken a change for the better within an hour after I left him, at the expiration of my parole, and, knowing I would be anxious to hear about him, they sent me a message to that effect immediately. Two weeks have elapsed, but the message has never been delivered.

Young Thomas Hurst was called down to see his sister directly after my wife left, and he told me he had the same experience as we had, and the same remark was made in the presence of his sister as that used to annoy my wife.

Three Federal soldiers confined here attempted to escape by way of the cellar. Two succeeded and one was caught.

Sunday, March 8.—About 1:30 P.M., one hundred and fifty prisoners were brought in. They came from St. Louis direct; they are mostly soldiers. They have been in prison—some one, others three and five months. With regard to the soldiers this is a violation of the cartel by the United States authorities. The cartel of exchange provides that prisoners of war be discharged on parole within ten days after capture. These expect to be exchanged about the 16th of this month. They were brought through Baltimore, arriving in this city last night, and were crowded in a place which, from the description given, I judge to be the Central Guard House. They say that they were put into rooms where they were obliged to pass the night in a standing posture, as there was not room enough to lie down. After being brought here they were kept standing in the damp yard (part of the time it was raining), until after ten o’clock at night, when they were removed to the adjoining houses (Duff Green’s Row), Carroll Prison.

Two men, Wesley Phillips and Mitchell, were released to-day. They were captains of schooners engaged in carrying sutlers’ stores to the Army of the Potomac. They were Baltimoreans and very fine men.

Monday, March 9.—Fine day. After a rain the water drips from the window cornices or eaves of the roof, to the ground, sometimes dropping over the doorway. As some of the guards were on the doorstep they caught the drops and said the men in our room were spitting out of the window. A corporal was sent to the room and although the men explained the matter to him—said they had not spit out, and called his attention to the falling drops, the window was shut down and we are now forced to remain in this close room, with no ventilation and the breaths of thirty-seven men poisoning the air. Our keepers appear to take pleasure in annoying and persecuting those in their power, knowing they can do so without fear or resistance or retaliation.

A man who either drunk or crazy, passing on the opposite side of the street, looked up at the window and seeing the crowd of prisoners, laughed and waved his hat. The officer standing at the door said to the sentry, “You had better bring that fellow in, anyhow.” He was accordingly brought in.

There is a man in Room 16, named Armand. He claims to be from Louisiana. He is of very dark complexion, with black hair, short black beard and mustache. He always wears a blue uniform, but I never saw him with a hat, either indoors or out. He is looked upon with suspicion and shunned by all. By many he is thought to be a spy. If he goes out of the room for any purpose whatever, the other prisoners exchange knowing glances, and shake their heads in a manner indicating distrust. Some do not hesitate to say: “He is now going down to make his report to Wood.” Every act is observed and commented on.

No one cares to be seen speaking to him or noticing him. If he approaches one with a pleasing expression on his face, as if about to speak, the person so approached will turn from him with a look of contempt, or, if addressed, return a half-hearted reply, and with a stealthy look around, as if to see if anyone observed him, shy off in a direction opposite that in which Armand appears to be going. Even the Yankee prisoners are shown more consideration, and more regard paid to their wants and advances. Men who occasionally bestow upon him a look of pity—such as they would give to a poor friendless dog—will quickly turn away if he shows a disposition to return a grateful acknowledgment.

Although I have no means of ascertaining whether this treatment is deserved, or if he is unjustly suspected, yet I cannot shut out from my breast a feeling of pity for the poor fellow.

At night, when all others were soundly sleeping in their bunks, I have often watched him as he paced the floor or stood at the window, his hands folded behind him, looking out into the deserted street, as lonely and forsaken as himself, singing, or rather crooning in a low, mournful, but not unmusical tone:

“When the sad, chilly winds of December,
Stole my flowers, my companions, from me.”

Tuesday, March 10.—Eorio, Comastro and Rinaldi, the three Italians I have already mentioned, were called before the Colonel acting in place of Parker, who is sick.

He questioned them in regard to their arrest, etc. He told them there was no reason for keeping them and they would be released to-morrow. Eorio promised to see my wife and tell her what I could not write her with any certainty of its being delivered. This I learned afterward he did faithfully.

Old Mr. Love was again called before the colonel. He had a certificate from the prison surgeon, stating that he was ill. That the confinement was injuring him, and he should be discharged. The Colonel told him his case would have to go before the Commission.

One of the prison guards to-day snapped his gun twice at a man passing on horseback, but it missed fire each time.

Captain Thomas Phillips was released this afternoon.

Wednesday, March 11.—This morning as Keleher was looking from the window, singing:

“The niggers we will sell
And the Yankees send to hell,” etc.,

a little fussy lieutenant, named Thackery, came bristling up, saying, “I’ll send you to hell,” and as if intending to carry out his threat literally, rushed at Keleher with his arm outstretched to push or grasp him, but just before the hand touched him, Keleher stepped to one side and Thackery, unable to check or recover himself, went spinning halfway across the room. The men, none of whom have any love or good feeling for Thackery, laughed at his discomfiture, and this so irritated the crestfallen lieutenant that he had the guards take Keleher off to the guard house.

James Taylor and James Stant were called and took the oath not to attempt to run the blockade again. Aaron Lewis released.

Thursday, March 12.—Three more prisoners brought into our room last night. One belonged to Stuart’s Horse Artillery; the other two were citizens.

James Ewell released. Russell released; he had British protection. Frank Thornton, who had been out on parole, returned.

A man confined in the guard house knocked down a portion of the partition. He was taken out and tied up by the wrists to a tree. He broke the cords after a time and released himself. He was then removed, but I do not know what was done with him after.

Among my room-mates I have discovered an old schoolmate, Thomas Holbrook, of Baltimore. He and I were schoolboys together at a school kept by Martin J. Kerney, in a little one-story brick building, situated on Exeter Street, between Baltimore and Fayette, Baltimore City. Mr. Kerney was a graduate of Mount St. Mary’s College, Emmittsburg, Md. After giving up school teaching he entered into the practice of law and was afterward a member of the Maryland State Legislature. He was the author of a number of educational works, some of which are still used. Three of the Booth brothers—Edwin, the celebrated actor; John Wilkes, who shot Lincoln, and Joseph Adrian Booth, who afterward became a physician, and also John Sleeper Clarke, the comedian, who later on married Asia Booth, a sister of the Booth brothers, were all attending this school at the same time with us. Holbrook is quite a valuable addition to our company. He is exceedingly clever in handling playing cards and often amuses us with exhibitions of tricks, in which he displays remarkable dexterity. He thus helps us while away many a tedious hour. He was at one time in the Navy, and, like all seafaring men, is handy about the house. We all are glad when it is Tom’s day in the kitchen as cook for the mess. He will say, “Well, boys, what will it be to-day—lobscouse or skilligalee?”

He will take a ham-bone, from which most of the meat has been cut, and sitting down will patiently pick off with a pocket-knife every scrap of fat and lean, and with the addition of a few potatoes or other ingredients, will serve up quite a tasty little side dish for our table.

An old man who had been confined here for some time, was released a few days ago. He was bent with age, and very feeble and childish, so that when here he would often get lost in the building. After wandering about for some time he came back. He said he thought the war was over when he was sent off. That he was away from home; 84 years of age; with no place to go and no means of getting to his home. He begged to be taken back.

At night a sergeant came into the room with a list of names which he called over; my name being among the number. He asked each one if he wanted to go to Richmond. All those who are booked for Richmond are greatly elated at the prospect of their release from prison and a trip to Dixie. Whiskey was smuggled in and several of the fortunate ones were quite lively. Very little sleep to-night for anyone here.

Fitzhugh Carter, or as he was familiarly called “Chew Carter,” was a sprightly little fellow from Fauquier County, Virginia. Brought up on a farm and enjoying in his early life the companionship of the little darkies, he had acquired much of their quaint dialect and rollicking manners. On this night Chew had by some means got more than a fair share of the smuggled whiskey.

When the lieutenant came in for roll-call, it was the custom for the prisoners to form in one line, while the lieutenant with the guard would stand at the head, and as each man’s name was called he would step out, turn and face the line he had just left. This would be repeated until, when all the names were called, the new line would be formed opposite that formerly occupied by the first line.

As it was a difficult matter for poor Chew to preserve his equilibrium, his comrades endeavored to keep him steady on the perpendicular by bracing him on either side. All went well until it came his turn to answer. When the officer called “Fitzhugh Carter,” Chew stood erect, pushed his hat back from his forehead and snapped out “Yer, sah!” and lurched forward to the line opposite. The loud and jerky way he was answered appeared to strike the lieutenant, for he raised his head and looked to where the sound came from and then cast his eyes down again to his roll. Just at this moment Chew, apparently satisfied with the accomplishment of his little feat, looked toward the head of the line and observing the action of the lieutenant, said “Who de hell keers foh yo’ damn ol’ roll-call?”

The lieutenant heard the voice, but did not catch the words. He looked down the line. The men who stood on either side of Chew nudged him to keep quiet, and all looked so innocent of any wrong-doing that the officer evidently disbelieved his ears, if they carried a trace of the actual words uttered, for he proceeded with his roll-call without further interruption.

When the lieutenant left the room one of his comrades said:

“Chew, where did you get it all?”

“Jis’ had one drink,” replied Chew.

“Then you must have tapped a still-house,” said Ed. O’Brien, and he sung—

“The man that has good whiskey
  And giveth his neighbor none,
Sha’n’t have any of my good whiskey
  When his good whiskey is gone.”
“When—

“Now, altogether”—(and all took up the refrain):

“When his good whiskey is gone.”

There was one little incident during Chew’s sojourn in the Old Capitol which proved that the course of love does run smoothly sometimes—even love of whiskey. Chew was very thirsty, and was determined to quench that thirst. At “Sick Call,” he joined the throng who wended their way to the hospital.

“Oh, I’m so sick. I got sich cramps. Bin sick all night,” said Chew, as he entered the hospital, with one hand clutching a portion of his garments covering the part of his anatomy where cramps are supposed to locate, and the other pressed against his forehead.

“I’ll give you a dose of castor oil,” said the hospital steward.

“Oh,” said Chew, “I kaint take castoh oil. Nevah could take it.”

“I’ll fix it up so you won’t taste it.”

“It’s no use, I know. You’ll hav’ter give me somethin’ else.”

The steward poured a little whiskey in the bottom of a glass; then poured in the oil, which was quite stiff, and after that put whiskey on top. Chew took the glass and with a quick toss gulped down the whiskey before the oil had fairly started to flow, and handed the glass back, saying: “Take it quick. I’m afeerd I’ll throw it up”—at the same time making such grimaces that one would think he really had swallowed a nauseous dose.

“You haven’t taken any of the oil,” said the steward. “Here; drink it down.”

“Oh, I got a big mouthful, an’ I’m pow’ful sick.”

“I’ll put some more whiskey on top. Drink it quick and you won’t taste it.”

“I did drink it jis’ ez quick ez I could. I’ll try, but I know it won’t stay down.”

Taking the glass he tossed off the whiskey from the top, as before, and leaving the oil. The steward, now seeing through the trick, said: “You can take that now as it is, for I will not put another drop of whiskey in it.”

“Well,” said Chew, as he moved toward the door, “I dun told ye I couldn’t take castoh oil. I nevah could take it. I drink’t it quick ez I could. I kin take mos’ ennything better’n castoh oil.” He came back to his room where he told of the success of his scheme to his laughing companions.

Saturday, March 14.—Last night we got the daily papers—the first for several days. In the kitchen the cooks were at work nearly all night to have the rations ready for to-day. It was reported that the prisoners would leave about ten o’clock in the morning. All day the streets were filled with people eager for a glance at the Rebels. About 2 P.M., orders came to pack up, and about 4 P.M., they left the prison. Seventeen were taken from Room 16. Guards were placed in line along the sidewalks and in the Capitol grounds to keep back the crowd who had assembled to witness the departure. There were ambulances for the old, infirm, sick and wounded. The soldiers expected to leave to-day, but were left behind, with the exception of a few of the wounded.

Sunday, March 15.—It seems lonely to-day on account of the change—we miss so many familiar faces. It seems like a break in the family. Six more prisoners were put in our room, making twenty-one in all. There are two cases of smallpox in the next room.

Monday, March 16.—This morning the prisoners from Room 14, were crowded into our room while that room was being cleaned and whitewashed. There are twenty-one of them—some are broken out with smallpox.

Tuesday, March 17.—The men having smallpox, who were put in our room yesterday from Room 14 were to-day put in Room 18. If they are changed around a few more times the disease will be pretty well spread.

Two men, father and son, just brought in, were captured in a raid on the Potomac River. They are citizens. Their families are left without support or protection. The wife of one about being confined. Both men agreed to take the oath, but were told that as they would do so only on account of their situation they would not be released.

Volney Purcell, of Loudoun County, Virginia, was called to-day. Colonel Buell asked him what charges were against him. He replied he did not know. Purcell then asked Colonel Buell if he knew. Buell said he did not; there was nothing that he could see. Purcell then said: “Can you not release me, then?” “No,” said Buell, “I cannot.” Purcell said he thought it very strange that he should be brought from his home and kept here without any charge. Buell said it was strange, but his case would have to go before the Commission.

The prison yard is now in a very filthy condition. In rainy weather a great part of the space allowed the prisoners for exercise is covered with mud.

Wednesday, March 18.—I was called to-day by Colonel Buell. After questioning me regarding my arrest and imprisonment, he asked if I would take the oath.

“No, sir,” said I.

“What,” said he, “not willing to take the oath. I will acknowledge that my sympathies were enlisted in your behalf, but your refusal to take the oath puts an entirely different face on the matter. Had you told me that at first it might have saved this examination. In fact, you need not have left your room.”

“What charges are against me?” I asked. “If there are any, let me have a fair trial, as is my right, and if I am found guilty I am willing to suffer punishment, but if there are none you have no right to keep me here.”

“You have a very exalted opinion of the leniency of this Government, to think that after having been South you could be permitted to come back here and live without taking the oath.”

“No, sir,” said I, “I have no reason to have a very exalted opinion of the leniency of this Government. I had a right to go where I pleased before the blockade was established, and afterward had a right to come to my home where I belonged. I would not take that oath if it were offered to me at the South, and I do not see how any man can honestly take it with the intention of keeping it—‘to support, protect and defend a government or administration, now and hereafter, under any and all circumstances.’ How do I know what may be done hereafter?”

“I have taken that oath,” said Colonel Buell.

“That may be,” said I; “your views and mine differ on the subject of right and wrong.”

“Go back to your room, sir,” said Buell, and that terminated the interview.

Thursday, March 19.—An officer came up to-day with a paper and called over the names of seven in our room (Room 16)—Holbrook, Barnes, Littlepage, Keleher, Hoyle, Simmons and myself, and at night we were removed to Room 10. With the three prisoners already in the room there are ten of us now in a small room with two bunks and three small beds. Room 10 is on the north side of the building, third story, first window from the corner on First Street.

Friday, March 20.—The prisoners brought in numbered twenty-five instead of seventy-five as reported in the daily papers, where it is stated that they were taken in a fight with Stuart’s Cavalry, and that nothing but the saber was used. The prisoners say the Federals had artillery and used it.

Sunday, March 22.—Two elderly ladies, with a small child, were brought in from the street for saluting prisoners.

The prison officials are taking the names of soldiers to-day preparatory to exchange.

Monday, March 23.—It is said that the private soldiers will be sent off to-morrow. The officers will not go.

One of the prison guards, named Highland, who has always acted very kindly toward the prisoners while on post, and has made many friends among them, told me that two young ladies have been brought in and are now confined in Duff Green’s Row (Carroll Prison). He does not know who they are or what charges are against them. I understand a number of citizens from the neighborhood of Fairfax Court House have been arrested and brought in since Mosby’s raid and capture of General Stoughton, and these ladies may be of that number.G

Tuesday, March 24.—I have been suffering from severe cold for several days. Our room is small, close and ill-ventilated, and here we are kept penned up, with the exception of the time we are allowed out at meal times. Then we are out in a damp yard, which is so crowded when there is a large number of prisoners here (as at the present time,) that there is little room for comfortable exercise. In this yard we stand for about a half-hour, consequently nearly all of us are troubled with colds.

The prisoners booked for exchange are here yet, and it is hard to say when they will leave. It is reported that a number of prisoners are expected from Camp Chase or some other place, and that is a reason given for the delay.

Wednesday, March 25.—At night, a short time before roll-call, the clerk came up and inquired if all in the room were “State” prisoners. Receiving an affirmative reply, he asked who wanted to go to Dixie. Simmons, Barnes and myself answered “Here.”