My Old Capitol Prison experience covered about three weeks of the hottest and, to me, the most disagreeable close and sultry days of a Washington summer.
I was a "prisoner of State" within the walls of the ugly old building during part of the months of August and September, 1862.
To one of my active temperament, the confinement at this particular time was made doubly annoying by the knowledge we, as prisoners, were permitted to obtain, in an unsatisfactory way, of course, of the important military movements that were then going on outside. We heard, in a half apologetic way, of the abandonment of the Peninsula by McClellan, or a change of base; and this news was received inside the prison by the inmates with cheers, that sent cold chills down my spine. The locks and bars, which were always in sight, as well as the bayonets of the armed sentry, that were everywhere in view from the windows, seemed to sink deeper into my heart, when I realized that Fredericksburg was also necessarily abandoned, and Geno in the hands of the Rebels. When the crowded inmates of the prison would form groups in the yard in the evening, and, in the wildest glee, openly congratulate each other on the prospect of their speedy release by Stonewall Jackson's men, when he should reach Washington, I felt, for obvious reasons, that I'd rather not be "released" by that sort of a crowd. This feeling was especially exhibited after the news of General Pope's disaster at the second battle of Bull Run, that occurred while I was locked up there. But I am getting over these three weeks in O. C. P., as we call it for short, a little prematurely.
Very few of the tourists who visit Washington are aware that within rifle-shot of the Capitol stands (in greatly altered shape, ofcourse,) one of the most historic buildings about the city. A good-sized book might be printed about the Old Capitol, and yet not one-half the secrets the old walls could tell would have been told. It was within these walls that John C. Calhoun, in dreadful agony of mind and body, breathed his last on earth, and it is said that his last words were not those of peace and happiness. It seems a little odd that the same brick and mortar hid from the outside world the last dreadful agony of the arch-fiend Wirz. The Kit Carson G. A. R. Post, of Washington, of which I am a comrade, was organized over the same bier and in the same dungeon that contained the body of Wirz after execution, in the year of the assassination of Lincoln, and during the Presidency of Mr. Andrew Johnson.
IN OLD CAPITOL PRISON—I ADMIT THAT I BROKE DOWN COMPLETELY.IN OLDCAPITOLPRISON—I ADMIT THAT I BROKE DOWN COMPLETELY.
I spent my first night alone in a prison on the only cot the little hall-room contained. I had thrown myself upon it when I realized that Colonel Woods had closed and locked the door on me, after a polite "Good-night," without undressing myself. I admit that I broke down completely, and cried myself to sleep. I was simply broken-hearted when I recalled my previous dangerous services for the Government; could not understand why I should be so ruthlessly and heartlessly treated by the Secretary-of-War. It was my sensitive feelings that were so cruelly hurt.
In the morning I wakened, a hardened, stubborn, and, if I had been given the least chance, I should have shown myself an ugly, vindictiveman. It seemed as if theboyin my nature had parted from me with those bitter tears, and when I roused myself it was with a determination to "do something"—I didn't know exactly what, but it was anything but a surrender, or to beg for my liberty.
The unlocking of the doors and the tramping of feet along the hallways, with the voices of the attendants in boisterous conversation with the inmates of the other part of the Hotel de O. C. P., were the sounds that first awakened me to this new life, as it were. As I had not undressed, I was out before the crowd got around, and enjoyed the opportunity of surveying my surroundings in quietness. As I have tried to explain, my room was right at the head of the hall stairs, on the L-part of the building, facing on A street north. The only window the room contained looked north, and, as there were in those days no buildings at all, of any size, in that part of the city, my view extended away across the country to theDeaf and Dumb Asylum on the northern hills. In the low foreground were the numerous trains of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, that were constantly going and coming out, the tracks being in full view. This sight of loaded cars speeding away to the North—to home and liberty—was not, you may be assured, exactly the thing calculated to make the close prisoner, who saw them from his window, feel any better contented with his prison. My first thoughts at this sight were, that I should quietly leap down the short distance from that window on to the pavement below, as it was but one story above the walk, where I might quietly glide over the open commons and "catch a train."
There were no bars to the windows, and the sash was not even fastened down, because of the necessity for ventilation, so that I was able to stick my head clearly outside, but I was paralyzed to discover on the first inspection that, down on the pavement below my window, every inch was being closely patrolled by a double guard of armed sentries, while the commons, a little distance off, were occupied as the camp for the outside-guard. That's exactly the way they had it arranged in 1862, and, I also observed very soon after my arrival, that there was an inside-guard pacing up and down the hallway in front of our open doors. The outside sentinels did not allowanyone except their own officers on the pavement or street, in their front, so that communication in any shape or form was out of the question.
The back stairway led out on to the porch of the L, that opened into the yard. Communicating with this wooden porch at one end was the front hall, which led through the center of the main building out on to First street, to the west. It was modeled precisely on the same old-fashioned plan of a large farmhouse or country hotel. A main building, divided in the center by a hall which opened on to the big back porch. As if to further complete the comparison with a country tavern, I found, on going down stairs that first morning, that the porch was provided with a number of wash-bowls and long towels on rollers, at which the guests were expected to make their morning toilets, assisted by that usual scraggy old comb attached to a yard of string, tied to each post of the porch, that contained, of course, a looking-glass which distorted one's face so that I imagined, at the first sight of myself, that a single night in jail had made me look like a horrible old murderer.
Meals were served by the proprietors, of course, but I was politely informed by an officer, in answer to some question about the rules and regulations of the house, that those who preferred it could select a caterer and have special meals served from the outside. I concluded to be a prisoner on the European plan, and joined a mess of two or three other hail-fellows-well-met, to whom I was introduced by the officer. There were no restrictions placed on my intercourse with this mess, though we were informed that the trio would not be allowed to have any communication with prisoners in the other part of the house.
I did not want to see anybody that I had ever known before—not even my brother, who was then at the War Department, and to whom I had secretly telegraphed to meet me with Mr. Covode. There is no other explanation of this feeling except an admission that it was a cranky freak I indulged in to the fullest extent. After my first breakfast, while in my little room engaged in looking out of the window at the shifting trains, I was surprised by a first call from a lady.
One of our mess, whom I will call English, because he was an English "Spy"—or had been arrested as being in communication with the Rebels—politely knocked at my half-open door, saying, in the most polite way, for he was a genuine English gentleman:
"Miss Belle Boyd desires to meet you, sir," and, before I could recover from my surprise, the door was darkened by the lithe and graceful figure of a neatly-dressed young lady, who had presented herself to my vision so suddenly as to suggest a spirit from the other world. It was Belle Boyd, the celebrated female Rebel Spy. I had heard of her in connection with her daring horseback raids about Winchester and in the Valley with Stonewall Jackson and Jeb Stuart, but did not have any idea that she was to be a "fellow" prisoner with me. Without any embarrassment at all, and as if sincerely anxious to welcome me to the prison, she stepped forward smilingly and, with hands outstretched, took mine in hers, as she said: "I was anxious to see who it was that was here by Stanton's express orders."
I don't just remember now how I did act, but it's most likelythat it was in an awkward, embarrassed manner, that caused Miss Belle to say, reassuringly: "Oh, you are among your friends now, and I'm glad to know you."
To my immediate relief the conversation was further carried on by English and Miss Boyd in a strain which, while it gave me an opportunity to recover myself, at the same time put the thought into my brain that I'd "catch on," as we say nowadays, and find out what this racket in the Spy line was. Here were two Rebel spies, with whom I had been put in confidential communication, and it flashed across my mind in an instant that I would make some good come of the unpleasant surroundings and put myself in such a position that the War Department would be glad enough to acknowledge my services. There was not a shadow of a doubt of Belle Boyd's sincere interest in me. She said:
"I was in C. I. Woods' office last night when I heard him tell the officers on duty: 'You must not overlook the fact that the young man in the hall room, by himself, is here under theexpressorders of Mr. Stanton.'"
As Miss Boyd made this observation in her own positive style, her lip curled with scorn at the mention of Mr. Stanton's name. She said further, in words that I have never forgotten:
"There was something else said in an undertone that I could not gather, but I determined that I would see the prisoner who was under Mr. Stanton's express orders."
This was my introduction to Belle Boyd, and to this indorsement of Colonel Woods and Mr. Stanton I am probably indebted for the very warm and kindly interest this famous female Spy afterward showed toward me.
As I remember her appearance at that time, she was of light, rather fair complexion, and I think her hair was inclined to be a strawberry blonde. While she was not strictly a handsome woman, there was something in her manner that was very attractive. She reminded me of Maggie Mitchell in her younger days. She was graceful, and, if I remember her right, has been accorded much praise for her winning ways and easy bearings. Though she was older than myself at that time, and the center of attraction among the distinguished prisoners, all of whom seemed anxious to win her favor, I flatter myself that the famous female Spy took quite a fancy to me.
The gentleman whom I have called Mr. English was rather older than either of the little coterie that I had been invited to join. He was one of those fellows who have been everywhere and know everything; in short, a regular adventurer, after the style of the English novel. He was educated—at least, we all thought so—because he talked so glibly and knowingly about every conceivable thing, and incidentally mentioned some of the palaces he had visited, how he had been entertained by royalty. This, with an occasional hint as to the character of his family friends, and the accidental exhibition of a genuine coat-of-arms, convinced Miss Boyd and myself, in our inexperience with this sort of thing, that our friend was, of course, a disguised "juke," and from that time forth he was treated with the greatest deference by us, and ate the best part of our rations. Fortunately for me, he and Miss Belle Boyd did all the talking for the first few days. I became a quiet and admiring listener, had plenty of time in which to gather myself up, so as to be able to formulate my own story, when it should be called for.
But this everlasting Englishman talked so incessantly, and so agreeably, too, about his wonderful adventures, "in the bush, you know," while in the East India service, and in the Crimea, that, as I said, even Belle Boyd, who was a great talker, had but little show.
Our friend could sing, too, as well as talk; each evening the prisoners assembled in the "court-yard," while our glee club, on the balcony above, which was something like a stage, led by the Englishman, who bossed everything, you know, furnished entertaining music. We had every song in the whole list well rendered. It is easier to mention what wasnotsung than to begin to tell all that were given by this improvised club. Among those we never heard was the Star Spangled Banner, and kindred airs. We had Dixie for reveille, dinner and tea, and it was Dixie for a doxology at taps.
We had regular taps and hours in O. C. P. just as they have in camp outside. At bed-time everyone was made to "douse his glim" with as much strictness as if we were all aboard a man-of-war at Fort Pickens.
While I played the Rebel inside the prison for a purpose, because, as I have said, I determined the first day not to beg off, and it came sort of natural for me to ventilate a little against Stanton,I became awfully bored by the everlasting Rebel talk, and especially so at the Englishman's predictions, that we would all become willing "subjects of Her Majesty before long."
I must do the most violent Rebel prisoner the credit for resenting this sort of talk, every time it was broached in O. C. P.
One evening the Englishman was, as usual, entertaining the assembled crowd with his melodious bellowing of "Brittania Rules the Waves;" he could do that song up in the most approved operatic style; indeed, my later judgment is that the fellow must have been an opera singer among his other accomplishments. He sang this beautiful song standing before the prisoners in the most effective stage style, expecting, as a matter of course, to be applauded and encored at the end of the act. Instead of that, however, in a quiet, slow-speaking voice, I suggested involuntarily: "How about the Monitor and Merrimac?"
The question seemed so apt, and put in such a sly way, that it seemed to act as a match that exploded a slumbering mine. The Englishman never before had such applause, accompanied with loud laughter. It was a continuous "howl" for a few minutes. We retired that night, laughingly discussing the Englishman and the Monitor.
The incident served to break up the singing services, and after that we heard less of England. It also shows that, even among the United States Rebel prisoners in the Old Capitol Prison, in 1862, there was a smoldering or banked-up fire of genuine patriotism yet burning, that only needed a little stirring or poking up, to cause it to break out into a great flame.
I will not burden this narrative with this Englishman's story. His history, and especially his secret services for the Rebellion, as he related it every day in the three weeks that I was obliged to listen to his everlasting talk, would, to use a common term, fill a book.
He was evidently enamored of Miss Boyd, and the plans of these two Rebel Spies, after they should be released, were from day to day discussed in my hearing.
Belle Boyd's operations as a Spy, had been carried on principally in the Valley, where I was not at all known. During our many hours of confidential chat together, I learned from her, under pretense of expecting to use the information in getting South, when Ishould "escape," the names and location of those people along the Upper Potomac and in Washington, who could be depended upon as "our friends," or as we called them in those days, "Rebel sympathizers."
The list was extensive, and embraced some Washington "officials."
If my services had not resulted in anything else, this information alone, which I gained as an involuntary Spy, was of sufficient importance to compensate for all my troubles. Of course, it will be understood here that Belle Boyd never once suspected my true character. She had heard me denounced by the officials of the prison as a "dangerous man." Indeed, without egotism, I may be allowed to say that, at that particular time, I was looked upon by the prisoners and attendants as a "remarkable character," to put it modestly.
I did not suspect at this time that I was the object of so much quiet Rebel homage and attention, else I might have conducted myself differently, and exhibited some vanity over the reputation I then enjoyed. As it was, I was set down as one of the quietest, least troublesome of all Colonel Woods' guests. That was my Old Capitol Prison record in brief; and I don't know now whether I should boast of it or not. Probably I do not deserve any credit at all for the simple facts were, that I was so sick at heart, and yet so stubborn in disposition, that I had neither inclination or desire to speak a word toanybody, and wanted to be let alone.
My brother called to see me the second day after my arrival, accompanied by some officious fellow from General Eckert's War Department Office, whose name I have forgotten.
When Colonel Woods personally called me down to his office, he said, in a kindly way, that my brother and a friend had called, and that, out of respect for us all, he would permit us to have a quiet interview, without any show of guards or the usual censorship of official attendants. I thought at the time that this was very kind in Colonel Woods, but I changed my mind after the interview had ended.
As I walked into the room, my brother stepped up to shake my hand, but the poor fellow broke down completely and could not utter a word. His exhibition of feeling surprised and, of course, affected me, and for the moment I more fully realized the effectthat imprisonment was even then having on my father and friends in the world outside. With this came a reaction in an intense bitterness, engendered by the knowledge that I was being at least outrageously treated, so that I became in a moment, even in the presence of my heart-broken brother, as cold and apparently as indifferent as the worst Rebel inside. It will be seen that this unjustifiable imprisonment had changed my whole nature for the time being. It had soured me, as it were, with the War Department Administration (but not with the country), as completely as a thunderstorm would have turned a glass of sweet cream into a cold thick mass of clabber.
The young fellow who accompanied my brother commenced to do the talking, expressing in his kindliest way, but in a drawling nasal tone, peculiar to a Down-east man who affects the moral-reform style, that has had the effect of setting me on edge ever since against this class of men, his "sincere regret at my unfortunate condition." His tone and manner not only put me on nettles, but his first proposition was, "Now, my dear boy, the best thing you can do, for your brother and yourself, is to freely confess to——."
That's all he said; he didn't get any further, because I snapped him up abruptly, saying, "Confessnothing; I'll do nothing of the kind, because there isn't anything to confess."
"But, my dear boy, why did you refuse to take the oath of allegiance? Surely if you——."
"Oh you go to ——. I'm not going to make any further explanations to you."
Then, turning to my brother, I quietly told him that Mr. Covode would explain matters; that I would not, if I stayed there forever, ask any favors from the War Office. My brother said that this man had been sent down as a witness to my denial, and it was only necessary for me to say in his presence that I would take the oath.
But, I could not honorably do that. I could not swear falsely to get out of prison, that "I had never borne arms nor belonged to an armed organization against the United States." And I would not perjure myself, even with the orders of Secretary Stanton, with a long imprisonment threatening me for disobedience.
And I did not. To make the long story short, I went back toprison. Colonel Woods, who had been called into the room and heard with surprise of my refusal to be released on such a "technicality," merely laughed as he escorted me back to quarters, fully satisfied in his own mind, no doubt, that I was a "case."
The Englishman and Belle Boyd had, of course, heard one side of his story of my "bribery," and, in consequence, became, if possible, more interested than ever in the development of my interesting case.
Realizing from this interview that I was simply at Mr. Stanton's mercy, and that he was most probably influenced by the War Department suckers whom I have mentioned, and who were envious or jealous of my independent and important telegraph or secret communications, I made up my mind that it was going to be a long siege in O. C. P. for me. The more I thought about it, and as each day's scanty news brought us fresh and exciting intelligence of the military doings in front of our army, I concluded impulsively that Iwouldn'tstay very long; that Imustbe on hand and once more outside. I would vindicate myself independently of Mr. Stanton's advisers.
Our mess was served by a caterer from the outside, as I have already explained. The meals were brought in three times a day, on a tray, by a colored boy, or a contraband. I had noticed from my room window that this colored boy came from that direction, and had, in consequence, learned to look out for his appearance as regularly as we got hungry, at each meal time, so that it became a daily question in our mess: "Is dinner in sight yet?"
The same boy brought it every day. He had to pass the quartette of guards in front of the house, and his basket was "subject to inspection" inside the hall before it could be admitted through the house.
But, as a matter of fact, the inspection became somewhat of a fraud, because the hungry guards selected the best bits of everything by way of sampling the contents, so that we held so many indignation meetings and bothered Colonel Woods so much with protests and complaints, that he was glad enough to arrange with a "trooly loil" cook, whom he could trust to not pack any papers in our grub. In this way our boy was permitted to pass unquestioned, as he became so well known to the regular attendants.
It occurred to me that it would be a good scheme to personate the colored boy, and walk out with the empty dishes, past the guard unquestioned, and so escape from the prison.
Looking up into the colored boy's face, I noticed that his ragged, old, white, straw-hat, always worn well pulled down over his curly head, half concealed a black face that, while it was not exactly similar to my own features, may be set down as being (with the exception of the black) about my "style," in age and general appearance, if I should black my face.
Playfully at first, I suggested to Belle Boyd a scheme of exchanging places with the boy, coloring my face, dressing in his coat and hat, and attempting to walk out with his tray.
She looked at the boy, then at me, and, with a hearty laugh, declared: "It's the very thing; let's do it."
Mr. English was, of course, consulted, and graciously gave his assent to the undertaking, provided he was allowed to "make me up," and to boss the job generally.
This suggestion was fully discussed between us during that and the days that followed; indeed, we talked of little else for a while. How to conceal the boy, inside, until I should get safely out of reach of the guards, was the most difficult part of the problem. The trouble that would ensue from my friend's complicity, if he should be detected, was also fully discussed, and a plausible way out of all these difficulties was arranged.
I was to borrow or buy from the boy, his old hat and coat, and the patched pants and torn shoes I would manufacture.
I was to be already blackened when he should come in, at a certain evening meal, that was usually served nearly at dark. While he was waiting on our table I was quickly to don his hat and coat, and, with the empty basket of rattling dishes, to boldly march out, as he had been in the habit of doing, into the street, and then trust to my legs for the balance. We were a long time in arranging all the details. Indeed, the occupation it gave to us all helped to pleasantly pass hours that might otherwise have been distressing.
Belle Boyd was as much interested in my outfit as any school-girl is over the dressing up of her new doll, while the Englishman gave me enough instructions and orders to carry me around the world. He was certainly an adept in the business.
During my three weeks at the Old Capitol Prison, I made a number of peculiar acquaintances that were quite interesting in the year which followed. As I am only to furnish that which pertains to myself personally, I will omit the mention of any other except to record my first acquaintance with a most universally-known war character.
The party to whom I refer will be recognized by every soldier, I may say without a single exception, in all the armies. I regret very much that I can not give his name in Latin, but in war talk it was the "Greyback," or, in plain United States—lice.
These detestable things were in Old Capitol as thick as they only can be, and, after my first contact, I may say frankly, they stuck to me closer than a brother "for three years or during the war." This was one of the "things" that "animated" me to get out of that dirty old building, that I might rush down to the Potomac and drown myself.
Old Capitol is now a beautiful block of fine residences, containing, to-day, probably as fine and as luxurious furniture and occupied by as refined people as are in the country, but, personally, I wouldn't live in it for anything, because I feel sure the bugs are in the walls yet.
The plan I proposed was entirely feasible; we all agreed on that; not one of us doubted but that I would be able to successfully accomplish the dangerous undertaking. It was dangerous only if I should be detected in the attempt, as it would certainly end in my being sent off to Fort Lafayette in New York Harbor, where I would probably be ironed and placed in a dungeon as a dangerous character, and be kept there, too, during the war. It never once occurred to me that to have been caught in attempting to escape, or to have succeeded in doing so, would have reacted against me disastrously, to the satisfaction of those who were so anxious that I should afford them some proof by which they might be able to more fully substantiate the charges of supposed disloyalty, that they had whispered into the ear of the Secretary of War. It was quite an easy matter in those days for the suckers, like Woods, Eckert, and the gang of Pinkerton suckers, and others, who were around the War Department, to poison the mind of the powers that were against any persons they may have selected as a target fortheir contemptible and cowardly persecution. It's a true story, well known among historians, that this was being done—in many cases where the victims were often men of great prominence and rank, that subsequent events proved to have been as loyal as the Secretary himself.
The Englishman's story, that I gathered from his continual gabble, would make a chapter in itself. I will only mention now that he was apparently in the service of at least some official of great prominence in the English Government. He told us of letters of introduction he brought to President Jefferson Davis and a number of the leading officers of the Rebel Government at Richmond; from ever so many "my lords" of high degree in England.
It was while endeavoring to reach Richmond through the Potomac blockade that he was captured, and, to his great disgust, all of his papers were "seized," as he said, "by some brutal soldiers, you know," and the vulgar officers absolutely declined to return his papers, and had actually been so preposterous as to send him under guard to "a vile prison."
That's about the style of his everlasting chin—from morning until night—and the fact that his accent, as well as his foreign airs of superiority and of contempt for the Yankees, necessarily accompanied the words, made him all the more disagreeable to me.
The most interesting part of his story is, as he in an unguarded moment, apparently, while talking with Miss Boyd, who had expressed a curiosity to know why he did not attempt to escape, too, confessed that the real object and purpose of his mission in this country, as he had been instructed before leaving England by his friend, was to purposely place himself in the way of arrest and imprisonment by the United States Government.
His papers were not of an incendiary character exactly, I suppose, and my recollection of it now is, that they were principally letters of introduction, which were prepared by English lords with the avowed purpose of being used by the bearer in making a "case," or difficulty, on account of his English citizenship, which would give them some grounds to make a claim for his release, that would create a breach, and bring about a war, all in the interests of the Southern people. This, in effect, was the story, and I took it all in very carefully.
One day, to my disgust as well as personal discomfort, Colonel Woods brought a gentleman to my door, whom he introduced as a fellow Rebel who would be compelled to share my room with me for awhile; because, as he explained, they were getting a little crowded. The party introduced to me, I recognized at once—that is I remembered seeing his face some place, but couldn't exactly place him; when Colonel Woods in a little further chat, intimated that my associate would no doubt be a boon companion, as he was an original Rebel, he left us alone.
My new room-mate was a man of thirty-five or forty years, with a face that I should now denominate as hard. He was pleasant; indeed, his manner was made especially agreeable to me. The story he told me of the cause of his imprisonment served to satisfy me—for the time being—that I had been in error in having supposed that I had ever seen him before.
He said he was arrested for having been implicated in an attempt to recapture and return to Virginia some fugitive slave whom he had caught in the District of Columbia. He gave me a long account of the law, as it then existed—which, by the way, is the fact—that in 1862 there was a fugitive slave law in the District.
As soon as my two comrades in distress heard of this associate having been thrust upon us, and dropped into our exclusive mess to become our company, their suspicions were aroused.
The Englishman declared that the object of putting "this person" in among us was to ascertain what we had been so thick about lately. I confess this had not once occurred to me. I was simply annoyed at being obliged to have the constant company of another person in my cramped little hall room; not that he was at all disagreeable personally, but probably because we three had become rather exclusive and wanted to select our company from among the convicts. It is likely enough that we would have resented any person's society from outside just then.
When the others expressed their conviction that it was a scheme to entrap us, my eyes became opened, as I recalled again my first impression, that I had certainly seen the man before. When I mentioned this fact to Miss Boyd, she at once jumped to the conclusion that he was a spy on us, which opinion was shared by the Englishman most decidedly, who gave us our orders as our commander to be on thequi vivefor him.
It was thought best that we should treat him with the greatest possible coolness, but of course with decency. Indeed, our Englishman was so exceedingly polite and gracious to the new-comer that his assumed airs and comic actions were so amusing to Miss Boyd and myself that we could scarcely keep up our show of dignity. Miss Boyd performed the chilling process, and she acted the part so well that the poor man was frozen on to me, as the only one to whom he could talk sensibly. I talked lots to him when we were alone. The opinions, the very decided opinions, he got from me, on Mr. Stanton and his clerks, if repeated to his employers, would have made things more interesting for him and me too.
When I became satisfied, or thought I was, and imagined that I had for my room-mate or companion a Pinkerton man, who had been purposely sent in there by some of the War Department officials to manufacture testimony against us, we all took the greatest delight in filling him up.
The first night, when alone, I talked him to sleep. I told him all my grievances; at least, that part that I wanted the War Office to hear officially.
I was careful to only tell one story correctly, and that was the exact character and object of the Englishman's business in this country. I saw that my listener was interested in it from his actions and questionings, so that I gave him the full details, for a purpose. I knew, or suspected very strongly, that he would make a report of it to the Secretary, and I, as a victim of the Pinkerton clique, was willing that they, as detectives, should have the credit from the Secretary of unearthing that story.
My desire was to defeat the Englishman's purpose, and to benefit this Government, whose officials were persecuting me when I knew that I was entitled to a reward.
We made him sick; at least, the following day he complained of feeling unwell, and, under this pretense, he was allowed to go, ostensibly to the hospital, which was located in another part of the building.
His name was Horton or Norton, I have forgotten which. I learned, in a couple weeks following, that he was the detective we had suspected him of being. When I mentioned to my brother,that I had seen him before, he told me that I had probably met him in Eckert's telegraph room, at the War Office, where he had been specially employed.
IN OLD CAPITOL PRISON—DISGUISED AS A CONTRABAND.IN OLDCAPITOLPRISON—DISGUISED AS A CONTRABAND.
When relieved of our unwelcome guest, we set about with renewed energy to put into operation the plan we had now about matured for my escape.
Miss Belle Boyd entered into the preparations for this scheme as school-girls plan their tableaux.
Her quick manner, or apt way of being able to change the subject of conversation, in case of occasional interruption was, to me, a source of great astonishment coupled with admiration.
One evening, by way of experiment, I was, with the assistance of Belle Boyd and the Englishman, completely rigged out in the colored boy's clothes. Corks had been gathered up and scientifically toasted, or burnt, over the lamp flame by our Englishman, who handled the business so familiarly that I am constrained now to think he was a disguised showman instead of a scion of a noble family.
I was dressed in the rags we had collected for the purpose, Belle managing this part of the job with as much glee and interest as if dressing a bride for a wedding. She would stick a pin in here, or tuck up a rag at another place, look at me critically, order me to turn around or walk off, as if I were trying on a new dress. The Englishman rubbed my face, and, after the manner of an artist, cocked his eye to get a better view of the effect of the last touch of shade, and then both would nearly explode with suppressed laughter at my ridiculous appearance.
I was instructed in the best way to show all my teeth at once, duly cautioned not to speak unless I was obliged to, and drilled in the broadest negro dialect, to which I was somewhat accustomed through my long residence in the South.
When all was satisfactory, after dark, the curtain was rang up and I was ushered out into the hundreds of assembled prisoners to try my disguise, by mixing promiscuously among them for a while. I entered boldly into the fun, and, with the feeling that, if detected, it would only be considered a good joke, as long as I was not attempting to use it as a means to pass the guard, I, in a happy, careless way, went through my part in such a satisfactory mannerthat even Miss Boyd and the Englishman, who were intently watching the play, involuntarily applauded me every time I happened to do a piece of silly business that tickled them.
As an amateur actor, my debut on that sort of a dangerous stage was satisfactory to the two patrons who were managing the "bringing me out."
I stepped up to Miss Boyd, who had been standing on the balcony watching the play, bowed low, and, in as broad a dialect as I could muster, requested her order for breakfast. She, in her quick way, had a smart reply:
"Sam, you ugly, good-for-nothing nigger, tell your master to use a scrubbing brush on you before you come to me again."
This, with some other unkind observation, which Miss Boyd addressed to the Englishman, as to the "villainous expression of that nigger's face," served to wind up the fun for me, when, at the first opportunity, I got behind my door and very quickly changed my color and clothes.
As an experiment, it was a complete success; so satisfactory that we agreed that there would be no trouble in my being able to pass the guards in this disguise, provided I could keep a stiff upper lip, and not become so nervous as to excite any suspicion. I was willing to risk that part of it. A day was set, which was to be Saturday evening of that week, only two days distant, for me to make the attempt.
I had minute directions from Belle Boyd as to the location of her Rebel friends—in Maryland and in Washington—who would furnish me assistance in getting back to the Rebel lines. Of these I made a careful mental note, and also procured from the lady some short notes of introduction.
If I had gone into that miserable prison as a Union Spy, with the object of gathering information from an intimate association with the inmates, I could not have hoped to be as successful in this direction as I had been while I was acting as an involuntary Spy.
It so happened, and I take pleasure in recording it, as something almost supernatural, or in the line of that providence that seemed always to be with me, and to control my actions at the right time, that at the very time I was arranging all these details in myroom, preparatory to an escape in the evening, a visitor was in the prison waiting to see me.
As I have so often said, while in the prison I had positively and even stubbornly declined to ask any consideration at the hands of the Secretary of War or his whelping advisers. This singular feeling I shall not attempt to excuse now, simply stating the facts. It was a mistake; but my whole life seems to have been made up of mistakes. The effect of it was to estrange from me even my best friends, and my brother who, on account of the confidential relations he held in the War Telegraph Office, was afraid to become too openly interested in my case.
Rather to my surprise, I was notified on this Saturday afternoon by one of the regular prison attendants that I was wanted in Colonel Woods' office. Of course I suspected at once that our little game had been found out, and that I was to be called upon for an explanation. This subject of escaping had been in my mind so much lately that I could not for the time think that anything else was probable. As if further to confirm my suspicions, the attendant who brought the summons to me said, in his polite but positive way, "I am ordered to stay with you, and you are to take anything you have along, as there is to be some change made in your case."
I had not brought anything with me to the prison in the way of baggage, and had really less to take away, excepting the greybacks, which we had always with us. My only baggage was my light wearing apparel, with the Bible which Mrs. Wells had given to me.
The purpose in thus suddenly summoning prisoners to headquarters was to prevent their relieving themselves of anything incendiary which a search of the person might have disclosed.
My request to be permitted to see Miss Boyd was politely refused by the attendant, who explained his refusal by saying, his orders were to take me at once to the office and to prevent any communication. I saw that it was no use to reason or argue with that New Hampshire Yankee—he had his orders and was going to obey them to the letter—so, gathering up my coat, slipping it on nervously, and, donning my hat, I was at his side, and in a few minutes more was inside Colonel Woods' office.
To my astonishment, I saw my brother and some stranger seated in the office chatting cheerfully with Colonel Woods. The greeting of Spencer on this occasion was so entirely different from the first visit, when he had involuntarily broken down on seeing me, that I was further surprised by his clapping me on the back, in his old-time brotherly way, and saying, "Well, boy, we are going to take you away from here."
I don't know what I said or did; probably the first feeling was one of disappointment that I was to be deprived of the fun of escaping; but, quickly realizing the fact that I had almost overlooked that there was a world outside, I joined pleasantly in the greetings until it was explained that there were some little preliminaries to be arranged, in the way of signing some papers.
When my brother's friend spoke up in explaining this, and observed that the Secretary was "disposed to be lenient in my case," a feeling of resentment came over me, which might have broken out in some expression, if my brother had not whispered: "Father wants you to go home, and says Covode will arrange everything right there."
The mention of my father, and a request from him has, under all conditions and circumstances of my checkered life, been respected, and, if possible, complied with. It has been my observation, too, that I have never made a mistake while acting under his advice, and, also, that I have always found it disastrous to disregard his injunctions. In this case my father's simple request had more effect than the Secretary's mandate.
An examination of the little papers that the messenger from Mr. Stanton presented to be in duplicate, showed at a glance that it was simply a parole of honor, without any conditions or penalties, by which I agreednot to go south of a certain point, untilauthorized or released from the parole.
Knowing that I could secure the necessary release through my friends, and, after a word of kind advice by Colonel Woods, I attached my name to the paper in duplicate, took one with me, and walked out of the door a free man, with my gratified brother, while the other copy was taken to the War Department, and ison record there to-day, as a proof that I was in the Old Capitol Prison during this time, as stated.
I was fired out of Old Capitol Prison as suddenly and unexpectedly to myself as I had been run into the old trap.
When I said something to the officials about my own expenses, the Colonel handed me a copy of the parole, saying in a jocular manner: "There is your receipt in full; that paper clears you. Get out, now, and don't come back here again."
I went out with my brother and his companion, first to a "haberdashery," kept by a sutler Jew on the avenue. He was one of the fellows whom I, as a railroad official atFredericksburg, had granted some special favors in the way of getting his goods into the army, through the Provost Guards.
At the time, the fellow was all smiles, or rather grins, because in the position I then occupied, I had been able to secure him special facilities to carry on his profitable army trading business. I thought, of course, from the gushing way he had talked to me then, that he would be my everlasting friend, as he had so freely expressed his gratitude to me and desired to make me presents. Naturally I looked him up the first thing when I discovered that my neat wardrobe had become sadly in need of replenishing during the month. I wanted some clean, fresh clothing, "cheap for cash." We found the fellow easily enough; but, dear me! circumstances had altered cases with him. When I made known my errand, and asked an outfit on small payment, the broad open-mouthed grin of the ugly fellow closed up tight as an oyster, and his face became solemn as a patriarch as he began the lamentation of Jacob over his losses by the evacuation of Fredericksburg.
Through my brother Spencer's assistance, I was soon supplied with an entirely new and fresh outfit from the skin out. At first my demands for a complete rig rather struck my brother as being a little extravagant, but when I had explained that one ofthe tortures Mr. Stanton inflicted upon his victims at the Old Capitol was the persistent bugs that the building was infested with, he let go my arm as suddenly as if he had experienced an electric shock, sidled off from me, and, without another word of argument, fully agreed with me that the only and first thing to do was to get rid of everything—clothes and all, from hat to socks. Carrying my bundle to a barber shop, I had my hair cut, took a bath, donned my new suit, and generously donated my old clothes to the colored barber.
Disguised in a new suit of clothes, I walked the streets of Washington an hour after having left the prison. The first place I desired to visit was the War Department. I felt that I had some urgent business with some of the officials up there, that I was anxious to relieve my mind of at once.
My brother and his companion objected. This mutual friend called my attention to the parole, which I had carelessly left in my old clothes in the barber shop. I was gently reminded that I had agreed to go north of a certain point at once, and was not to return south of that line until properly authorized to do so by the War Office.
Instead of going to the train that evening, I went to the "Canterbury Theatre," an institution on Louisiana avenue as well known by old soldiers who spent a day in Washington as any of the War relics.
While seated in the theater, which was crowded by officers, soldiers, citizens, adventurers, sutlers, clerks, politicians, army contractors, etc., I was immensely amused when a pair of country officers, dressed up in full uniform, each wearing belt, sash and saber, strutted down the crowded aisle, their accoutrements of war rattling at every step, making so great a noise that it disturbed Johnny Hart, a negro comedian then on the stage, who abruptly stopped his performance, stepped up to the footlights, and addressed the noisy incomers: "Say, why in hell didn't you bring your horses too?"
This brought the house down, and had the effect of silencing that part of the audience that brought their camp and garrison equipage to the theatre.
It was not so much of a joke, however, when a little later onan army officer led a Corporal's Guard, armed with loaded muskets and bayonets stuck into their guns, down the aisle, and at a lull in the performance, came to an "order arms," while this shrewd officer of the Washington Provost Guard demanded the passes of every one in the audience who wore a uniform. I felt quite uneasy when they actually arrested and took out of the same bench on which I sat two commissioned officers who could not show passes.
Fortunately I was not disturbed, but I lost all interest in the show, and soon retired to quarters where the Provost Guard couldn't find me.
The only thing I could hear from Covode in relation to our own embarrassing affairs was: "Oh, that's all right; just tell him that it will be all right."
It was true, though not much of a consolation for me, to be reminded by some kind friends that I was not alone a sufferer by Mr. Stanton's arbitrary orders. Even General McClellan had been not only relieved from command of the army, but had been ordered to proceed to Burlington, N. J., and there await orders. This I was told meant, in reality, exile for him in precisely the same manner as for my own humble self, though the phraseology of the order was a little different from that in my parole.
I went home, where I was affectionately received into my father's house by my sisters and my aunts—I had no mother then. Probably, if I had not so early in life been deprived of a mother, I would have been saved, by her teachings, from many of the hard knocks which I was receiving by way of bitter experience. My father, always kind and indulgent, seemed to think that it was our privilege and right to pitch in for ourselves, that we might learn from experience. He seldom gave his boys any of that "I told you so" advice, in the threatening manner which renders it so inoperative.
I had made up my mind, while in the Old Capitol Prison, that when I should get free again the very first thing I should do would be to enlist as a private soldier in the Union Army.
I reasoned to myself that my services as a Scout or Spy, while working as a civilian in the interest of the politicians at Washington, would not advance my military ambition. In fact, I hadlearned from some hard hits already that it was an uphill business to operate in the field as a civilian. Somehow or other, all the military people were not exactly distrustful, but there seemed to be at least a prejudice against any person about the camp who did not wear a uniform. I was willing and anxious enough to wear a uniform, but my ambition was to be an officer in the Regular Service, attached to Headquarters Staff.
This, as I have said, was about as difficult to reach as the position of Brigadier-General in the Volunteers, because they were making Brigadier-Generals every day, and they were not making Second Lieutenants in the Regular Army.
I explained my plans to my father and a few friends. My father interposed some objections to my selection of the Regular Army, preferring that I should identify myself with some regiment from our own State, and especially from our own neighborhood.
I preferred the Regular Cavalry first, because I intended fitting myself, by the experience I should gain in the ranks under the severe discipline and drill, for a Second Lieutenancy in that branch. My father thought that I would not be able to stand the restraints the discipline would impose upon me; but, as usual, I had my own way, overcoming their preference for the State troops, by the reminder that the treatment I had received from the Secretary of War would serve as a club in the hands of malcontents and growlers, who are to be found in every regiment, kicking against new-comers' advancement.
Another difficulty was raised by the receipt of a letter from my brother, at Washington, which reminded my father that I was not allowed to remain at my home, because it was located south of the line of my stipulated parole.
The War Department detectives had tracked me even into my own home, through the connivance of some contemptible neighbors, who are descendants of the Revolutionary Hessians, and like the craven dogs they were, they helped to hound me away from my father's home. To relieve my father and friends of any embarrassment, I left the house, after bidding them another "Good-by," one evening, arriving in Pittsburgh before midnight of the same day. The first thing the next morning I hunted up the recruiting office, astonished the officers by offering myself, andwithout any preliminaries enlisted into Company B, Second United States Cavalry, Captain T. F. Rodenbaugh.
When I applied for enlistment I never once thought of the bounty money I would become entitled to, therefore my entry into the army in the fall of 1862 was in no sense mercenary. I had served a year previously as a civilian and knew what was in store for me in the ranks.
I was not even "in the draft," as my parole would have relieved me from every obligation, if I had chosen so to use it. I volunteered from motives of duty and patriotism in 1862, at a time when recruiting was not so brisk as it had been; in fact, at a time when everything looked dark enough for our side.
Instead of availing myself of the parole that cleared me from obligation, I, in the darkest days of the war voluntarily enlisted as a private soldier. I felt in my heart that, in thus putting my life in pawn for the cause I had from the first consistently championed, that I would forever put beyond discussion the question of the sincerity of my motives, and I became credited to Alleghany County, Pennsylvania, so that, after all, I was a "regular volunteer" from my own State and County.
Through the thoughtfulness of Captain Rodenbaugh, I was paid some bounty money, which I expended in the purchase of mementoes for my friends, believing that I should never again come home to them.
In the matter of my get-up as a soldier, Captain Rodenbaugh was quite useful to me, and became quite pleasantly interested, taking the trouble to accompany me to the tailor shop, where he gave the necessary directions as to the regulation pattern.
I was to act as his private secretary or company clerk, and I suspect that he also intended to use my good clothes as a sort of a dressed-up dummy, to stand around the office with white gloves on, as a decoy to entice recruits to his roll, pretty much as we see the "walking sign" now a days at recruiting offices.
In the Second Cavalry, the facings, instead of being the ordinary "yaller" of the cavalry, were of an orange color, to distinguish them as the "Dragoons," as they were listed previous to the reorganization of that service just before the war.
I was made a Corporal by the Captain, and had the stripes in abeautiful orange on my arms. The cap was the regulation little fatigue or McClellan style, with the crossed sabers, and the insignia of company and regiment in brass letter—B 2.
At my earnest solicitation, Captain Rodenbaugh sent me away with the first detachment of recruits to Cavalry Headquarters, then Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania. Here I had a regular circus every hour of the day, from reveille till retreat or tattoo. It's only those who have seen cavalry recruits drilled with regular cavalry horses and old drilled Sergeants, that can be made to believe the stories that are told of their accomplishments in this direction.
Carlisle Barracks was in crude form, just what the West Point Riding School of to-day is. I was anxious to learn to be a good soldier, and I did learn a good deal—in a mighty short time, too—while I was at Carlisle. I was taught some things there that I thought I had learned thoroughly before I went there. For instance, I had been a long time in Western Texas, and had ridden wild and bucking horses without a saddle, chased buck-rabbits in a zigzag course over hog-wallow prairies in a reckless way that made my head dizzy, but it was reserved for my Drill Sergeant at Carlisle Barracks to show me how simple a matter it was for a trained cavalry horse to throw off a Texas cow-boy. Those old Sergeants—and there were a number of them—had the drill horses trained so thoroughly, and withal so full of tricks, that they beat Buffalo Bill and any circus horses I've ever seen all to pieces.
It was lots of fun for the Sergeants and a few officers and their wives, who were always watching our evolutions from their barrack windows, but it was a little bit rough on some of the boys.
We were given lessons in mounting and dismounting by the hour, till I became so expert that I was relieved of that part of the drill and advanced into a squad who had been there some time, and were soon to be sent off to the front as graduates. We were all obliged to hold the bridle-rein in one and the same way; that is, in the left hand, turned up so that we could see the finger-nails. All the steering had to be done by merely turning or twisting the clenched hand around, keeping it in the same position. There was no hauling back of the reins permitted, except by drawing the hand straight up to the chin to check or tighten the lines; and the forearm must be always directly in front of the pommel of the saddle.
This part of the riding lesson was all new to me. I had always used my hands as I pleased, but here we must all hold the infernal wild horses with one hand turned upside down, and dare not even yank the elbow around without getting a cuss from the Sergeant. There were always two or three Sergeants to each drill; one gave the commands from his position in front, while another old rascal rode behind somewhere to watch our arms and legs and to do the extra cussing.
Some of the fellows in our squad had been farmer boys, and felt that they knew all about horses, and were disposed at first to talk horse with the Sergeants; but one lesson in deportment answered for the whole term at Carlisle Barracks.
Those old fellows all said they would far rather take a city man who had never been on a horse than a farmer who had been riding all his life. The city fellows made good Regular Cavalrymen. We learned to ride with our knees and to steer with the legs.
At first our little caps would not stay on top of our heads, but we soon became able to balance them, with the strap dangling under the nose or chin, instead of being fastened under the chin.
These old war-horses had been at the barracks a long time, and had been carefully trained to go by the bugle. At the sound "trot," they would all start off as neatly, with the left foot foremost, as any infantry squad. When the "gallop" was sounded every old horse would switch his tail, take the bit in his teeth and go off like a shot over the field, helter-skelter, as if it were a hurdle race, or the whole Rebel Army were after them. This part of the show is where the most of the fun came in. Of course, some of the riders couldn't keep time with the horses, and their caps and sabers would become troublesome appendages, and were often cast off; then the old Sergeant, bringing up the rear, would yell like a Comanche Indian, which none of us could understand, and, as everybody thought it was necessary we should hear, it had the effect of rattling the whole squad. One of our first lessons was that never, under any circumstances, must we speak to our horses; everything must be done quietly and effectively by bit and spur; but when they got to running us off by the bugle, some of the farmer boys, when they would be tossed up too much, involuntarily sang out, "Whoa!" or else, too audible, cursed the man alongside for jamming their legs. This would bring down such a torrent of abuse on the head of the offender that we were kept in a state of terror from the time we were on the horses till we dismounted.
The Sergeant, or perhaps an officer, after getting the squad well under way, would sound "to the right," and, of course, the horses knew what the bugle said and obeyed the signal instantly; but most of the riders didn't, and were, in consequence, involuntarily going straight ahead or fell off at the unexpected turn of the horse. Then, on the home-stretch, they would so abruptly sound a "halt," that the horses would stop in two jumps, while the rider very likely went straight ahead.
I'm telling you the truth about Carlisle Barracks and the Regular Cavalry. I've been there—several times—and know it all pretty well. Why, it's a fact, that those old horses would, at the command "right dress," as soberly turn their one eye down the line and back up a step or forward as any infantry regiment; and on the wheel the inside horse always marked time beautifully, while the fellow on the outside had to gallop.
I had lots of fun during the couple of weeks that I was at Carlisle Barracks. Probably because I entered with so much zest and earnestness into the drill, which was really sport for me. I attracted the attention (favorably) of the Sergeants and officers, and was so rapidly advanced that my request to be sent to the front with the first detachment was approved. In this ambition Captain Rodenbaugh seconded me, as he had been relieved of recruiting duty, and was ordered to conduct the first party to the front.
We left one cold day in November, via Harrisburg, traveling all night in a box-car attached to a freight train. We were delayed all the next day in Baltimore, putting in the time standing around in the cold, miserable streets, under guard, awaiting our transportation over the slow Baltimore & Ohio to Washington. The second night we reached Washington, and slept on the floor of the barn-like affair they called the Soldiers' Retreat, then located down by the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad Depot. A great many soldiers will remember that shanty.
Early next morning, before any of my comrades were awake, I was up about daybreak, anxious to get a look at Washington, andespecially Old Capitol Prison, through the glasses of a Union soldier. It was a bitter cold morning; so early as 5A. M., when I went to the door of our barracks, I was astonished to see, wrapped up in his big blue overcoat, the snow blowing all over him, and standing almost up to his knees in it, our Captain, C. F. Rodenbaugh.
I did not know then that it was an officer's duty, and one of his privileges, to stand around all night in the cold, while his men slept comfortably under shelter. I said something like this to the Captain, when he courteously answered that he was the officer in charge, and it was his duty to see that the sentries were on hand. It was an early lesson; and I will say right here that the Regular officers, though severe and strict in discipline, I found always ready to expose themselves before they asked their men to do so. Apparently the Regular officers held themselves aloof from their men, and though I was almost intimate with Captain Rodenbaugh, I would not have ventured to address him, except in the way of duty, and then only after a proper salute, after we had gotten out in the field. Yet, if I could have met him alone or unobserved, I should have been as free with him as with my best friend. This matter of Regular Army etiquette was fully understood as part of our drill, and the subject never gave us any uneasiness, but in all probability saved us much trouble. There were no favorites in our service; every man was treated alike, and as long as every man did his duty, right up to the scratch, in Regular Army style, he was as independent as any officer, in his way. I had some queer experiences in this way, which I will relate further on.
I was in Washington again, and, strange to say, we were camped for the first night right in sight of the Old Capitol Prison.
Mr. Stanton, the autocrat Secretary of War, failed entirely to suppress me. With all his arbitrary exercise of authority he could not keep me away from the front. Locking me up in Old Capitol Prison only detained me temporarily. If I had not been released I certainly should have escaped the same day.
The first visit I made in Washington after my return there as a soldier was to the Capitol.
Armed with a pass, duly approved by the Provost-Guard officers, and dressed up in my Sunday uniform, I called the member of Congress from my home District from his seat out into the corridor (Mr. Covode being absent), where I bluntly and briefly explained that I had been given a parole not to come South until released, but being satisfied in my own heart that it was a wrong to me, and injustice had been done through the envy and malice of some War Department officials, I had, upon the advice of such men as Covode, decided to enlist in the army, and they had formally notified the Secretary of my intention of so doing.
I had not officially been advised that "I was forgiven," and desired Mr. Blair to see the Secretary and arrange the matter for me. He looked at me with astonishment at first, and then, realizing the absurdity of the thing, laughed heartily, saying "Why, of course, that's all right; they would not dare to annoy you any further."
I was, further, most kindly assured that my friends in Congress would all see me through, in case I had any difficulties on that score.
I left the Capitol, going straight to the War Department, where I endeavored to get an interview with the Secretary, but, dear me, a soldier—a common soldier—only a little Corporal in the Dragoon's uniform—presuming to address the Secretary of War, was something so unheard of among the old regular attendants about the door that they were disposed to fire me out of the up-stairs window for my effrontery. I had found it difficult as a civilian to reach the Secretary of War on several former occasions, but I learned, to my disgust, that as a soldier it was entirely impossible.
The lesson in the Regular Army etiquette which I took that day, burned itself so bitterly and deeply into my heart that I never attempted afterward to address anything higher than a First Sergeant in the Regular Army, except through the regular channels.
On account of an accident that happened me at Carlisle, I was permitted by Captain Rodenbaugh to sleep in a boarding-house during the first days after our arrival at Washington City, or until horses were issued to us. At Carlisle there was an old horse widely known among all the Regular cavalrymen who have been there as"Squeezer." At stable-call, I had noticed the men in the squad to which I had been advanced, all showed a singular alacrity in rushing to the task of cleaning their horses as soon as we broke ranks for this purpose. I learned by an experience that came near being serious, that this was caused not so much by anxiety of the troopers to clean horses, as to avoid a certain stall which Squeezer occupied.