THE WAUPACA COUNTY REPUBLICAN

August 27, 1880

 

A REBEL REMINISCENCE

How a Johnny Reb Escaped from a Northern Prison

Cincinnati Enquirer

 

            In order to give anything like a graphic account of the escape from Rock Island prison, which I am about to relate, it will be necessary for me to use the first person.  Having a small sum of money I was enabled to employ a “washerman,” a good natured individual from the eastern part of Kentucky.  Among his collection of soiled garments I one day discovered a federal blue blouse, worn by some of his patrons as a shirt.  It must be remembered that all articles of this nature were taken away from the prisoners when they first entered the prison.  Occasionally, as in this instance, such a piece of dress, worn as underclothing, escaped notice.  It at once suggested itself that a full federal uniform might be acquired by piece-meal, through the agency of this washerman.  A bargain was struck with him.  The progress of the growth of this uniform was watched with an interest hard to describe.  A dingy old cap without a rim was hunted down, a rim procured from some other quarter, and the whole on its reappearance from a regenerating baptism of soapsuds was good enough for a holiday.  Button by button, patch by patch, the uniform became complete.  Of course these articles had to be concealed very carefully to escape the occasional and irregular but thorough searches made by the authorities for contraband articles.

            How to utilize the uniform?  A short time before a prisoner had escaped in citizen’s clothing by walking unconcernedly out.   It was concluded to risk a similar method only as a last resort.  In the meantime I provided myself with a pass, with the forged signatures of the captain and commanding colonel of the forces outside.  Thus equipped I concluded to conceal myself in an ambulance, or substitute myself for a sick man when the sick were conveyed to the hospital, distant from the prison proper several hundred yards.  As a rule a guard was placed on the step behind.  I watched the habits in this respect, and seeing a guard seat himself by a driver, I prepared for action.  I had donned my uniform, and, with trousers rolled up, cap in my pocket and a blanket around me, to conceal the colors I was sailing under, I followed the ambulance from bivouac to bivouac until the best opportunity presented itself, viz: when the full compliment had been taken in, and they were ready to drive off.  The order to go was given, and my friends lifted me in. I lay on the floor, but not without the remonstrance of a sick and querulous fellow, who said the ambulance was full.  We halt at the gate:  “Word passes,”  “All right!” sounds assuringly in my ears; and the ponderous gates shut.

            Here we are in a beautiful gravel road, bowling along; the guard keeps a weather eye on us but to my close observation he occasionally gives his attention to a fly on the horse, and while in his pride he dexterously snapped one off with his whip, the sick man from barrack seventy-seven arises, but leaves his bed behind him, crouches in the back step, dons his cap, and presently steps off into a knot of federals, full forty yards away from the hospital and a hundred yards from the prison.

            The next tussle with adverse circumstances will be at the bridge.

            “Hello there!”

            “Hello yourself!”

            “Won’t you ride?”

            “Certainly.”

            It was an old farmer with a covered wagon.  The bridge was a mile away.  We chatted pleasantly about the “------- rebels,” and I gave him, in reply to his many questions, a good deal of absurd information. Finally I professed to be tired and told him I would lie down among his sacks in the wagon.  I pretended to sleep.  The horses’ hoofs sound and the wheels rumble on the bridge.  He is stopped by the guard.  A pleasant word passes, when he says:  “I have a soldier inside, but he is asleep now.”

            “All right; never mind.  Go ahead.”

            “Hello!” I say, “Are we across the bridge?  I want to get out here,” and with thanks I dropped out, I remember, from the tail piece.

            I had the address of a certain lady in the city of Rock Island, whose name it may not be proper to mention even at this time.  She had been of great service to the prisoners and was in secret communication, it was said, with a few of them.  The house was found without difficulty after a short walk.  The lady responded in person to my knock.  I presented my card.  The reply was startling.  Under some excitement she abused the Yankees for their surveillance over her, and their sending spies to entrap her.  She accused me of playing that part.  She had never helped the confederates.  It was all false, etc.  I pleaded with her and protested; gave names, but this any spy could do.  I had no taken; and no words would do.  Yet all this time she would occasionally relent and brush away a tear of pity.  Finally she gave me food and $10, and I was instructed to go to the next station of the Chicago and Rock Island railroad and take the 7 p.m. train.  My plan was to go to an intersection of the road and take a train to Bloomington, Ill., where I had friends.

            I sank into a seat of the car, and when I awoke from pleasant dreams it was late at night, and I was informed that we had passed the station.  There was nothing for it then but to continue on to Chicago, for which all the money in hand except $2 was paid out.  A two mile walk at Chicago brought me to a hotel.  It was 1 o’clock at night.  I sat by the stove, dozed away industriously to keep off conversation, which was sometimes forced upon me.  The remaining $2 was applied to two enormous meals during the day.  I was in constant danger of arrest as a deserting federal soldier.  I had to get to Bloomington, and that night, or be without food or lodging, or fare worse.  I went to the depot.  Is there none to trust?  Not a face that I peered into answered the question.  I concluded to try the engineer or fireman.  They were sorry; could not let me ride on the tender or help them at stoking.  The conductor referred me to the provost marshal of the city, who “would give me a pass,” etc., he would not let me go otherwise on any condition.  “All aboard!”  The invitation was accepted at once.

            My plan was to get someone on the train to pay my fare.  After a turn or so through the cars a benevolent-looking gentleman was selected; the case was explained to him.  A federal soldier, an invalid, with a furlough from his commanding officer, had left Rock Island with the design of spending the Christmas holidays with friends in Bloomington.  The mishap of missing connections was stated.  The gentleman regretted his inability, etc.  In the meantime the forged furlough was examined by others who were attracted by the conversation. Finally, one gentleman- a kindly but profane Good Samaritan – said:  “He would be ----- if he wouldn’t help a soldier who had fought for his country.”  This sentiment was echoed around, and in a few minutes $8 was made up – more than enough for the fare.

            But the end was not yet.  A know gathered around me, and I had to pass an ordeal of questioning.  I had assumed the name of John Simpson.  John and Samuel Simpson, brothers, cousins of mine, had removed to Bloomington some years before the war, and invested in land.  This is all I knew definitely of their surroundings.  (These names of real persons are fictitious here).  One man living in Bloomington asked:  “In what direction from Bloomington does John Simpson live?”  Trusting to luck, I answered “North.”  This was correct.  “How far?”  “About a mile from the place I believe.” “Correct.”  “How far does Knox live from him?”  “About a half a mile.”  This was also correct.  He was satisfied.  Another man objected to the fact that my pass was signed by the colonel in red ink, but the furlough in black.  But the most formidable objection came from a member of the 4^th Illinois, the number I purported to be a member of.  “You say you belong to company C, 4^th Illinois?”  “Yes, sir.”  “Well, I belong to the 4^th reserve.”  That settled him.  The train sped along, questions dropped off, and I feigned sleep, with ears alert for the name of my station, Bloomington, anxious not to be caught napping again.

            With early morning I stepped into the house of a relative in that little city.  He had not seen me since I was a child, but he saw through my disguise, and the boyhood friend of my father clasped me warmly to his bosom.  In a few minutes more I had shed my snake-skin, and was changed into a citizen, and the federal uniform was relegated to the fire.  One of my first cares was to send to my mess-mates a box of books and apples, the federals still allowing at least reading matter to reach them.  In one of the sides of the box a hole was bored with a gimlet, a long letter detailing my adventures and success, with the news of the day, was inserted.  This had been previously agreed upon, and when the box had reached its destination it was split up, and the letter found and eagerly read by my fellow-prisoners. Subsequent adventures before reaching Canada it is not here necessary to describe.