by Tony Masero
“Ah, yes, originally though it was built with the tobacco in mind but the poor fellow who commissioned it died before completion. He was killed in an accident here during the building.”
Zack raised an eyebrow, “His bad luck and ours too, I fear.”
“Indeed, but then along came Mr. Libby, the grocer and chandler and now we are its guests under the auspices of the Confederate Army.”
“How many of us do they hold here?” asked Zack.
“A thousand and fifty at last roll call.”
“Is the count a frequent occurrence?”
“Three o’clock each afternoon. But we have a little game we play on the guards that drives them quite beside themselves. You see that small hole in the partition over there,” he waved again with his pipe stem to direct Zack’s attention to the opening. “Well, they line us up in fours in here and count us off. Once done some of the smaller fellows crawl through the hole unseen and add themselves to the next door’s quota. Fair drives poor Johnny Reb mad. Every day he ends up with more prisoners than his listings allow.”
Zack smiled, “Good to see that humor has not quite departed.”
“Well, there’s plenty to bring you down if you’re inclined that way. Quite a few fellows have lost their faculties in here, I’m afraid. They’re down in the hospital on the lower floor. It’s relentless, you see? The boredom and enclosure, gets to some in the end.”
“Nobody tries escape?” Zack asked.
McCann looked at him sharply for an instant and Zack caught the change in the gentle gray eyes, which turned suddenly pale like hard granite. “They tried a while back,” McCann admitted. “Had a big escape planned. To my way of thinking it was somewhat overambitious. The scheme was to be that all the prisoners in the city, there were fifteen to twenty thousand held at various places at that time, they should rise up together. Overpower their guards and make for the Tredegar Iron Works, where that feeble newspaper you now clutch so carefully had advised a quantity of arms were kept. Our fellows meant to take over Richmond city and strike a punishing blow at the very heart of the Confederacy.”
“It did not work, I take it.”
“Betrayed, I’m afraid. A certain traitor by the name of Lieutenant Colonel Sanderson of New York told all.”
Zack shook his head. “The devil you say. I don’t suppose that fellow’s life will be worth a plugged nickel now.”
McCann nodded. “Not in this particular establishment, that’s for sure. But the Rebs have him secreted away for his own safety, in all probability he will paroled or exchanged.”
Zack knew that it had been common practice until recently, to exchange prisoners on the battlefield. Like for like, a corporal for a corporal, a sergeant for a sergeant. The system had been halted when the North wanted the same treatment to be meted out to their black soldiers, many of them escaped slaves but the Confederacy insisted that they be returned to their slave owners, which rather defeated the purpose of the accord and so the practice had been brought to a halt.
“Where are we exactly?” asked Zack. “I have a mind to try and escape if I can.”
McCann studied him a while. “Not so easy, I fear. Libby Prison has been solidly built in brick with a shingled roof sporting four sound chimneystacks that you will probably have noticed on your arrival. Our jail occupies a fair sized portion of land, thirty-six yards from street to street and forty-six yards long, I have paced it out myself. There are three floors here, the top two occupied by us prisoners squeezed in like fish in a tin. The lower floor holds the guard’s offices and quarters, kitchen and hospital. We stand between Cary and Canal Street, pushed onto the outskirts of the city above the James River, the locals being all-afeared after the master plot to take over the ville was discovered. Below us is a basement used as dungeons for confinement and punishment.”
“And guards?”
“Plenty. Regular patrols outside. Some have been approachable but it turns out they will charge a fee for any assistance, take your money and then betray you. A course best not invested in as the beggars can’t be trusted.”
“Are you saying it’s not worth the effort then, Major?” Zack asked, a little disgruntled at the negative response.
“Not at all, young fellow. But consider this, once you are free, if such a thing were possible, we are in the very middle of the Confederacy. Surrounded by the enemy on all sides. To reach our own lines would be a journey of many days if not weeks without aid or sustenance and in extreme peril all the way.”
They were interrupted, as a burly figure in an infantry major’s uniform bustled in and stood before them.
“Morning, McCann,“ he was a heavily whiskered man with a deep rumbling voice, his attention turned to Zack. “New fish here, I see.”
“Yes, sir,” said Zack, climbing to his feet and bringing himself to attention. “Captain Zachary Endeavor, at your service, Major.”
“No need for that, Captain,” said the infantry major. “There’s barely enough room to move in here as it is. We are not so formal as might be in the lines, please retain your seat.”
“This is our quartermaster, Major Belvedere,” explained McCann.
“A few rules we give our new blood, Captain,” Belvedere continued, smoothing his beard with his fingers. “We all help out maintaining some sort of cleanliness, so every officer takes their turn in detail at swamping the place out. No spitting under pain of a fine as we all have to sleep on the bare boards with nothing but boots for a pillow. Those boxes full of sawdust that you see lying around are our cuspidors, you will use those if you please. That is if you are the chawing type.”
“No, sir. I’m not that way inclined.”
“Fine, although you might do something to clean up your stained uniform, Captain, we like to retain a modicum of order here, if at all possible. Now, I’m the body who apportions rations and suchlike, no soap I’m afraid so ablutions are solely in cold water. Right now, you’re fat and fine, Captain but before long I warrant you’ll be like the rest of us and desirous of a good feed. It’s a hungry stay I’m afraid.”
“I understand, sir,” said Zack.
“Very well, then I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Major McCann.”
“Something of a pedant but not a bad fellow,” observed McCann as Belvedere moved away. “We need his sort when it comes to the rations. Any hint of unfair dealing and all hell would break loose. A crust of bread here becomes as important as a juicy steak when you’re starving.”
“Is it as bad as that?” asked Zack.
“Yes, it is. Although our one ray of sunshine is that we have just started receiving parcels from the Ladies Sanitary Commission back home, God bless them. Much needed blankets and bandages. Unfortunately, the Rebs who are not much better off than us for supplies, get first look at the parcels and you’ll see the beggars walking about in our Yankee army greatcoats as bold as brass.”
“You mean they walk the streets dressed in our uniforms?”
“Indeed they do, the scoundrels.”
“Well, sir. That gives me a fine idea,” said Zack, his eyes shining at the thought. “Why, if they wear the uniform, if one could escape what better way to go. We would have no necessity to disguise ourselves we would be mistaken as a guard or sentry dressed in garments from the Commission packets.”
McCann lowered his head and Zack saw a hidden smile tilting his whiskers.
“You are amused by the notion, Major?” Zack asked.
“No, no, my boy,” said McCann grinning openly. “I see you are a keen and bold young fellow, it may be that you shall indeed make a show of it. Be careful though that you have the right men around you when you do.”
~*~
It was to be four months before Zack met the right man in question.
Thomas Rose was a quiet, unassuming colonel with the 77th Pennsylvania who had been wounded and captured at Chickamauga. His calm exterior and dense black beard disguised a clever mind and it was he with his equally ingenious friend A
ndrew Hamilton who devised the plan that Zack soon became a part of.
The two men had discovered that by the judicious removal of some unused stoves they could gain access to one of the chimneystacks and by removing a quantity of bricks, create a pathway between the dining room and hospital. By making their way below the hospital floor they bypassed a carpenter’s shop used by civilians and could drop down by rope into a cellar.
The building was large and rambling and the dark cellar was unguarded and largely unused except for the storage of a quantity of straw that was rarely called on. It was decided to tunnel out from this eastern side of the building and three three-man teams were created to excavate the tunnel. One man dug, a second transported the waste soil and a third kept watch and fanned fresh air into the oppressive tunnel.
It was to be some sixty feet long and three wide and exit out on the riverside of the prison below where there were sentinels stationed above.
As this was a route leading from the warehouse where the Commission packages were stored it was not unusual to see men passing by dressed in the Federal costume, and as McCann said when he introduced Zack to Rose, this was exactly as the captain had foreseen some months earlier.
Rose calmly appraised Zack and tugged his beard thoughtfully.
“You realize the risks, Captain?” he asked.
“I do, sir but to hell with those. I have been fretting here for four months determined to escape but without opportunity until this time. If you’ll have me, I intend to make the most of it.”
Rose allowed himself a slight smile at Zack’s obvious resolve.
“Well, you come with old McCann here’s recommendation so what do you say to participating in one of the digging teams?”
“Ready and willing, Colonel.”
“We have little more than penknives and scoops made from tin cans, it’s hard work and must be done at night for fear of discovery.”
“I’m your man, sir. I’ll do it with my fingernails if it will get me out of this pest-hole.”
“Very well. You’ll work with two other men that we’ll arrange, so be ready to receive the call.”
Zack offered a salute, his face beaming.
Three days later, Zack took his first turn at the digging. He wormed his way behind the others through the narrow gap beneath the hospital ward and could hear the loud tread of the surgeon’s boots on the boards above his head. There were moans and wails from the occupants and some unpleasant dripping of something he would rather not consider coming through cracks in the floorboards above.
He was to work with James Van Olen and a lieutenant named Gaspar Jazep. Both were young men, still fit and able and not yet too diminished by the poor fare at the prison.
Van Olen at first introduction had appeared a self-conscious fellow who spoke quietly enough; he kept his pale blue eyes lowered throughout the introduction and wore a long lock of flaxen hair over his forehead. He was pale skinned and somewhat gaunt in appearance and it was obvious he had been chosen for his slender frame being able to wind its way along the narrow tunnel.
Gaspar Jazep was a more solidly built man, with dark features and heavy black eyebrows that marked a permanent frown. Gaspar, a somewhat gruff fellow spoke with a slight accent, said little but worked like a field hand, he would spread out the waste soil under the bed of straw in the cellar and fan the fresh air along to workers at the tunnel face.
It was Zack’s task to remove the earth that Van Olen dug out at the face and transport it back to Gaspar, which meant a constant movement backwards and forwards up and down the tunnel on elbows and knees for there was no room to turn around in the confined space.
They worked by candlelight and the atmosphere in the tunnel was uncomfortably stuffy. It stank of the raw earthy smell of fresh dug soil compounded by stale air and their own rank body odor as they constantly sweated in the over heated confinement. The floor of the tunnel was consistently wet at the start of each shift, due to leakage from the nearby river, a situation that only added to the general discomfort.
Gaspar dealt with a different problem outside the tunnel. The straw filled cellar was alive with rats that doubtless had found their way in from the river and discovered that the cellar was a comfortable place to be. The creatures scurried along the walls just out of sight of the candle’s glow and when it came to move the straw to lay out the waste soil, Gaspar would inevitably disturb the unpleasant critters, some of which were of a size equal to a small cat. The pitch black, damp and gloomy cellar soon earned the name Rat Hell.
Above ground it was cold with winter approaching and their one relief was the warmth encouraged by their work, for when they were relieved and had a two-day break they were once more in the barren and chilly life of the prison above ground.
They were a six weeks into their dig when Zack came across Van Olen sitting hunched in the tunnel with his hands pressed, one against the roof of the tunnel and the other to one side.
“What’s wrong, James?” he asked, they had foregone all attempts at rank in the close confines of the tunnel and had reverted to first name’s status only.
“I…” stuttered Van Olen weakly. “It’s closing in. The earth’s moving I’m sure of it. I feel we’re in for a collapse.”
“No,” said Zack, patting the moist walls. “It’s safe, we’ll be alright.”
“I can’t take it any more,” he muttered. “I have to get out. I don’t want to be buried alive in here; it’s like the grave. I can’t stand it any longer.”
Van Olen began to move and by the flickering candlelight, Zack could see the panic starting in his eyes.
“Wait!” he cried, taking Van Olen’s shoulders in his hands. “It’s a touch of claustrophobia, that’s all, James.”
“Get out of my way,” pleaded Van Olen. “I cannot stay here.”
“Okay, okay,” said Zack, backing up. “Slowly now. Don’t rush or you will bring the walls down. We’ll go outside and you can take a break. I’ll carry on with the digging and Gaspar can help while you recover.”
When they reached the end of the tunnel, Van Olen pushed out in a rush and crouched against the wall, breathing heavily. Rats squealed and skittered away to give him room but Van Olen paid them no heed.
“What is it?” asked Gaspar, a deep frown marking his brow as he watched Van Olen’s desperation.
“James need a rest,” said Zack, looking across at Van Olen in the flickering light of a stub of candle that Gaspar had set in a tin lid. “We’ll carry on. Can you help me, Gaspar?”
“Sure, “ the big man answered, still looking at Van Olen with concern. “If I can squeeze in there, I’m with you.”
“James,” said Zack, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Will you spread the soil under the straw?”
Van Olen nodded, his eyes fixed firmly downwards between his feet.
They worked their way back to the tunnel face and Zack began to hack at the packed earth with a scoop made from a can.
“What’s his problem?” whispered Gaspar from behind him.
“He feels the claustrophobia, it’s as if the walls were closing in on him.”
Gaspar snorted a laugh, “Not surprising,” he said, his large body pressed against the walls on both sides. “I’ve known suit pants with a looser fit than this.”
Zack chuckled in answer. “He’ll get over it but don’t say a word to Rose. They’ll drop him from the team and he’ll take a back place in the breakout.”
Gaspar shook his head. “That’s the trouble with being a rich man’s son. He’s only had it handed him on a plate before this.”
“Aw! James isn’t so bad. He can’t help his origins and he does his best.”
“I heard his daddy was some kind of entrepreneur and made a fortune before the war from meat biscuits and soap.”
“I guess, although it doesn’t make a heap of difference in here where you come from. Libby Prison is a great leveler.”
“For sure,” agreed Gaspar, taking the soil pushed
back to him and placing it in a spittoon box before worming his way back out.
When their shift was done, they placed a large plank over the tunnel mouth and made sure everything was cleared away before scaling up a rope ladder and working their way back under the hospital.
As they brushed down their clothes and cleaned up in a bucket of water, Van Olen lent over.
“I’d like to thank you, Zack,” he said. “My apologies for the fuss. It won’t happen again, I promise. I’d be obliged if you’d say nothing to the others.” His face was serious with no show of emotion, the only movement being a constant brushing aside of the lank lock of fair hair hanging over his forehead.
“Of course,” said Zack. “Think nothing of it and don’t worry, neither of us will say a word.”
Van Olen nodded gratefully and shaking aside his troublesome hair he continued with sluicing down his grubby arms.
~*~
Work continued and Christmas passed with little more than stale corn bread to celebrate the occasion. But on the 8th of February in the new year of 1864 there was good news for the tunnelers. A breakthrough had been made at last and it was determined that the escape should proceed immediately as it was suspected that word of the tunnel had already leaked out into the prison population.
On the next night, Rose and the main participants in the founding of the tunnel made their way down and were first out through the newly excavated exit. Zack and his partners were due out soon after a safe period of time had passed and they gathered alongside the old stoves in readiness for their turn to go. They were surprised when a noisy rush of eager prisoners clattered into the room.
Somehow word had been given of the breakthrough and in a furor of excitement everyone that heard about it was determined to make the break. Zack watched in horror as more and more men crowded into the room until it was full to overflowing. The noise became unbearable and Zack was sure the guards would overhear them if it continued.
“Hush up!” he whispered harshly. “Keep it down.”
But the anxious prisoners could not contain themselves and commenced jostling and shoving to be first in the queue to leave.