Chapter 16

Escape

Nights in November, Pat dug a tunnel with twenty men who believed escape was the only way to survive. They chose as their starting point a cave in an area of the yard pocked with underground warrens and facing a woods fifty feet beyond the north wall.

The diggers worked around the clock, taking turns to create an opening about forty-eight inches in diameter that ran diagonally down and then once beyond the wall diagonally up. The clay was damp and solid, which, while difficult to dig, provided some safety from cave-in. They raised the dirt to the campground, where others spread it thinly into the mud, which was already red with the dirt dug from inmate holes.

The greatest danger of discovery came from other prisoners. A bribe of double rations and Confederate money to use in the sutler shop was being offered to turn in those digging tunnels. When one of the other prisoners did, guards investigated, but not always in time to catch the perpetrators, who abandoned the unfinished tunnels without a moment’s hesitation. To be caught trying to escape was to be punished with withdrawal of rations, heavy work wearing a ball and chain, or being lashed with a cat-o-nine tails upon a bare back.

Conditions in the tunnel were extreme. The work was inherently strenuous and done in cramped quarters. Most of the excavation was done with a case knife and a piece of tree limb for a mallet. Workers tunneled around large rocks and tree stumps. Fortunately for them, there were relatively few. Tunnels expanded an average of six feet a day.

Of the six, only Pat dug the tunnel, so the rest could remain free to make souvenirs, fend for food and water, and care for Smith. Pat’s health had deteriorated in spite of the extra food he received. He was able to dig the hard clay for only thirty minutes at a spell. Nonetheless, he took extra shifts. He found the exercise raised his body temperature and overcame the cold, which otherwise numbed his hands and feet.

When the tunnel was done on November 30, one of the inmates, driven by starvation, reported the escape plot to a guard.

Pat lay quietly in their hole, exhausted and frustrated. The guards had not caught him, only because he was not yet in the tunnel when the guards entered and because he was unknown to the betrayer. Those caught were forced into hard labor with scant rations. More than half died as a result.

The next morning, Pat returned from water duty and told the rest: “The guards and the locals are willing to pay more for our painted rocks. The word is the South will surrender soon and we’ll be sent home.”

Dolan said he heard the same thing in the carpentry shop. “It must be true. One of the guards gave me paint and an awl. He looked the other way and I made off with leather and a drill that Kinny says he can use to make watch fobs.”

Kinnane’s artistry steadily improved, but his health, along with that of his mates and the rest of the prisoners, was steady declining. By mid-December, the prisoner exchange rumor was dead. On Saturday, December 12, Pat made his usual rounds: the market place, the dead house, and the various regimental clusters. Kinnane took a break from souvenir making to walk with him. They passed the area inhabited by colored soldiers, who were lying stripped and motionless. Pat grimaced at the sight and he shook his head. One dead colored soldier’s body was crawling with large white maggots.

He was silent for a moment; then muttered, “Let’s get out of here.”

As they continued their tour, they grew depressed at the sight of men breaking out with scurvy, red marks covering their necks; others moaned, unable to move because of Dengue Fever.

On December 13, Smith died. His mates said a “Hail Mary” and an “Our Father” over him, mumbled a few platitudes about his being in a better place, and dragged his body into the cool hole for a day. Then they carried him to the dead house and waited for the burial squad. They asked that he not be stripped and that he be buried by himself at the north end of the trench.

Later in the month, Kinnane, Pat, and a large group of immigrant Irish Catholics met a priest at the main gate. Father Custis, a chaplain appointed by the Confederate War Department to minister to Roman Catholic soldiers throughout the South, was the only clergyman who ever visited the prison. “Father, have you got anything for us?” asked Kinnane.

“I’ve got a few rosaries. Would you like one?”

“We would, to be sure,” said Pat. “But, Father, can’t you do anything about the conditions of this camp? We’re all dying here. Most of us will never see our families.”

“There is nothing I can do about camp conditions. The Confederate government has asked me to persuade you to join the Confederate Army. They call it ‘galvanizing.’ They’ll give you a bonus and guarantee you $100 Confederate a month.

“If you won’t take their offer, all I can say is let me bless you and remind you that the Lord Jesus suffered the worst pain ever known to mankind. Put yourself in His hands and He will help you bear your terrible conditions.”

“Thanks a lot, Father,” said Pat and Kinnane contemptuously. Pat was by this time even more bent on escaping.

Two hundred men did take an oath of loyalty to the Confederate government and quickly left the camp.

By December 20, a team of prisoners that included Pat finished another tunnel close to where they had dug the first. They had been at the exhausting work for two weeks in the dead of night in claustrophobic and dangerous confines.

On Saturday, December 24, in the middle of the night, PM and Pat wished their mates well, telling them they would see them again once they were all free. Fear and loss of companionship threatened their resolve to escape. They quickly left the hole and joined twenty others in the tunnel before they changed their minds. PM had prepared a pouch containing a pound of gruel, a flint stone, and a small, sharp-edged piece of iron. The two had discussed what they would do once free of the prison, but mostly they just wanted to get as far away as fast as possible and not to leave a scent trail. The rest of their crew remained behind in case the two were captured. If they weren’t, they would dig a tunnel and attempt to escape, which was looked on by all six comrades as the only option other than death.

Once above ground outside the prison wall, they stood motionless until they heard a guard pass. As quietly as they could, they made their way through the small woods and out into the village. No one was stirring as they hurried down the main street and beyond.

An hour into their escape, Pat and PM heard dogs barking. Hoping to link up with Unionist civilians who were helping runaways escape into Tennessee, they found a stream they imagined flowed northwesterly. An overcast sky precluded any certainty. Fear of being traced by the bloodhounds kept them in the water for some time. When PM sensed it was safe, they left the creek bed and trudged on, faster than before in an effort to overcome frostbite and raise their body temperature. A steady rain washed away any scent they might have left.

Both men wore kepi caps and extra blouses they had taken from dead inmates. Their pants were wet. They were cold and weak from hunger and shivering uncontrollably. Driven on by fear and tension, they took a side road that crossed the creek. As day broke with heavy cloud cover, they moved off the road into woods keeping the road in view. Once again, they picked up their pace.

Pat sighed. “Hopefully we run across a farm along this road and either knock at the door or hit the chicken coop. I can’t go on much longer without food.”

PM rubbed his cheek before giving his opinion. “I say we look for a lamb or a calf in a pasture out of sight of any farm house.”

“Sounds better to me. I wonder what direction we’re going?”

asked Pat.

“Northwest or we need a new plan,” replied PM.

Silently, the men plodded along. Hours after the breakout, their pace slowed as their strength waned. After walking and stumbling another two miles, they came out of the woods facing a pasture laced with knolls, swales, and rocks. A few sheep grazed lazily in the midday sun. PM pointed to a lamb standing beside a ewe a hundred yards or so off in a meadow.

“I say we rest a while,” said PM, “and then club that lamb and drag it off into the woods. You head for the ewe and I’ll take the lamb. But first, I got to get a club.”

After a short rest, Dolan found a thick branch about the size of his arm, broke off its small limbs, and away they went across the field. The ewe began to bleat as they approached. Somewhere in the distance, a hound bayed.

The plan worked. PM and Pat lumbered through the woods with the slaughtered lamb. After a quarter mile or so, Pat stopped to catch his breath. “I think we can cut up the lamb and roast it.”

“Not a good idea, Pat. I’m starvin’ the same as you, but I say we rest a minute and then keep moving until just before nightfall. We make camp, and only then eat the lamb.”

They struggled on, taking turns carrying the lamb for several more hours before stopping. Veering deeper into the woods, they gathered enough kindling to last the night and built a fire. They pulled apart the lamb and used the iron used to start the fire. They roasted it and ate ravenously.

“Oh God, I haven’t felt warm in months,” said Pat. “That heat feels so good.”

“Yah, me too,” replied PM. “Let’s see if we can keep it burning through the night.” Heat even on one side of their bodies was a luxury and made them almost forget their many other discomforts.

After piling heavy branches on the fire, they fell asleep, huddled beside one another on the ground. Soon both began to toss and turn with aching stomachs. They had eaten too much too fast. Their bellies angrily protested. They piled more wood on the embers and waved a shirt over the pile until the wood caught fire, then rested against the nearby trees.

“Well, what do we do if we’ve been going northeast instead of northwest?” asked Pat.

“Probably gone too far not to keep on moving in the same direction. We got to find a railroad heading north. We been lucky so far, but it can’t last forever, Pat.”

“Agreed. We won’t find Unionists in plantation country. So there’s no other way to avoid the secesh if we’ve been going northeast.”

The next morning, they rose to a cloudy day but with the sun clearly visible. Both men knew instantly they had been traveling northeast. “Well, Pat, that settles it,” PM said, pointing to the sun. “Now we have to find a stream flowing northeast or at least due north. You agree?”

“You see it the same as I do, PM.”

At the sound of hounds baying from the south, they each grabbed a leg of the lamb off the green spits they had suspended above the fire and wrapped them in the lower part of their shirts, which they tucked into their pants. Stiff from the cold Carolina December night they had endured without cover, they disguised the site and moved away from the sound of the hounds as quickly as weak legs could carry them, traveling north.

The woods bent to their right. They came across a creek, but they reckoned it was heading east. They walked another hour. The baying grew louder. They began running and soon crossed a second creek, wider than the first and flowing north. They jumped from rock to rock or gravel, where possible, and made their way upstream. The baying continued as before. They dragged on, slower and slower, cold and wet, pain searing their feet and legs throughout the day. As the sun faded, the baying stopped. An air of confidence returned and they slowed even more.

That night, deep in woods, they made a fire and feasted again on roast lamb. This time they ate more deliberately, savoring every bite.

The next morning, Pat talked about their situation. “Our chances ain’t good. By now, the word has gone out to be looking for twenty Yankees. They’ve all got hounds for hunting, so what’s the answer? Maybe we have to take a chance. Find a friendly person that’ll help us.”

PM mused, “There must be women living alone or with their kids, ’cause their men are off in the rebel army. I say if we come upon a house, we see if we can find a woman to help us. If we find a river flowing north, we make a raft and float to freedom.” With a small stick, he made a few aimless lines in the soft soil. “If we come upon a train moving north, we hop on without being seen. Has to be a supply train, no guards on the last car, one with food and supplies.”

“That says it all. Let’s go,” said Pat.

Later that day, they approached a hamlet. They continued to the far side until they came to an isolated house and hid in the woods with the house in full view. A low barn stood off a few paces behind the house. Alongside the barn, a vegetable garden lay fallow, two rows of old corn stalks standing stiffly against a light breeze. Beyond them, a single cow grazed in a hilly meadow. Chickens and ducks ran freely in the garden and barnyard. A turkey appeared from the far side of the barn, chased by two boys.

A thirtyish woman, short, thin, with scraggly dark hair, came out to bring up carrots and potatoes from a root cellar under the barn. A collie stood by and began to chase the boys, who were still tormenting the turkey. The woman went back in the house, apparently to cook dinner. The boys and the dog soon followed.

Pat whispered, “She appears to be living alone with her boys.”

PM cautioned, “Let’s wait a few minutes to see if anyone else comes out of the house.”

A few minutes later, the two men approached the door. The collie bared its teeth, barked, and then growled furiously. The woman answered the door with her boys behind her, a shotgun held across her chest and fear spreading across her face.

“What do yuh want? Who are y’all?” she asked, staring at the shaking skeletons before her.

PM spoke softly. “Ma’am, we’re Yankee prisoners of war.” He watched the woman’s face before saying more. Her expression did not alter.

With eyes narrowed to slits, the woman asked, “You from Salisbury?”

PM hesitated before answering. Almost instantly he realized, where else would they have been prisoners? “Yes, ma’am.”

The woman remained stone-faced.

Dolan swallowed and looked down at his feet before continuing. The men took off their hats and bowed toward the woman. “Will you help us? We ain’t going to hurt you. We’re Irish men and have great respect for the Mother of God and all women.”

For a few tense seconds, the three stood silent. Pat wanted to look at PM but kept his gaze on the woman, who was beginning to swing her gun toward them.

Finally, the woman lowered her gun and answered, “You may come in. Y’all put me in a bad way. My husband is two years dead, killed by a Yankee bullet at Malvern Hill. I am a loyal daughter of the South. But I am also a Christian woman.”

“Ma’am, we won’t stay but a day or two and we’ll do what we can to help out as a man should,” said Pat. The boys backed away and stood at a distance as the men entered.

Later that evening as they repaired a broken barn door, PM remarked, “The woman is boarding us when she and her boys are on the edge of starvation themselves ... Did you hear her tell her boys we were Yankee soldiers and they should stay clear of us? She warned them to say nothing about us or they’d all be killed by the militia.”

For two days, the men stayed with the woman, whose name they learned was Miriam, and her two boys, ages ten and eleven, in the tiny hamlet of Springstead, near Franklin. The house was small, sparsely furnished, and badly in need of work. In return for food and shelter, Pat and PM worked inside the house and barn, plugging gaps around windows and doing other small repairs. She gave them some of her husband’s clothes, which they accepted gratefully, especially the two jackets and fresh underwear, as the weather had turned colder. What they were wearing was unfit to be used as rags.

When the boys wanted to visit a neighbor’s children, their mother told them, “You’d best remain to home.” They watched the men work and began to help, fetching tools and finding nails and screws. Evenings, they ate dinner together and afterward in front of the fireplace, the men played jacks with the boys, who protested when their mother told them it was bedtime. The men were tense throughout their stay for fear a neighbor would wander in, but their hearts were touched by a home life they had not known in two years.

In the small barn with a goat, a sow, and five piglets for company, they threw padded comforters beneath and over themselves and slept one against the other in the hayloft.

The second day, the men showed the boys how to repair window sashes and holes in the walls of the house. Their mom watched, unsure that she approved of their growing relationship, but grateful that her boys in some small way were learning the role of men of the house.

By the time they left, the four males were at ease working and playing together. Pat felt he and PM had made up in a small way for the terrible loss of their father. Miriam smiled politely in their company, but said little as though the less she knew of them, the better she would be with nosy neighbors. At table, the men asked about Confederate army installations in the area, how active the local militia was, and other questions that would cue them on what to avoid. The boys started to answer, but their mother quickly interrupted and shut off the conversation. She reminded them that they were to say nothing to neighbors about the Yankee visitors or she would be beaten, tarred and feathered by both neighbors and militia.

The third day, the men thanked Miriam for her hospitality. She asked how they knew her name. Pat answered that one of the boys told them. In fact, PM had casually lifted an envelope with her name and address on it from the fireplace and put it in his pocket. Miriam gave each a biscuit, a chicken leg, and directions to the nearest north/south railroad and they left before sun-up.

The two felt stronger, their symptoms of dysentery and scurvy somewhat lessened. They were now some thirty miles north of Salisbury, she had told them.

After two days of stumbling through tangled woods and swamps adjacent to the road, they came upon the North Carolina Railroad running between Atlanta and Richmond.

“Pat, we’ll find the right train, but we have to be patient. We need some food before we get on a flat car. It may be two days to Petersburg. I say we try to find another friendly widow before we hop a freight train.”

The two walked until they found a small clearing in the middle of the forest, where they made a fire, ate the last of what Miriam had given them, and plotted their next move.

Pat said to PM, “Hungry as we are, the right thing was to stop and think. We got to have food before we continue our grand tour of the South.” They fell asleep much as they had the night before, getting as close to the fire as they could.

Awakening within two hours, the men built up the fire again and talked as they walked around it.

“PM, there’s something different about the farms we passed toward the end of the day, yesterday. They were larger . . . plantations, they call them.”

“Yah, I see where you’re going. We saw colored people in the fields who might help us.”

“Well, they just might. They hate their owners and are the first to run off, I hear.”

Pat and PM fell back into an uneasy sleep. At first light, the two set off, hidden from view but close enough to fields to survey them. After a half-day’s walk still in woods, PM saw several colored men and women laboring in a distant field.

They hid themselves next to the field, stomachs grumbling again, until it seemed safe to approach one of the field hands.

With light steps, they made their way through the woods that ringed the field until they came to a spot close to some colored men digging out rotted tobacco plants. After what seemed an eternity to two starving men, one of the colored men left the group and headed in their direction. They were about to run when he stopped at the edge of the woods, opened his trousers, and peed. Dolan called out to him in a low voice. At first, the young man stood dead still and stared at them. They were dressed like Southerners, but seemed different. They were wearing kepi hats, not something he had seen before. He walked over and took down his pants as if to relieve himself.

“Yuh not from aroun’ dese parts.”

Pat and PM nodded, smiling. “We’re Union soldiers escaped from Salisbury prison. Can you help us?”

“Stay here and I be back come dark.”

With that, he pretended to wipe his rear with leaves, pulled up his pants, and ambled nonchalantly away.

Pat suggested, “Let’s move away from the edge of this field to a safer place where we can hide for the rest of the day.”

Dolan marked the spot so they could find it again by hanging a branch several feet up a tree. “Good idea. That darkie knows the area. We don’t.”

Some distance away, they came across two large fallen trees and hid between them. Saying little and taking turns sleeping, the two men spent an anxious afternoon in fear of betrayal. As the sun dipped in the sky, they crawled out from their temporary shelter and waited at the spot PM had marked.

The sun disappeared, taking with it the day’s warmth. There was no moon. They scanned the field anxiously for the colored man.

“I can’t see shit,” Pat complained.

PM looked up. “At least the night’s clear. The stars are out.”

“I still can’t see shit.”

“Would we see ‘im, anyway?” PM joked.

Almost at that moment, the man appeared. He held a small burlap bag and handed it to the two white men. Pat opened it and found carrots and potatoes and a skinned rabbit.

Pat and PM thanked him profusely. They knew this poor man risked being tortured and lynched in order to help them.

The man nodded, but said little. Pat asked if they were close to railroad tracks. The man pointed to their right. “That way,” he said. “Not too far.”

Without another word, he turned away from them.

That evening, they savored their feasts, stomachs no longer complaining, but saved some grilled leftovers for the next day. They found the railroad, slept beneath a trestle in the cold and damp, and rose before first light. Grateful for the jackets and woolen long underwear, they said a prayer again for Miriam, and for the slave and the food he had brought them.

“Let’s find a grade where the trains slow and where we can hide until the right one comes,” said Pat.

They stored the leftover food in the burlap bag and, keeping the track in sight, they walked for a long distance. Then they stood behind trees, watching a steady procession of trains moving north. Guards on the first and last cars afforded no opportunity to board. Pat and PM munched on carrots, but saved the rest. Toward nightfall, a long freight train approached at less than ten miles an hour. It was guarded by a few older men standing in a railcar behind the engine.

“This is the one,” said Pat, and they both jumped to their feet. They crouched, ran to the rear of the train, and crossed to the other side. Seeing no guards at this end, they leaped onto a flatbed carrying crates of ammunition bundled in rubber tarps. The train moved slowly up the grade. Loosening one end of a tarp, they crawled under it. Rejoicing at the warmth, they thanked the Lord for their good fortune. They were on the road to freedom.

“I’m guessing this train supplies Lee’s army in Petersburg,” observed PM. “We could have a quick ride. If you remember, we were put on sidings every time an army supply train was coming through ... Cut a piece from this tarp. We may need it tonight.”

In less than a day, the supply train was outside Petersburg where it stopped for another train broken down just ahead of it.

“I say we get off here and hide close by in some woods. This area is looking familiar,” said PM.

The two men were elated, believing they were within a few miles of a Union line. About dusk, the train jolted forward, and the men jumped off as it slowed to climb a grade.

They moved into woods and hiked until darkness swallowed their path. They ate the last of the food provided by the field hand and again blessed him for helping them. Fearing a fire would be seen or smelled by rebel pickets, they did not light one, but fell asleep wrapped in the piece of rubber tarp, until the cold of the night roused them. They marched in place or propped themselves against trees until the sun began to rise. Then, using their hands as bowls, they poured the gruel from their pouches and licked it. With the sun at their backs, they strode off in search of the Union line.

The first people they encountered were some twenty colored men, women, and children in a field. Two women carried infants. Like Pat and PM, they too were searching for the Union Army.

“You know where the Union Army is?” asked PM.

“We heerd it be just beyond that road over yonder, but we also heerd the ‘Federate cav’ry is round here, too.”

The words were hardly out of the man’s mouth when a Confederate cavalry troop appeared from over a hill. The colored women screamed and the group scattered.

The two Northern escapees bent low and ran along a fence rail. The rebels were much more interested in them than the blacks. They had been as visible in the crowd of black faces as fire in the dark. In the face of drawn weapons, Pat and PM quickly threw up their arms.

The Confederates took them a few hundred yards into a rebel encampment, bound their hands and feet, and left a single soldier to guard them. Later that same day, two cavalrymen returned and took off Pat’s ropes. Pat and PM shouted good luck and God bless at one another as Pat was herded away.

The Confederates prodded Pat in the back with every step until he jumped onto a train heading southeast with a dozen Yankee prisoners, who had been given no water or rations since capture. When the train stopped alongside a creek, they were allowed to get off under guard. Pat knelt and drank at will. He thought, God knows what punishment PM will get if he returns to Salisbury. We were so close to Union lines. I can hear John saying, “The war is almost over. Don’t do anything stupid!”

Feelings of loss at being separated from his best friend, anger at his misfortune, and fear of the unknown all swirled around in him as he lay silently against the wall of the car. Soon he became curious about the other prisoners, more recently captured than he, better dressed, and more physically fit. He spent the next twenty-four hours exchanging stories and dozing.

Early on Saturday, December 31, the train arrived in Florence, South Carolina. Local militia of the 5th Georgia Infantry Regiment met twelve Yankee prisoners at the station and marched them in tight formation four abreast from the depot down a long mud road.

A few fell and the younger guards cursed and kicked them or beat them with rifle butts until other prisoners stood them up. Those who staggered were prodded with gun butts until they fell and then the guards beat them, laughing and shouting every form of blasphemy and taunt. A rising sun tantalized the prisoners while crisp cold air invaded their scantily clad bodies.

Pat walked with mixed emotions. He was glad to stretch his legs and exercise his body, but he was weak and tiring fast. Twice he wanted to face off against sadistic guards, but could only muster the strength to take the next step and the next and the next. A few farmers stood in front of their homes and shouted to the guards, “Slap the damn Yankees a good one” . . . “Jab ’em in the balls.” Otherwise, the streets were deserted along the half mile to the prison.

After going through intake outside the main gate, Pat commented to the prisoner alongside him as they looked around the camp, seeing thousands of enlisted men in blue standing about or sitting in the dirt, “Well, there’ll be no tunneling out of this place. Did you see the ditch they dug around the stockade?”

Indeed, the prison was a twenty-three-acre walled encampment, finished on the fly. As at Salisbury, the dead line was clearly marked by a line of boards the inmates were not to cross, otherwise they would be shot.

Florence Stockade Prison had 10,000 Union prisoners, swelling in number daily. Sherman’s march through Georgia was thought by Confederate officials to have Andersonville Prison in his path, so its prisoners were being transferred to Florence and Columbia, South Carolina. The day was cool, but sunny. Prisoners were lying about, walking listlessly, or digging shelters in the ground. Many men in Pat’s immediate line of sight appeared near death. Conditions here, he judged, were worse than at Salisbury.

Guards appeared from time to time. The prison was loosely organized: three dozen old men and boys, commanded by two officers, and deployed in two shifts.

Pat received the daily ration, a cup of water and a cup of gruel with a tablespoon of molasses or sorghum. He mixed and ate it slowly before a guard ordered him to join a water detail.

As the water brigade trudged to a creek outside the prison gate, Pat introduced himself to another prisoner. “Sergeant, tell me about yourself; how long you been here?” he asked.

“Sergeant William Trasker, 134th Illinois, captured two weeks ago in Georgia fighting with Sherman.” Trasker was a broad-shouldered farmer whose frame no longer filled out his uniform. “Let me tell you, the guards are not to be messed with, especially the young ones. Some of the older guards are okay.” He hesitated as a guard staring at the two caught his eye. “No one is eating around here, guards, locals, or us. Twenty to thirty men die each day and are thrown into a trench over yonder. If you can make a decent-looking souvenir you can sell it to the guards or outside when you’re on detail.”

“What’s the deal on escaping, Bill? Seems like it could be done fairly easily when you’re outside the walls.”

“Well, Sherman is heading up the coast from Savannah. If I were to escape, I would head for Charleston and join the Union Army there. I’ll tell you though . . . you got about 100 miles to walk. This state is secesh end to end. It wasn’t the first state to secede for nothin’.”

Wrapped in a pup tent, Pat slept with Trasker the first night in Trasker’s hole, which they had enlarged, digging with broken tree branches all afternoon. The next morning, he walked among the prisoners, asking questions. As he hauled water for an hour, he saw several civilians asking prisoners if they had souvenirs to trade and concluded that the market for Yankee-made handwork was about the same as at Salisbury.

“If I get the materials and a few small tools and you get the stones, we’re in business,” Pat told Trasker with renewed enthusiasm.

“Yah, you’re probably right, Pat. Our chances are good that Sherman will free us before too long.”

“We just have to last that long,” Pat said with trenchant seriousness.

“That we do,” Trasker agreed. “The rebs’ll try to move us again before Sherman gets here. In any case, the odds look better staying than escaping.”

Trasker talked to a sergeant in charge of the guard, an older man who was himself seen to be suffering from a limited diet. He convinced the man that Trasker had been a master carpenter back home and could be more useful in the carpenter shop. The shop was being pressured to produce beds and small cabinets for Confederate officers, who had moved into an empty building on the road between the prison and the town after transfer from the Deep South. The commandant and regional commanding general accepted the offer, frantic to cope with the influx of thousands of prisoners and Confederate and civilian guard officers.

Trasker went to work in a shop run by another inmate parolee. When that man died of tuberculosis a week later, Trasker was offered a parole to act as the camp carpenter. He signed a promise not to attempt to escape under penalty of being shot on the spot—no questions asked—and was given a certificate signed by the commandant and the local commanding general.

Trasker told the commandant he needed help; the backlog was too much for one man. Given permission to add a man to his staff, he recommended Pat, who signed a parole and joined Bill in the carpentry shop outside the walls the next day. The two slept on gum blankets on the floor of a loft above the shop and drew their food from the commissary with Confederate officers. Their certificates gave them access to storage areas where they found dozens of Sanitary Commission packages not yet pilfered by officers. They opened packages and found clothes, shoes, small tools and utensils, and edible canned foods and cakes in the more recently arrived packages. Both men burned their old clothes and bathed in facilities reserved for officers. In their fresh clothes, they looked like officers, most of whom dressed in civilian garb with a slouch hat, an occasional butternut jacket being their only uniform.

Trasker was indeed a first-rate carpenter. He organized the carpentry shop with the best equipment and materials in the camp to turn out ten or twenty bunks a day. There was no time for cabinets. Officers groused at being forced to store personal items in backpacks, mostly taken from Union dead and prisoners. When the commandant saw the quality of Trasker’s work, he asked him to increase production. Confederate officers were streaming into Florence, 50 to 100 a day, off trains from Alabama and Georgia. Pat was surprised. Many were strapping young men. Talking to him as they helped him set up bunks, they freely admitted that with their fathers’ influence, state government officials appointed them militia officers. They were serving out the war at home . . . until Sherman appeared.

The commandant urged Trasker to increase his staff in order to produce more beds. He and Pat discussed exactly what type of inmate was desirable. Pat recruited two recent arrivals in good physical condition, mature men who would guard their tongues and who had elementary carpentry skills: two Illinois farmers, Johann Werner and Jacob Anstatt, both captured from Sherman’s army. Johann and Jacob were given paroles and certificates as well.

Within days, the four had the freedom to move about outside the prison throughout Florence. It did not take them long to establish a black market of Sanitary Commission objects, which they sold for large sums of inflated Confederate dollars. In their new dress clothes, they were indistinguishable from the Confederate officers, who were everywhere in town and in the countryside. They ate not only in the officers’ mess, but in Florence restaurants unbothered by military or civilian officials as long as they produced their certificates signed by the regional commanding general and the commandant.

Pat was suffering from diarrhea and piles and Trasker from a mild case of pneumonia, but they were growing stronger each day.

In February 1865, six weeks after they had arrived, guards cleared out the camp. Guards, officers, and inmates boarded trains heading north. Sherman’s drive was about to hit South Carolina. The four had been listening to officers’ conversations and had prepared themselves for the train ride north, carrying enough food and dollars to assure as comfortable a trip as possible.

It was a strange ride. There were guards, but they were not guarding. Outside Petersburg, their train stopped for water and 200 prisoners simply strolled away. With directions from the guards, Trasker, Donohue, Werner, and Anstatt walked one mile until they found a large Union encampment. The war was over for them.

When Pat had entered service, he weighed 155 pounds. The day he arrived at the Union lines and was taken into a field hospital, he weighed 100 pounds, fifteen of which had been gained in the last three weeks. He was suffering from dysentery, piles, scurvy, rheumatism, and cholera. He would survive the cholera because he had been exposed to it in both Rochester and Buffalo.

Union soldiers cheered the prisoners as they walked into the Union camp and slumped to the ground. Soldiers brought wagons and carried the four to the quartermaster. He welcomed and congratulated them for having survived and led them to the regimental field hospital.

An orderly had Pat undress and bathe, gave him fresh underwear, and led him by the arm to a bed. Never had Pat been in a bed that felt so good. He slept, woke to eat and relieve himself, and slept some more. After three days of rest and care, he sought out his carpentry shop mates and thanked them for the good times they had together. He bid them the best of luck and boarded a wagon and then a train to Belle Plain, followed by a ship bound for a convalescent camp near Washington.