The Shed at the End of the Tunnel
Rose turned immediately and began motioning the men back to the Chickamauga Room.
Upon hearing the news of the Confederate guarding the kitchen, the other men’s faces fell. The tunnellers and some of their friends were dressed in the civilian coats and hats Ford had given them, anxious to leave.
“Turner’s beat us,” McDonald said. “We’re never getting out of here!”
“We’re not licked yet,” Rose said. “I’ll check the kitchen again in an hour.”
The minutes slowly ticked by. After about an hour had passed, Rose crept once again down the stairwell. He looked around the corner.
The kitchen is empty!
He waved his hand, encouraging the others to follow.
Rose, dressed in a brown coat and gray hat, tiptoed over to the fireplace, his head darting back and forth, searching for guards. He and Hamilton then slowly moved the stove for the last time.
Before entering the chimney, the two men shook hands. They had been through a lot together.
“Been an honor,” Rose whispered.
Hamilton smiled. “See you on the outside.”
The colonel crawled into the fireplace passageway. Maneuvering the tight, twisting space was as easy as slipping on a comfortable pair of shoes now. Rose wondered how the other prisoners, who hadn’t been through the tunnel yet, would fare. It would be a challenge, to say the least.
Entering the cellar, he was relieved to know it would be the last time.
Hopefully I won’t have to see you guys ever again, he thought as he crept among the skittering rats. He smiled. After tonight, the rodents should be happy to have the cellar to themselves again.
As he crawled into the final tunnel, Rose could hear Hamilton a few feet behind him. They were going to be the first two men to escape. Each of the fifteen pairs of men had a copy of a map Robert Ford had given them, showing safe houses in the area. Still, what Rose was going to do once he was outside of the prison was the last thing on his mind. Being this close to freedom, he was even more anxious about getting caught than before.
Something’s wrong, he thought, sweat dripping down his face as he scrambled through the tunnel. Someone must have talked . . . Turner knows, the guards know . . . And they’re going to be waiting for us on the other side of this tunnel! It’s a trap, and I’ll spend the rest of my days rotting in the darkness of the dungeon with the bugs and vermin . . .
Rose squeezed through the tight sixteen-inch curve in the tunnel before scrambling upward. Thirty feet later he was in the tobacco shed, relieved to find it empty. The night air was cold, and felt good. Still, getting through the tunnel was only the beginning. Walking among the citizens and Confederate soldiers milling around town would be the true test of whether all their efforts had been worth it.
He waited a minute for Hamilton, who climbed up into the shed a few moments later. Both men brushed the dirt off their clothes and faces, then crept into the towing company office. Hamilton stopped at the office’s front door and listened. Not hearing any footsteps, he slowly opened the door and the two men walked out of the shed and onto Canal Street. The street was empty save for one drunk man stumbling around. The Union officers paid him no mind and ambled out into the town.
They walked down the street with little fanfare. Then they turned a corner and, to their horror, found themselves on a block with a group of Confederate soldiers! The Rebs looked to be making the most of their night off, smoking and laughing outside of a saloon.
The former prisoners lowered their heads. They did their best not to walk too quickly.
“Hey you,” a Southern voice called out as the two escapees walked past.
Fear shot up their spines. Rose did his best to act unfazed as he stopped and turned around.
“You talkin’ to me?” he said, putting on his best Southern accent.
“Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you,” the Reb said. He was wearing a guard’s uniform. “I know you from somewhere?”
Rose shook his head. “I don’t reckon you do, mister. I’m just passing through.”
The guard had been leaning against a brick wall. Now he was moving toward them. “Naw, I knows you from someplace,” he said, scratching his beard. “Where you from?”
“Biloxi.”
“That right?”
Rose and Hamilton could tell the man wasn’t buying it.
“Which regiment you serve with?”
“Fifty-Seventh.”
“Where’s your uniform, then? You know what—maybe you oughta come explain it to my commanding officer.”
Rose glanced at Hamilton, who was trying his hardest not to panic. The colonel nodded to his old friend and smiled, silently bidding him farewell before turning back to the Confederate.
“I’ll oblige you, sir, if it’ll make you feel better.”
“Yeah,” the guard said. His breath reeked of alcohol. “It would.”
The colonel briefly thought about making a run for it. But he kept his cool and went with the guard, who led him over to a group of men in neatly pressed Confederate uniforms. Knowing it was too risky to wait around, Hamilton disappeared into the shadows of a nearby alley.
“Got a man over here, sir,” the suspicious guard said to his superior, nodding at Rose. “Says he’s from Mississippi, but I don’t believe him. Looks like a Yankee boy to me.”
Rose wasn’t sure if the man was harassing him for the fun of it or because of his disheveled, weakened appearance—a common look among Libby prisoners.
The commanding officer glanced at the clearly inebriated guard and scoffed.
“Have you got any evidence?”
“Just look at him . . . I’m tellin’ you, he ain’t no Reb like he claims.”
Rose steeled himself as the Confederate in charge gave him a long, hard look.
Should I run? No, they’d shoot me . . . Rose felt paralyzed.
After what seemed like an eternity, the commanding officer turned back to the suspicious guard.
“Sleep it off, private,” he said, then to Rose, “Go about your business.”
Rose nodded. “Good night, gentlemen,” he said. He then turned and walked away slowly. His heart felt like it was about to beat out of his chest.
As he continued along, Rose began to see a few more of his comrades walking slowly through the town square. They went unnoticed among the raucous Confederates.
He couldn’t find Hamilton. That was okay, though—he didn’t expect his trusted partner to stick around. It was every man for himself now.
Wanting to get as far away from Richmond as he could, Rose headed for the city limits. He knew if he headed southeast through the swamps that he’d eventually make it to the Union outpost in Williamsburg. He hoped that this few hours’ head start would be all he needed.
He rounded another corner. To his horror, there stood Warden Dick Turner, having a beer and a smoke with his cohorts. Rose kept walking, but he covered his face with his arm and pretended to cough into it.
“The major’s convinced himself there’s gonna be a big escape attempt soon,” Turner said to his friends. “I told him he’s mistaken. We’ve got them boys right where we want ’em.”
Rose ducked into the first alley he could find and headed for the next street over. As he hurried along, he heard more voices behind him and what sounded like a confrontation.
It’s only a matter of time now, he thought to himself, before our ruse is discovered.
Then he turned and headed for the city limits.