On we march past Castle Lightning, a similar prison of unsavory reputation, to Libby Prison, which opened its ponderous doors to receive us. But I will reserve a description of this prison for another chapter.
“They entered:—’twas a prison-room Of stern security and gloom, Yet not a dungeon;”— The Lady of the Lake, Scott.
Libby Prison, up to this time, was the most noted and notorious prison of the South. It was a large building two stories high on its north or front side, and three stories high on its south or rear side, being built on land sloping toward the James River.
The building had been used before the war as a store for furnishing ship supplies.
The upper story was used as a prison for officers. The second story was divided into three rooms. The east room was a hospital, the middle, a prison for private soldiers and the west room was the office of the prison officials. The lower story was divided into cook room, storage rooms and cells. It was down in one of these storage rooms, that Major Straight’s party started their famous tunnel. Over the middle door was painted
───┬───────────────────────────────┬─── │ THOMAS LIBBY & SON. │ │ │ │ Ship Chandlers and Grocers. │ ───┴───────────────────────────────┴───
Across the west end of the building the same sign was painted in large letters.
Before we entered the prison, all the commissioned officers were separated from us and sent up into the officers rooms and we were registered by name, rank, company and regiment by a smart little fellow dressed in a dark blue uniform. This was “Majah” Ross, a refugee from Baltimore, whose secession sympathies took him into Richmond but not into the active part of “wah.” He was a subordinate of “Majah Tunnah,” the notorious Dick Turner, known and cursed by every prisoner who knows anything of Libby Prison.
There seemed to be no person of lower rank than “Majah” in the Confederate service. I think the ranks must have been filled with them while “Cunnels” acted as file closers. O, no, I am mistaken. I did hear afterward of “Coplers of the Gyaard,” but then, they were only fighting men, while these “Majahs” and “Cunnels” were civilians acting as prison sergeants.
Soon after our entrance into the Prison we heard some of our officers calling from the room over our heads. They had been appraised of our arrival by the officers who came with us. I went to a hole in the back part of the room and heard my name called and was told by the officer speaking to come up on the stairs. There was a broad stairway leading from our floor up to the floor overhead, but the hatchway was closed. I went up on the stairs as requested. A narrow board had been pried up and, looking up, I saw Captain Collins whom I had not seen since we left the line of battle together on that eventful 20th of September. To say that we were rejoiced to see each other is to say but little. Questions were asked as to the whereabouts of different comrades, as to who was dead and who alive, and, last but not least, “was I hungry?” Hungry! Poor, weak word to express the intense gnawing at my stomach. Hungry! Yes, from head to foot, every nerve and fiber of my system was hungry. He gave me a handful of crackers, genuine crackers, not hard tack with B. C. marked upon them, but crackers. Some of the readers of this sketch were there and know all about it. Those of you who were never in a rebel prison can never imagine how good those crackers tasted. One man who was there and witnessed the above, and who was making anxious inquiries for comrades, was Lieutenant G. W. Buffum, of the 1st Wisconsin Regiment, now the Hon. George W. Buffum, of Clinton Falls Township, Steele county, Minnesota. Ask him whether I was hungry or not.