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REMINISCENCES OF A PRISONER OF WAR AND HIS ESCAPE

DANIEL AVERY LANGWORTHY

Late Captain 85th N. Y. Vol. Infantry

Byron Printing Company Minneapolis, Minn. 1915

Copyright 1915 by Daniel Avery Langworthy

AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO MY ESTEEMED FRIEND AND COMRADE

ELL TORRANCE

PAST COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF, GRAND ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC

COMPASS, KNIFE, FORK AND SPOON 18 Used in Capt. Langworthy's escape

CAMP OGLETHROPE, MACON, GEORGIA 20

SHOES AND HICKORY STICK 26 Used in Capt. Langworthy's Escape

JAIL YARD, CHARLESTON, S. C. 28

ROPER HOSPITAL, CHARLESTON, S. C. 32

FIVE ESCAPED OFFICERS 56 Who joined Capt. Langworthy's party

FIVE OFFICERS INCLUDING CAPT. LANGWORTHY 68 As they appeared after reaching the Union lines

PREFACE Soon after my escape from captivity and my arrival at the home of my father-in-law, at Elmira, New York, where my good wife was, my sister Sarah, who was older than myself, and her husband, came to see me. She sat down by my side and said: "Now Daniel, tell me all about it. How you were captured, how treated while a prisoner of war, how you made your escape and worked your way from Columbia, South Carolina, to Elmira." She held me to a strict account until she had the full story. I then told her that if after that I should be asked about it I would refer them to her , but unfortunately she is not living now.

I have never been much inclined to talk about my prison life, nor had thought of writing about it until recently when some of my comrades, who had been talking with me about it, suggested and +strongly urged+ that I write it out. The result of which is these reminiscences. Doubtless I could have told this story better fifty years ago, for, as I did not keep a diary or any memorandum, it is entirely from memory, yet the events made a fixed impression on my mind and I believe that what I have herein narrated is correct. I was born January 3rd, 1832.

DANIEL AVERY LANGWORTHY.

Minneapolis, Minn. April 3rd, 1915.

Narrative

Before the Civil War I was a young physician in New York city, had been brought up a strong Whig and fully believed that slavery was entirely wrong. After the beginning of the war I felt it my duty to go and help and thought that the privates, the men who carried and used rifles were what was wanted; hence I went to Elmira, New York, and enlisted on September 10th, 1861, in the Eighty-fifth New York Regiment, which regiment was being recruited in Allegany County in the locality where my father lived, so that I might be with my former associates. Late in the fall of 1861 the regiment was moved to Washington, D. C., remaining there during the winter. Early in the following spring we went on the Peninsula campaign under General McClellan, our regiment being in General Wessel's brigade. On April 9th, 1862, I was commissioned first lieutenant. On October 17th, 1862, captain.

At the close of the campaign as we came off the Peninsula, General Wessell's brigade was left at Fortress Monroe, where it remained for a time, and was then ordered to Newburn, North Carolina, and from there to Plymouth, North Carolina. In July, 1863, two other officers, some enlisted men and myself were detailed and sent to Elmira, New York, on conscript duty. While in Elmira I was married. In March, 1864, we were ordered to return to our command. We did so, arriving at Plymouth, North Carolina, about April 1st. On April 20th the entire post was captured after a siege of four days.

After our capture we were started toward Richmond and marched in that direction for two days; then laid over for one day. Although nothing had been said, we inferred that there must be something wrong at Richmond, indeed we afterward learned that General Grant had started on his wilderness campaign, and orders had been issued from Richmond not to bring any more prisoners there.

The next morning we started south and tramped in that direction until we came to a railroad, where we were loaded into cattle or box cars . We continued our southern journey, passing through Wilmington and Charleston to Savannah, then going west through Macon, we arrived at Andersonville, Georgia, in the afternoon. We were then taken out of the cars and sat down on the ground.

Andersonville contained only a few scattered houses. We could plainly see where our men were encamped, some distance away, with nothing to protect them from the heat of the sun and apparently with only a scant supply of water. Soon after our arrival a well-mounted and soldierly-looking officer came riding toward us. He was met by the officer in command of our guard, who saluted and inquired: "Is this Captain Wirtz?" "Yes," was the reply. "Captain Wirtz, I have some prisoners here for you," said the officer in charge of us. "About how many?" inquired Captain Wirtz, "and what are they?" "About eight hundred. Seventy-five officers and about seven hundred and twenty-five men," was the answer. "Well," said Captain Wirtz, "I suppose I must take the men, but I +cannot+ take the officers."

We all realized that we had witnessed an important scene--and it was. It established a precedent. So far as I know, no officers were confined at Andersonville. Had they been, the majority of them, like our men, would have died there. Of my company forty-eight good, healthy, robust young men went into Andersonville that day and the remains of thirty of them are there now; while of the officers of our regiment who were captured, all lived to return North. While that was the only time I ever saw Captain Wirtz, that event, and what I learned afterward, gave me a strong impression that the authorities at Richmond, and especially Winder, were responsible for the treatment of the prisoners at Libby, Belle Island, Andersonville, etc. Apparently Captain Wirtz was a well-drilled European soldier, who of course was trained to obey orders; but in this case he had so much respect for the rank of the officers that he rebelled and established a precedent which most certainly was a God-send to the officers.

Soon after he left we were ordered into line and the officers were commanded to step out . We understood well what that meant. It was a trying time for the officers, for we realized full well where our men were going. I think we had about the same idea of Andersonville then that we have now. The men were marched away.

After the men were gone we were marched across the railroad onto a knoll with a beautiful grove, in which was a vacant church, and told to make ourselves comfortable there for the night. Of course there was a guard around us, but we were allowed to go out into the grove. Going down the knoll we found a very large and most excellent spring of fine water, which came bubbling up out of the white sand. We said: "What a lovely and perfect place for a camp. Why wasn't our boys' camp here instead of over there on that hill? Here is water, shade and everything." The answer was: "It is too good a place for the Yankees."

During my prison life I met comrades who had been, I think, in most of the places where our men were confined and they all practically told the same story; that when they were turned over to the local authorities they were well treated, but that when they came under the Richmond or Winder care it was as different as it well could be.

Apparently it was well understood that no soldier was to be in a condition, when exchanged or when he got North, to re-enter the service.

After we had been in Macon for perhaps a couple of weeks, I noticed one day two officers riding around in another part of the park. I recognized one of them, and asked our captain of the guard: "Who is that officer with Colonel So-and-So?" He replied: "That is Colonel So-and-So of Richmond of President Davis' staff." I asked no more questions, but thought it significant that he was there.

Two or three days later a hundred or so of colored men were at work in that part of the park building a stockade enclosing about three acres. The stockade was a tight board fence twelve feet high, with a walk on the outside near the top and a railing outside of it for the guard, where they could see everything. On the inside, about forty feet from the stockade, was a picket fence called "the dead line." That is, if anyone approached it, he was to be shot.

After the enclosure was completed, one morning we noticed a crowd of men being marched inside the stockade. They were prisoners from Libby. Soon after we followed them. With these prisoners came Lieutenant Davis of Baltimore, who had charge of the prison. He apparently had his orders from Richmond and obeyed them strictly. It was a very great change for us. Our rations, treatment and everything else were so radically different. A small brook ran through one end of the enclosure, fortunately inside the dead line. We dug a spring there and from it got all the water we had.

One day one of our comrades was walking down the path to the spring with his canteen to get some water, when one of the guards who was on the stockade shot him dead. So far as we knew, there was nothing done about it except that his remains were taken outside. The guard remained on his post until time to be relieved.

There was one of our number who had been a prisoner so long and had become so reduced in health that he feared he could not endure much longer. While talking about it with his associates he was asked if he had anything he could sell to get some money to buy some food. He said he had nothing but his watch. He was advised to sell that. Lieutenant Davis came in every morning with a guard to count us. The next morning when they came in, this prisoner approached the lieutenant and said: "Lieutenant Davis, can I presume to ask a favor of you?" "What is it?" was the curt question. "I have been in prison for a long time and have become so reduced in health that I fear I cannot hold out much longer. The only thing I have left to dispose of is my watch. Could I ask you to take it out and sell it for me that I might buy something with the money to help me?" "All right," said the lieutenant, and put the watch in his pocket. The comrade further said: "Lieutenant, please remember to sell that watch for 0. If you cannot get that much or more, bring it back to me," and he gave his name. "All right," said the lieutenant.

Each morning after that when they came in this prisoner would stand around near the lieutenant, but nothing was said until one morning he said: "Lieutenant, were you able to sell my watch?" "No, I was not," replied the lieutenant. "Then, will you kindly bring it in to me when you come in tomorrow morning?" he requested. "What's your name?" asked Lieutenant Davis. The prisoner gave his name. "Oh, yes, I have done sold your watch already for ," said the lieutenant. "You must be mistaken, lieutenant," exclaimed the prisoner, "for you must remember that I told you if you could not sell it for 0 or more, to kindly bring it back to me." "You tell me I lie, do you?" exclaimed the lieutenant--and turning to his guard, said: "Bring him along; I will show him." The prisoner was taken just outside the gate, where we could see him, and bucked and gagged and sat there on the ground in the hot Georgia sun the most of that summer day.

After we were in the stockade the main topic of conversation was: "Was it possible to get out of there?" The first thing tried was tunnelling, which required great effort and caution. We had nothing to dig with except our hands and pocket knives. Then, the fresh dirt must not be seen, nor the openings of the tunnels. While we worked entirely in the night, our work must not be discovered by the guards, and several tunnels were under way. One or two of them were nearly to the stockade when, one morning, they came in as usual to count us. We were lined up at one end with the guard around us, and were ready to march through between two guards and be counted, when Lieutenant Davis pulled the ramrod out of the rifle of one of the guards and went around and pushed it into all of the tunnels, showing us that he knew of them. He then gave us a strong talk, saying we would hereafter be watched carefully, and if there was any further attempt made toward tunnelling it would be met with severe punishment. That was the end of the tunnelling. But the question was: "How did he get onto it?" After a little we learned that the day before when the guard went out they took with them one of our prisoners who had enlisted from Kentucky or Tennessee--I have forgotten which. Fortunately for him he did not come back.

Then the question was: "What next?" In talking things over with those who had been in prison the longest and had the most varied experiences, they all said it was not so difficult to get out of prison or away from those who had charge of you, as it was to care for yourself after you were at liberty; that the entire South was thoroughly organized, not only to prevent the escape of Yankee prisoners, but also to arrest deserters from their own service, and all others, both white and colored, who wished to evade the service or to get to the North. An officer was detailed for each locality who must have a pack of good dogs and a posse of men always ready and every person was under strict orders to report to said officer any strangers, stragglers, suspicious persons or any unusual circumstances they might know of. Fresh tracks were looked after and these officers and men were returned to the front if their work was not satisfactory. They were wide-awake.

Several of our number had been recaptured. They all said the dogs were the worst part of the outfit, that you might possibly evade the others, but that when the dogs got on your trail they were sure to find you.

The next question was: "What to do with the dogs?" The only remedy suggested was to have something to put on our feet which would be so offensive to their sensitive noses that it would upset them. After thinking it over I decided that if the opportunity presented itself, I would try turpentine. There was an officer there at Macon whose duties frequently called him inside our prison. I was pretty well acquainted with him, and sold him my watch. One day I asked him if I could presume to ask a favor of him. "What is it?" he said. "Would you kindly get me a half pint of good spirits of turpentine?" I asked. "What do you want of turpentine?" he asked. "You know the Libby prisoners are here," I replied, "and you may know they brought many bugs with them; turpentine is said to be good to fight those bugs with." "I will see," he said.

I kept the turpentine very carefully hoping that some time I might be able to escape and might possibly need it.

While in Macon my boots gave out and I purchased a pair of plain rough darkey shoes, paying in Confederate money for them, and kept them in reserve for use in case I should be so fortunate as to get outside. One of our number, who was a major in the regular army, started a secret society, which I joined, and which soon grew to hundreds. The object of the organization was for mutual help. It was organized as a regiment, with companies, etc. The major was the colonel.

One day in July a detail was ordered to be ready to move at a certain hour the next morning. They were ready, but waited for an hour or more. The major and many of our new order were in the detail, including myself. While waiting, several of our organization exchanged places and thereby got in so that when we marched out our society was well represented. We were put on board a train of box cars and started east, arriving at Savannah about nightfall. We were unloaded and were there in the yards an hour or two. While waiting, the major said to us: "I have learned that we are going North, I think to Charleston. When we get about so far from here we will be only about twelve miles from our men at such a place on the coast. I will be sure to get in the front car and will detail officers to be in command of each of the other cars. They will detail men to look after the guard in their cars. At the proper time I will swing a lantern out of the side door of the front car and swing it around as a signal for you to overcome the guards in your cars. Take their guns and care for them and when the train stops jump out and overcome the guards on the top of the cars, and we will then go back and overcome those in the rear car and then march for the little station on the coast."

There were four or five guards in each car and about the same number on the top and one group commanding the rear car. We all sat on the floor, including the guards. I was in command of one of the cars and watched very sharply for the light, but it did not show up. The major had learned that there was suspicion of something being done and did not think it best to take the risk. We all knew apparently when we approached where we should see the light, and as it did not show up the men soon began to tumble out of the side doors. Upwards of one hundred of them got out of the cars in a comparatively short time. The guards on top fired at them. I do not know whether any of our boys were hit or not, but within a few days after our arrival at Charleston all of them, except four or five, were with us, showing the efficiency of the organization for the recapture of escaped prisoners.

After the men began to tumble off, we stopped at the first telegraph station and a message was sent. The officers in that locality turned out promptly with their men and dogs, came up the railroad until they found a fresh trail, which one crew took, the rest going on until they were after them all.

We arrived at Charleston the next morning, being the first prisoners who had been brought there. We were brought there in the hope that we might help to protect the city from the continuous cannonading of our troops on Morris Island, which had driven the people from the lower part of the city. We, of course, were put in that part, first in the jail yard and from there to the workhouse, a large building in the same block used as a jail for the colored people. From there we went to Roper's Hospital in the same block, where we were given comfortable quarters. Those three buildings and the medical college occupied the block. The back yard of the hospital joined the back yard of the jail.

We put in our time evenings watching the shells from Morris Island; would see a bright light as they started at the horizon and as they went up and up until apparently nearly over our heads and would then come seemingly straight down and usually explode before they struck. Apparently the men on the island knew when we came and where we were, for while the cannonading was regular each night, never a shell or a piece of one came to our quarters, but plenty of harm was done in the city all the time.

After we had been there for quite a while, one day one of our comrades coming in, said to me: "I have a letter for you. I was in the back yard sitting on the ground when something dropped down by my side, apparently coming from the jail yard. I looked and there was a small stone with this tied to it." It was a small scrap of paper addressed to me, from one of my sergeants, saying that he, his brother and others of Company "E" were in the jail yard. That aroused me some. I went to the gate and asked the officer in charge of the guard if he would kindly send me, under guard, to go around to the jail yard. He said: "Why do you wish to go to the jail yard?" I told him some men of my company who had been in Andersonville since last April were there and that I wished very much to see them. After a little he told me to come again in a half hour. I did so, and accompanied by the guard, was sent to the jail yard, and of the first prisoners I met I inquired where the Eighty-fifth New York boys were and was told they had been removed that morning to the race course outside of the city. "Had they all gone?" I inquired. They thought they had. I told them I was very sorry as men of my company were with them. While we were talking, one of them said: "Why, there are two of the Eighty-fifth boys over there sitting on the ground." I went to them. Each had a raw Irish potato in his hand scraping it and eating it raw for the scurvy. I looked them over carefully, but could not recognize them. I said: "Boys, are you from the Eighty-fifth New York?" They looked up and said: "How are you, captain?" and jumped up, embraced me and said: "Captain, didn't you know us?" "I am sorry to say I did not," I replied. "Why, we are So-and-So of Company 'F,'" they said, which was by the side of my company. They were men whom I had known for nearly three years, yet were so changed that I could not recognize them.

I left much disappointed at not finding my men, and thought about it continually. The general in command of the Confederate forces at Charleston was a Roman Catholic, hence his church people, and especially the Sisters of Charity, had free access to the hospitals, prisons, etc., and did much good work.

A few days later I noticed some sisters in our building. I went to one of them and said: "Sister, have you been out to the race course?" "Yes," she said, "We have just come from there." "How are they?" I asked. "Very, very bad," she replied. "Sister, can't you tell me something more about them?" I continued. "That is about all," she said. "You poor men have suffered enough, but not what they have; they are very bad." "Sister," I continued, "there are some of my men there whom I have not seen since they went to Andersonville prison last April. I would like to learn all I can about them." "They are very bad," she said, "that is about all. We tried to minister to one poor fellow this morning. In giving him a bath we scraped quantities of maggots from under his arms and other parts of his body. They are very, very bad." "Sister," I persisted, "if they had some money would it be of any help to them?" "Yes, it would. They could not get with it what you would think they should, but they could get something and that would be a help to them." "Will you be going there again soon?" I asked. "Yes, we will go there every few days," she replied. "Could I ask you to take some money to one of my men?" "I would be pleased to do so," she said. "Is he a non-commissioned officer?" "Yes, a sergeant," I replied. "I will be here awhile longer," she said. "Write him a letter, tell him how much you send and what he is to do with it, put the money in the letter and seal it. On the envelope write his name in full, rank, company, regiment, brigade, corps, etc., your name, your lieutenant's name, your colonel's name and the commander of the brigade and corps--in fact write the envelope all over and I will try to find him." I did not ask any more questions, but thought her directions strange. I went and did as she told me to do and gave her the letter. A few days later I saw some sisters in the building, and going to them saw her to whom I had given my letter a few days before, and spoke to her. "Yes, captain," she said, "I was going to look you up. We just came from the race course. I feel quite sure I found your man and gave him your letter. While you did as I told you, wrote the envelope all over, you did not put too much on it." "How was that, sister?" I asked. "Well, when we got there inside the race course, they all came around us, hoping we would do something for them," she said. "I asked for Mr. Jones. Nearly all the men there were named Jones. I did not tell them any more, but began asking questions. A few less were George Jones, a few less George Washington Jones, a few less were sergeants and in Company 'E,' and in the Eighty-fifth New York, etc., until I got down to one man and am quite sure he was the right one." I thanked her and told her how greatly I was obliged to her, and said: "Sister, I certainly have no reason to doubt what you say, but cannot understand it." "How so?" she asked. "I know those men thoroughly," I said, "and know them not only to be good soldiers, but truly honest, truthful, upright, manly men." "That's all right, captain," she said, "but as I told you before, you have not suffered and passed through what they have. I believe that if you or I had been through with what they have we would not be one whit different from what they are and in my heart I cannot blame them." I said: "All right, sister, I am fully assured that you are a noble, genuine, upright Christian lady."

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