by Tom McCarthy
Meantime Captain Johnson was dragging out a wretched existence in Rat Hell and for safety was obliged to confine himself by day to the dark north end, for the Confederates often came into the place very suddenly through the south entrance. When they ventured too close, Johnson would get into a pit that he had dug under the straw as a hiding hole both for himself and the tunnelers’ tools and quickly cover himself with a huge heap of short packing straw. A score of times he came near being stepped upon by the Confederates, and more than once the dust of the straw compelled him to sneeze in their very presence.
On Saturday, February 6, a larger party than usual of the Confederates came into the cellar, walked by the very mouth of the tunnel, and seemed to be making a critical survey of the entire place. They remained an unusually long time and conversed in low tones; several of them even kicked the loose straw about, and in fact everything seemed to indicate to Johnson—who was the only one of the working party now in the cellar—that the long-averted discovery had been made. That night he reported matters fully to Rose at the fireplace opening.
The tunnel was now nearly completed, and when Rose conveyed Johnson’s message to the party, it caused dismay. Even the stout-hearted Hamilton was for once excited, and the leader whose unflinching fortitude had thus far inspired his little band had his brave spirits dashed. But his buoyant courage rose quickly to its high and natural level. He could no longer doubt that the suspicions of the Confederates were aroused, but he felt convinced that these suspicions had not as yet assumed such a definite shape as most of his companions thought; still, he had abundant reason to believe that the success of the tunnel absolutely demanded its speedy completion, and he now firmly resolved that a desperate effort should be made to that end. Remembering that the next day was Sunday and that it was not customary for the Confederates to visit the operating cellar on that day, he determined to make the most in his power of the now-precious time. He therefore caused all the party to remain upstairs, directing them to keep a close watch upon the Confederates from all available points of observation to avoid being seen in whispering groups—in short, to avoid all things calculated to excite the curiosity of friends or the suspicion of enemies—and to await his return.
Taking McDonald with him, he went down through the fireplace before daylight on Sunday morning, and bidding Johnson to keep a vigilant watch for intruders and McDonald to fan air into him, he entered the tunnel and began the forlorn hope. From this time forward, he never once turned over the chisel to a relief.
All day long he worked with the tireless patience of a beaver. When night came, even his single helper, who performed the double duty of fanning air and hiding the excavated earth, was ill from his hard, long task and the deadly air of the cellar. Yet this was as nothing compared with the fatigue of the duty that Rose had performed, and when at last, far into the night, he backed into the cellar, he had scarcely strength enough to stagger across to the rope ladder.
He had made more than double the distance that had been accomplished under the system of reliefs on any previous day, and the nonappearance of the Confederates encouraged the hope that another day without interruption would see the work completed. He therefore determined to refresh himself by a night’s sleep for the finish. The drooping spirits of his party were revived by the report of his progress and his unalterable confidence.
Monday morning dawned, and the great prison with its twelve hundred captives was again astir. The general crowd did not suspect the suppressed excitement and anxiety of the little party that waited through that interminable day, which they felt must determine the fate of their project.
Rose had repeated the instructions of the day before and again descended to Rat Hell with McDonald for his only helper. Johnson reported all quiet, and McDonald taking up his former duties at the tunnel’s mouth, Rose once more entered with his chisel. It was now the seventeenth day since the present tunnel was begun, and he resolved it should be the last. Hour after hour passed, and still the busy chisel was plied, and still the little wooden box with its freight of earth made its monotonous trips from the digger to his comrade and back again.
From the early morning of Monday, February 8, 1864, until an hour after midnight the next morning, his work went on. As midnight approached, Rose was nearly a physical wreck: The perspiration dripped from every pore of his exhausted body; food he could not have eaten if he had had it. His labors thus far had given him a somewhat exaggerated estimate of his physical powers. The sensation of fainting was strange to him, but his staggering senses warned him that to faint where he was meant at once his death and burial. He could scarcely inflate his lungs with the poisonous air of the pit; his muscles quivered with increasing weakness and the warning spasmodic tremor which their unnatural strain induced; his head swam like that of a drowning person.
By midnight he had struck and passed beyond a post which he felt must be in the yard. During the last few minutes, he had directed his course upward, and to relieve his cramped limbs, he turned upon his back. His strength was nearly gone; the feeble stream of air which his comrade was trying, with all his might, to send to him from a distance of fifty-three feet could no longer reach him through the deadly stench. His senses reeled; he had not breath or strength enough to move backward through his narrow grave. In the agony of suffocation, he dropped the dull chisel and beat his two fists against the roof of his grave with the might of despair—when, blessed boon! The crust gave way, and the loosened earth showered upon his dripping face, purple with agony; his famished eye caught sight of a radiant star in the blue vault above him; a flood of light and a volume of cool, delicious air poured over him. At that very instant, the sentinel’s cry rang out like a prophecy—“Half past one, and all’s well!”
Recovering quickly under the inspiring air, he dragged his body out of the hole and made a careful survey of the yard in which he found himself. He was under a shed, with a board fence between him and the east-side sentinels, and the gable end of Libby loomed grimly against the blue sky. He found the wagonway under the south-side building closed from the street by a gate fastened by a swinging bar, which, after a good many efforts, he succeeded in opening. This was the only exit to the street. As soon as the nearest sentinel’s back was turned, he stepped out and walked quickly to the east. At the first corner, he turned north, carefully avoiding the sentinels in front of the “Pemberton Buildings” (another military prison northeast of Libby), and at the corner above this, he went westward, then south to the edge of the canal, and thus, by cautious moving, made a minute examination of Libby from all sides.
Having satisfied his desires, he retraced his steps to the yard. He hunted up an old bit of heavy plank, crept back into the tunnel feet first, drew the plank over the opening to conceal it from the notice of any possible visitors to the place, and crawled back to Rat Hell. McDonald was overjoyed, and poor Johnson almost wept with delight, as Rose handed one of them his victorious old chisel and gave the other some trifle he had picked up in the outer world as a token that the underground railroad to God’s country was open.
Rose now climbed the rope ladder, drew it up, rebuilt the fireplace wall as usual, and, finding Hamilton, took him over near one of the windows and broke the news to him. The brave fellow was almost speechless with delight and, quickly hunting up the rest of the party, told them that Colonel Rose wanted to see them down in the dining room.
As they had been waiting news from their absent leader with feverish anxiety for what had seemed to them all the longest day in their lives, they instantly responded to the call and flocked around Rose a few minutes later in the dark kitchen, where he waited them. As yet, they did not know what news he brought, and they could scarcely wait for him to speak out, and when he announced, “Boys, the tunnel is finished,” they could hardly repress a cheer. They wrung his hand again and again and danced about with childish joy.
It was now nearly three o’clock in the morning. Rose and Ha
milton were ready to go out at once and indeed were anxious to do so, since every day of late had brought some new peril to their plans. None of the rest, however, were ready, and all urged the advantage of having a whole night in which to escape through and beyond the Richmond fortifications instead of the few hours of darkness which now preceded the day. To this proposition Rose and Hamilton somewhat reluctantly assented. It was agreed that each man of the party should have the privilege of taking one friend into his confidence and that the second party of fifteen thus formed should be obligated not to follow the working party out of the tunnel until an hour had elapsed. Colonel H. C. Hobart of the 21st Wisconsin was deputed to see that the program was observed. He was to draw up the rope ladder, hide it, and rebuild the wall and the next night was himself to lead out the second party, deputing some trustworthy leader to follow with still another party on the third night, and thus it was to continue until as many as possible should escape.
On Tuesday evening, February 9, at seven o’clock, Colonel Rose assembled his party in the kitchen and, posting himself at the fireplace, which he opened, waited until the last man went down. He bade Colonel Hobart goodbye, went down the hole, and waited until he had heard his comrade pull up the ladder and finally heard him replace the bricks in the fireplace and depart. He now crossed Rat Hell to the entrance into the tunnel and placed the party in the order in which they were to go out. He gave each a parting caution, thanked his brave comrades for their faithful labors, and, feelingly shaking their hands, bade them Godspeed and farewell.
He entered the tunnel first, with Hamilton next, and was promptly followed by the whole party through the tunnel and into the yard. He opened the gate leading toward the canal and signaled the party that all was clear. Stepping out on the sidewalk as soon as the nearest sentinel’s back was turned, he walked briskly down the street to the east and a square below was joined by Hamilton. The others followed at intervals of a few minutes and disappeared in various directions in groups usually of three.
The plan agreed upon between Colonels Rose and Hobart was frustrated by information of the party’s departure leaking out, and before nine o’clock, the knowledge of the existence of the tunnel and of the departure of the first party was flashed over the crowded prison, which was soon a convention of excited and whispering men. Colonel Hobart made a brave effort to restore order, but the frenzied crowd that now fiercely struggled for precedence at the fireplace was beyond human control.
Some of them had opened the fireplace and were jumping down like sheep into the cellar, one after another. The colonel implored the maddened men at least to be quiet and put the rope ladder in position and escaped himself.
My companion, Sprague, was already asleep when I lay down that night, but my other companion, Duenkel, who had been hunting for me, was very much awake, and seizing me by the collar, he whispered excitedly the fact that Colonel Rose had gone out at the head of a party through a tunnel. For a brief moment, the appalling suspicion that my friend’s reason had been dethroned by illness and captivity swept over my mind, but a glance toward the window at the east end showed a quiet but apparently excited group of men from other rooms, and I now observed that several of them were bundled up for a march. The hope of regaining liberty thrilled me like a current of electricity. Looking through the window, I could see the escaping men appear one by one on the sidewalk below, opposite the exit yard, and silently disappear, without hindrance or challenge by the prison sentinels. While I was eagerly surveying this scene, I lost track of Duenkel, who had gone in search of further information, but ran against Lieutenant Harry Wilcox of the 1st New York, whom I knew and who appeared to have the “tip” regarding the tunnel. Wilcox and I agreed to unite our fortunes in the escape. My shoes were nearly worn out, and my clothes were thin and ragged. I was ill-prepared for a journey in midwinter through the enemy’s country; happily I had my old overcoat, and this I put on. I had not a crumb of food saved up, as did those who were posted, but as I was ill at the time, my appetite was feeble.
Wilcox and I hurried to the kitchen, where we found several hundred men struggling to be first at the opening in the fireplace. We took our places behind them, and soon two hundred more closed us tightly in the mass. The room was pitch-dark, and the sentinel could be seen through the door cracks within a dozen feet of us. The fight for precedence was savage, though no one spoke, but now and then fainting men begged to be released. They begged in vain; certainly some of them must have been permanently injured. For my own part, when I neared the stove, I was nearly suffocated, but I took heart when I saw but three more men between me and the hole. At this moment a sound as of tramping feet was heard, and some idiot on the outer edge of the mob startled us with the cry, “The guards, the guards!” A fearful panic ensued, and the entire crowd bounded toward the stairway leading up to their sleeping quarters. The stairway was unbanistered, and some of the men were forced off the edge and fell on those beneath. I was among the lightest in that crowd, and when it broke and expanded, I was taken off my feet, dashed to the floor senseless, my head and one of my hands bruised and cut and my shoulder painfully injured by the boots of the men who rushed over me. When I gathered my swimming wits, I was lying in a pool of water. The room seemed darker than before, and to my grateful surprise, I was alone. I was now convinced that it was a false alarm and quickly resolved to avail myself of the advantage of having the whole place to myself. I entered the cavity feet first but found it necessary to remove my overcoat and push it through the opening, and it fell in the darkness below.
I had now no comrade, having lost Wilcox in the stampede. Rose and his party, being the first out, were several hours on their journey, and I burned to be away, knowing well that my salvation depended on my passage beyond the city defenses before the pursuing guards were on our trail, when the inevitable discovery should come at roll call. The fact that I was alone I regretted, but I had served with McClellan in the Peninsula Campaign of 1862; I knew the country well from my frequent inspection of war maps, and the friendly north star gave me my bearings. The rope ladder had either become broken or disarranged, but it afforded me a short hold at the top, so I balanced myself, trusted to fortune, and fell into Rat Hell, which was a rayless pit of darkness, swarming with squealing rats, several of which I must have killed in my fall. I felt a troop of them run over my face and hands before I could regain my feet. Several times I put my hand on them, and once I flung one from my shoulder. Groping around, I found a stout stick or stave, put my back to the wall, and beat about me blindly but with vigor.
In spite of the hurried instructions given me by Wilcox, I had a long and horrible hunt over the cold surface of the cellar walls in my efforts to find the entrance to the tunnel, and in two minutes after I began feeling my way with my hands, I had no idea in what part of the place was the point where I had fallen; my bearings were completely lost, and I must have made the circuit of Rat Hell several times. At my entrance the rats seemed to receive me with cheers sufficiently hearty, I thought, but my vain efforts to find egress seemed to kindle anew their enthusiasm. They had received large reinforcements, and my march around was now received with deafening squeaks. Finally, my exploring hands fell upon a pair of heels which vanished at my touch. Here at last was the narrow road to freedom! The heels proved to be the property of Lieutenant Charles H. Morgan, 21st Wisconsin, a Chickamauga prisoner. Just ahead of him in the tunnel was Lieutenant William L. Watson of the same company and regiment. With my cut hand and bruised shoulder, the passage through the cold, narrow grave was indescribably horrible, and when I reached the terminus in the yard, I was sick and faint. The passage seemed to me to be a mile long, but the crisp, pure air and the first glimpse of freedom, the sweet sense of being out of doors, and the realization that I had taken the first step toward liberty and home had a magical effect in my restoration.
I have related before, in a published reminiscence, my experience and that of my two companions above named i
n the journey toward the Union lines and our recapture, but the more important matter relating to the plot itself has never been published. This is the leading motive of this article, and therefore I will not intrude the details of my personal experience into the narrative. It is enough to say that it was a chapter of hairbreadth escapes, hunger, cold, suffering, and—alas!—failure. We were run down and captured in a swamp several miles north of Charlottesville, and when we were taken, our captors pointed out to us the smoke over a Federal outpost. We were brought back to Libby and put in one of the dark, narrow dungeons. I was afterward confined in Macon, Georgia; Charleston and Columbia, South Carolina; and in Charlotte, North Carolina. After a captivity of just a year and eight months, during which I had made five escapes and was each time retaken, I was at last released on March 1, 1865, at Wilmington, North Carolina.
