# Sketches in the History of the Underground Railroad/Chapter XXI

CHAPTER XXI.
It has been hinted that the lines of this road were extended from time to time, until they reached far into the slave States, and that the experience and information of the conductors enabled them to render aid to our soldiers when escaping from rebel prisons, that could not have been had from any other source. W. E—— was one of a large lot of prisoners who were put into that horrible pen at Andersonville. He enlisted in a regiment that went from northern Illinois under General Hurlbut, though he was horn, and lived until he was sixteen years old, in Perrysburgh, Cattaraugus Co. I knew him well—the last time I saw him was at Belvidere, Ill., soon after his return. When he entered the prison at twenty years of age, few men could boast of a more hardy constitution, hut he was starved to a mere skeleton, reduced from 172 pounds weight to less than 70 pounds. He reached home, but never recovered. Pie died soon after, and said he should have died in prison had he not “determined he would not;” his indomitable “pluck” kept him alive. The brutalities inflicted on the prisoners, and the systematic starvation to which they were subjected by the Southern Democrats who came up to New York to aid Northern Copperheads in making a platform and nominating candidates for ​dent and Vice-President, defy description. The scanty rations, less than one sixth the amount required to sustain men in healthy condition, often consisted of raw corn, or what is still worse, corn and cobs ground together, and no fuel was allowed to cook it. Then they would place small sticks of wood just oxer the dead line; one day one of E——’s comrades reached across the fatal line to get a stick to use in cooking his cob meal; the crack of a gun was heard, and the body of the poor fellow lay stretched across the line, from whence his comrades could not remove him without subjecting themselves to the same penalty. The camp was surrounded with timber, but they were never allowed a quarter of a supply for cooking, still less to keep them warm in winter. They were without tents or shelter of any kind. Had they been allowed the privilege they would have brought timber from the woods and made shanties for themselves, but this was denied them. Several men were shot in trying to reach across the dead line to get a little clean water, none fit to use being within reach elsewhere.
Great numbers of these unfortunate prisoners had been stripped of their boots and all their clothing, and received in return a ragged shirt and pants, without blanket or overcoat, with no shelter whatever. They dug holes in the ground to keep warm in, from whence they were often driven out by water on stormy nights, and as the result, thirty dead bodies were often gathered up in the morning. No class of human beings have been found in any country, claiming to be civilized, who have been guilty of such horrid atrocities, except in communities where slavery existed, and strange as it may seem, it is always the oppressor and not the oppressed who suffers this moral degradation, as will be seen in the relation of a few incidents. ​Our friend W. E—— never succeeded in escaping from prison; he was released at the close of the war, but some escaped, and after several weeks were re-captured and returned to prison. One of them in relating his adventures, said: “We crossed the Saluda River and lay in the woods until dark; then in trying to find the road to Greenville, passing a gate we heard some one call out, ‘Who’s dar?’ Presuming it was a negro, we stopped, and one of the party went to see who it was and inquire the way. It was an old negro woman. When she saw us she said, ‘You’s Yanks, ’scaped from prison. I seen ’em ’fore, and feed ’em, but now I’m gwine to de riber and can’t go back.’ She directed them on the road to Greenville, and said, ‘Go careful, make no noise.’ About three miles farther on we met an old negro who had started to go some ten miles to spend the Sabbath with his wife. I asked him if he had ever heard of the Yankees. ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘we hear bout dem people. Massa G—— tell us bery bad tings bout dem, but can’t tell bout dat ar after all.’ ‘Did you ever see any of them?’ ‘No, widout you is some.’ ‘If I should tell you that we are Yankees, would you believe it, and would you give us something to eat?’‘Ob course I would believe you; go with me.’ He went back with us three miles, and after secreting us in the bushes he went away saying, ‘I return in an hour, then I cough to let you know it’s me. If anybody come and don’t cough, keep bery still, dat ain’t me.’ In about an hour we heard some one coughing as if he were in the last stages of consumption. Presently the old man appeared, loaded with bread, bacon, sweet potatoes, and some salt. He then went two miles with us. Before he left us I asked him if he knew what the Yankees were doing for them. ‘Oh, yes,’ said he, ‘we knows all ’bout dat. You’s our frens.
“‘Who is this ‘Massa Linkum’ of whom you speak?’
“‘He is de President who’s been ’lected by de people, but the rebs refuse de knowledge ob it, and make Jeff Davis President.’
“‘Don’t you think Jeff Davis is abetter President than Lincoln?’
“Shaking his head and exposing his ivory, he said, ‘Better nor Linkum, what’s been ’lected by the people, what’s ’titled to the posishun, what’s made us all free? Can’t tell dese chil’n anyting ’bout dat. Dey knows all ’bout it.’
“This man’s name was Frank. He had been willing to forego his visit to his wife, procured a large supply of food, went five miles with us on our way, and felt that he was more than paid in having had the privilege of doing a favor to ‘Massa Linkum’s sogers.’”
After leaving the old man, keeping in the road, they went toward Greenville until two o’clock in the morning, when they came suddenly on a negro in the road with a large bundle under his arm. He refused to tell what he had in his bundle, but on learning that they were Yankees, he said, ‘I’ve had no meat in forty days. I got dese chickens for my Sunday dinner, but de Yankees are friends to us and we friends to dem. Now deni’s my words, take ’em.” Three or four days after this, becoming very hungry, they were on the lookout for negroes, knowing that there was no safety in applying to any others. Having made a camp at daylight, one of them crept carefully toward a field, and soon saw five negroes come into the field and commence plowing. In going around they passed near him, and when he saw that there was no white man with them, he rapped on®the fence, whereupon they all stopped, and one of the negroes said, “Gor a mighty! How comes you dar? Who is ye? whar ye come from?” Cautioning them to ​make no noise, the narrator said, “I want to talk with one of you, and the rest keep about your work.” The negroes appointed a man to talk with him, and the rest went on with their work. Questioning the negro, he learned that his name was Phil; that Phil’s master was an officer, on duty in Charleston, “banking up against the Yankees,” as Phil expressed it, where some of them had been killed and others wounded by the Yankee shells. “Well now, Phil,” said our friend, “did you ever see a Yankee?”
“No, sah.”
“I suppose you think they are bad people?”
“No, sah. De Yankees is de friends oh de black people.”
“ How do you know that the Yankees are your friends?”
“Oh, we hear massa talking ’bout it. He call ’em d——d abolitionists. We knows what dat means.”
“What do you understand by an abolitionist?”
“Means de—de year ob jubilee am comin’, when we’s all gwine to be free.”
“Well, Phil, that is a very good definition; but who told you that you are to be made free?”
“Oh, we gets it.”
“Well, Phil, 1 am a Yankee; can you do anything for me?”
“I knowed ye was. Do any ting? what ye want done ? I can do ebery ting?”
“I want something to eat, and there are more of us. How many can you feed.”
“I can feed an army of ye,” said Phil. Phil was getting excited.
With extreme caution they crept through the bushes to where they had camped for the day. Some conversation was had in which Phil asked anxiously if the slaves ​were really going to be made free, and being assured that Lincoln’s proclamation had made them all free, and that a million of them had their liberty already, he said, “Massa says you are gwine to sell us all to Cuba, but we don’t believe it.” “No, Phil, not one of you will be sold. We are going to make men of you; send your children to school, and teach you to read. Now, Phil, is this a safe place for us to stay?” “Yes,” said Phil, “if you keeps bery still. I comes to-night and brings you to a better place, and gibs you all de provisions you want.” He bounded away, and well nigh forgot himself in singing,
   “De kingdom am a comin’ And de year ob jubilee.”
One of the party called to him and said, “Still, my boy, still.” “ Oh, yes sah, I forgot,” and he was soon out of sight. Phil was as good as his word. He came to them as soon as it was dark, conducted them to an old house, brought them more food than they could eat and carry away, and also brought a negro shoemaker, who mended their shoes, and several old negroes to talk with them. When they started on late in the evening, Phil went with them. When out of hearing of those left in the house, Phil startled them with the question, “Massa, does you tink you can find the way to Tennessee? Mighty long way dar, and bery crooked road, and now, I tinks you had better take a guide wid you, to show you de way. I knows de way from heah to Knoxville.” “No,” they said, “we are prisoners of war, and liable to be caught any hour, and should we be caught and you be found with us, they would hang us all. Direct us the best route to go and we will take the risk. Your time will come soon, Phil, you will be free. God bless you.” Phil seemed to have a foreboding of trouble, and would willingly have risked his own life to help them on to ​Knoxville. Had he been allowed to go they might have avoided the ambush into which they fell the next day. They were sent back to prison, not, however, to Andersonville, for Sherman was already on his march to the sea, but they were sent to Columbia, and afterwards with other prisoners transferred from place to place until the final surrender at Appomattox.
The first years of the war the lines were kept open along the Shenandoah, through Maryland, through West Virginia, along the mountains in Tennessee, and wherever Union prisoners needed guides, but later in the war the raids of Stoneman, Sheridan and others had picked up and appropriated the most intelligent guides. Yet the time never came during the war when prisoners trying to escape were not safe for the time being in trusting themselves to the guidance of negroes.