University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
THE RICHMOND CAPTIVES.

HOW close, and dirty, and terrible it was on that
third floor of the dingy tobacco house, where
Isaac, as a private, was first confined, and as the
summer days glided by and the August sun came pouring
into the great, disorderly room, how the young boy
panted and pined for a breath of sweet, pure air, such as
swept over the far-off Eastern hills, and how full of wistful

yearning were the glances he cast toward the grated
windows, seeking to catch glimpses of the busy world
without, in which he could not mingle. Not very near
those windows did he dare approach, for more than one
had already paid the penalty of such transgression, and
in his dreams, Isaac saw yet the white death agony which
stole over the face of the Fire Zouave shot by the inhuman
guard while looking from the window.

No wonder that the homesick boy grew sadder, wearier
each day amid such horrors as these, praying, sometimes,
that he might die, even though he must be buried
far from the quiet Rockland churchyard, where the cypress
and the willow were growing so green and fair,
and where a mother could sometimes come and weep
over her soldier boy's grave. It would matter little
where he slept, he thought, or what indignities were
heaped upon his lifeless form, for his soul could not be
touched; that would be safe with Him, whom Isaac, in
his captivity, had found to be indeed the Friend which
sticketh closer than a brother. The Saviour, honored
since early childhood, did not desert the captive, and
this it was which made him strong to bear, through the
long summer days, during which there came to him no
tidings of his home, and his eye was greeted with no
sight of a familiar face, for Captain Carleton was yet an
inmate of the hospital. Neither did any friendly message
come to tell he was remembered by the man whose fortunes
he had voluntarily shared, when he might, perhaps,
have escaped, for though Tom thought often of the generous
lad, and sent to him many a word of comfort,
through mistake or negligence only one brief message
had ever reached its destination, and so forsaken by
every human aid, poor Isaac looked to Heaven for help,

finding there a peace which kept his heart from breaking.

But as the summer days glided into September, and
the heat grew more and more intense, until at last September,
too, was gone, and the Virginia woods were blazing
in the light of the October sun, and still there was no
token of relief, oh! who, save those who have felt it, can
tell of the loneliness, the dreary despair, which crept into
the captive's soul, driving out all hope, and making life
as it existed in those walls a burden, which would be
gladly shaken off. How Isaac paled and drooped as the
weary hours stole on; how he loathed the sickening
food; and how at night he shuddered with horror, and
shrank away from the vermin-covered floor, his only pillow
unless he substituted the coat, now scarcely less
filthy than its surroundings! As Tom wrote to the New
Hampshire woman, Mrs. Simms would scarcely have recognized
her son in the haggard, emaciated boy, who,
on one October afternoon, sat crouching in his corner,
grasping the little Testament given by the Rockland
ladies, and repeating its precious truths to the poor,
sick, worn-out youth, whose head lay on his lap, and
whose eyes, blistered with homesick tears, were fastened
with a kind of hungry wistfulness upon the girlish face
above him, the face of Isaac Simms, pointing the dying
soldier to the only source of life. It was thus Tom
Carleton found him, Tom, just released from the hospital,
and transferred to the first floor of that dark prison.

With Tom it had fared better, for Yankee-like in his
precautions, he had gone into the battle with a quantity
of gold fastened securely around his person, and gold has
a mighty power to unlock the hardest heart. As a commissioned
officer, and a man of wealth and rank, many
privileges were accorded to him which were denied the

common soldiers, and his first act after entering the
tobacco house was to seek out his late companion and
ask after his welfare. He did not know him at first,
though directed to that locality as the one where the
“Preacher” would probably be found. He could not
think he had ever seen either of these famished, miserable
looking creatures, but touched by the impressive
scene, he stood a moment listening, while Isaac read,

“I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man cometh
to the Father but by me.”

“Yes, but how shall I go to Him? Where is He?” the
sick boy asked, and bending lower, Isaac answered:

“He's here. He's standing close by you. He hears
all I say. He knows you want him, and he will not cast
you off, for he has said he wouldn't. Only believe, and
take him at his word, that's all.”

There was an evident lifting up of both souls to God,
and Tom felt that even in that horrid place, there were
angels dwelling. He knew now that one was Isaac, and
the great tears rolled down his cheeks as he saw the
fearful change wrought in little more than two short
months.

“Isaac,” he said, softly, “Isaac, my boy, don't you
know me?”

Not till then had Isaac observed the tall figure standing
near, but at the sound of the well-remembered voice
he looked quickly up, and putting gently from him the
head of his comrade, sprang to his feet with a scream of
joy, and threw himself into the open arms of Tom, who
held and soothed him, while he sobbed out his delight.

“Oh, Captain Carleton!” he cried, his body quivering
with emotion, “I am so glad! I thought you had,—I
didn't know,—Oh, why haven't you come before, I'm so
sick, so sick and tired, that I almost want to die! Will

we ever be exchanged; have they forgotten us at Washington?
Shall we never go home again?”

These were questions which more than one poor captive
had asked, and which none could answer. Tom, however,
did the best he could, and hushing Isaac as he
would have hushed and quieted a grieving child, he spoke
to him many a word of comfort, promising to care for
him as for a younger brother, and speaking of various
ways in which his forlorn condition should be bettered,
now that he was an inmate of the same prison. It was a
blissful interview, and its good effects were seen in the
brightness of Isaac's face, and the cheerful smile which
played around his mouth, even after Tom had gone to
his quarters below.

Softer than downy pillow seemed the hard bare floor,
that night, as with his arm thrown round his invalid
friend, Isaac lay dreaming of the frost-tipped trees at
home, and the brown nuts ripening on the hill, where
he, perhaps, might pick them yet, for Tom had given
some encouragement that an exchange would ere long be
effected, and as each believed his own name would be upon
the list, so Isaac hoped his would, and in slumber's fitful
fancy he was at home again, and saw his mother come
softly in to tuck the bed-clothes round him, or see if he
were sleeping, just as she used to do. How still he lay
to make her think he was asleep! How real seemed the
vision, how life-like the kiss pressed upon his lips, and
the tear-drop that came with it! In a corner of the
room there were groans and imprecations, and with a
nervous start the dreamer woke to find it all a horrid delusion.
That stifling, fetid atmosphere had in it no odor
of Rockland's healthful breezes, and the star, shining on
him through the iron bars, though familiar to him, was
not the same which he used to watch from the window,

beneath the eaves, facing to the north. No home, no
mother, no soft feathery pillow for his head, or blanket
for his body—nothing but that feverish hand still upon
his forehead, and that tear on his cheek, for these were
real, and the sick soldier at his side, who gave the kiss
and tear, was whispering in his ear, that the way so
tearfully sought was found at last; that the gloomy, desolate
prison was like the gates of Paradise, and death
disarmed of all its terror.

“If mother could only know it,” he said, “I should be
so glad, and you'll tell her, won't you, when you get home
again? Tell her it wasn't very hard to die, even in this
dingy hole; that Heaven and Jesus are as near to me
here on the floor, as if I were lying on my own bed at
home, with her standing by. Tell her I'm glad I fought
for the Stars and Stripes, but sorry I ran away without
her consent, for I did. I got out on the wood-shed roof,
and so came off unseen. She's prayed for me every day
and every night, and God has heard her prayers. He
sent you here to lead me in the way, and after I am gone,
he'll let you go back again.”

There were a few more whispered words on either
side, and then the exhausted but happy youth fell away
to sleep, while Isaac wept with thankfulness that his
confinement there had not been all in vain.

Faithful to his promise, Tom, as far as was possible,
alleviated the hardships so long and so meekly borne by
Isaac, and with his gold bought many a delicacy for
Isaac's end, the poor, sick Massachusetts boy, who,
one night ere the physician had fairly decided that he
was in need of medical care, laid his head on Isaac's lap,
as he was wont to do, and with another whispered message
for the mother far away, and another assurance of

perfect peace, went where the wicked cease from troubling,
and the weary are at rest!

While he lived there had been something to take
Isaac's mind—something to excite his sympathy, and in
ministering to Henry's wants, he had more than half
forgotten his own, but now that he was gone, and the
corner where he had sat or lain was empty, Isaac, too,
faded rapidly, and not all Tom's efforts had power to
save him from the apathy which came stealing over him
so fast. Touched with pity at his forlorn, dejected appearance,
his comrades made him a little bed in the corner
where the dead boy had been, and there all the day
long he lay, rarely noticing any one except Tom Carleton,
who came often to his side, and whose own warm
blanket formed the pillow for his head. From the first
floor to the third there was not one who was not more or
less interested in the pale invalid, bearing his pain so
patiently, never complaining, never repining, but thanking
those about him for any kindness rendered with such
childlike, touching sweetness, that even the rough jailer
regarded him with favor, and paused sometimes to speak
to him a word of encouragement.

In this state of feeling it was not a difficult matter for
Tom to obtain permission for Isaac to be removed from
the dirty corner above to his own comparatively comfortable
cot in the officers' apartments below. But this did
not effect a cure. Nothing could do that save a sight of
home and mother.

“Could I see her,” Isaac said one day, “or even stand
again beneath the Federal Flag, I might get better, but
here I shall surely die, and if I do, oh, Captain Carleton,
you'll get them to send me home, won't you? I
don't care for myself where I am buried, but my mother,
—it would break her heart to hear I was put with the

negroes. She's a rough woman, and folks who don't
know her much, thinks she's cross and queer, but she's
been so good to me, and I love her so much! Oh, mother,
mother, I wish she was here now,” and the sick boy
turned his white face to the wall, sobbing out choking
sobs which seemed to come from the lowest depths of
his heart.

Cries for home and mother were not uncommon in that
prison-house, but there was something so piteous in his
child-like wail that other officers than Tom bent over
the poor lad, trying to comfort him by telling of an exchange
which, it was hoped would ere long be effected,
and by painting happy pictures of the glad rejoicing
which would greet the returning captives. For an instant
the great tears, dropping so fast from Isaac's lids,
were staid in their course, and a smile of hope shone on
his pallid face, but quickly passed away as he suggested,

“Yes, but who knows if I will be on the list?”

No one could tell him that. All would not go, they
knew, and they could only wait patiently, each hoping
he would be the favored one. At last there came a day,
never to be forgotten by the inmates of that tobacco
house, a day on which was read the names of those who
were to be released and breathe again the air of freedom.
Oh, how anxiously the sick boy listened as one after
another was called. “Captain Thomas Carleton” was
among the number, and a deep flush stole to the young
man's face as uncertainty was thus made sure. He was
going home, and like waves upon the beach, the throbs
of joy beat around his heart, making him glad as a little
child when returning to its mother after a long separation.

But oh, who shall tell Isaac's emotions as name after
name was called, and none that sounded like his.

Would they never reach it, never say Isaac Simms?
Could it be he was not there? Larger and thicker grew
the drops of sweat, quivering about his mouth, and standing
upon his forehead. Whiter, more death-like grew his
face; heavier, sadder, more mournful the eyes, fixed so
wistfully upon the caller of that roll, growing less so fast.
There could not be many more, and the head drooped
upon the heaving bosom, with a discouraged, disheartened
feeling, just as the last was read, not his, not Isaac
Simms. He was not there, and with a moan, which smote
painfully on Tom's ear, the disappointed boy turned
away, and wept bitterly, while his pale lips moved feebly
with the prayer for help he essayed to make. To be left
there alone, with no kind Captain Carleton to soothe the
weary hours, to be returned, most likely, to the noisy
floor above, to die some night when nobody knew or
cared,—it was terrible,—and Widow Simms would have
shrieked in anguish could she have seen the look of despair
settling down on her darling's face.

But though she did not see it, there was one who did,
and guessing at the thoughts which prompted it, he
walked away to be alone, and gather strength for the
sacrifice he must make. Tom Carleton could not desert
the boy who had clung so faithfully to him, and as Isaac
had once staid by him in the Virginia woods, when he
might have gone away, so he now would stay with Isaac.
Still it was hard to give up going home, and for a moment
he felt as if he could not. There was a fierce
struggle between duty and inclination,—a mighty combat
between Tom's selfishness and his better nature,—and
then the latter conquered. He must stay. It would not
be difficult to find some person to take his place clandestinely,
for already were the unfortunate ones seeking
to buy such chances, and offering every possible inducement

to any who would accept. A young lieutenant
about his age and appearance, and whose wife and child
were suffering from his absence, was the one selected by
Tom as his substitute, and the matter soon arranged.
Then, with a forced cheerfulness he did not feel, Tom
went back to Isaac, who was still weeping silently on his
couch, and whispering to an unseen presence, “You'll
never leave me, will you? and when I die you'll take me
up to Heaven?”

Here was a faith, a trust, to which Tom Carleton was
a stranger, and wishing himself more like that sick boy,
he bent over the cot, and said cheerily,

“Isaac, are you asleep?”

In the tone of his voice there was something so kind
and sympathetic, that Isaac started up, and winding his
feeble arms around Tom's neck, sobbed out,

“Forgive me, Captain Carleton; I'm glad you are going
home, but I wasn't at first; the bad, hard lumps kept
rising in my throat as I thought of staying here alone
without you, but they're gone now. I prayed them all
away, and I am glad you are going. I shall miss you
dreadfully, but God will not forsake me. And, Captain
Carleton, if you ever do,—see —my,—my”—

Isaac's voice was choked with tears, and he could not
at first articulate that dear word, but soon recovering, he
went on—“see my mother, you'll tell her about me.
Tell her everything except how I've suffered. That
would do no good—'twould only make her cry, and
when she hears, as she maybe will, that I am dead, tell
I wasn't afraid, for the Saviour was with me. I'd rather
you shouldn't say good-bye at the last. It would make
me feel so bad, only sometime before you go I want to
tell you how much I love you for your goodness, and to
ask you to be a '—

He did not finish the sentence, for Tom knew what he
would say, and wiping both sweat and tears from off the
worn face, looking so lovingly at him, he answered, “I
will try to be a better man. I never felt the need of it so
much till I came here, and Isaac, I am going to stay
till you, too, are exchanged. Did you think I would
desert the boy who, but for me, would not have been a
prisoner?”

Isaac did not reply; only the soft, blue eyes lighted up
with sudden, eager joy; the lips trembled as if they
would speak, there was a perceptible shudder, and then
Tom held in his arms a fainting, unconscious form. The
revulsion of feeling was too great, and for many minutes
Isaac gave no sign of life, but when at last he was restored
again, he tried to dissuade Tom from making so
great a sacrifice, but all in vain. Tom silenced every
objection, and when the 3d of January came, and prisoners
were released, another than Tom Carleton answered
to his name, and marched from Richmond in his
stead.

Tom had once spent several months in Richmond, and
in the higher circles he numbered many personal friends,
who, until quite recently, were ignorant of the fact that
he was a prisoner in their midst. Of these the more
loyal to the new Confederacy ignored him entirely.
Others, remembering his genial humor, and quiet, gentlemanly
manner which had won their admiration for
the elegant Bostonian and his gentle wife, threw their
prejudice aside, and respecting him because he had stood
firmly by his own State, visited him in his prison, while
others sent playful messages that though they denounced
him as an intruder upon their rights, they owned him as a
friend, and would gladly ameliorate his condition. To
these acquaintance it was soon known how great a sacrifice

Tom had made for the sake of a young boy, and the
result was a gradual abatement of the surveillance held
over Tom, while many privileges hitherto denied by the
strict jail discipline, were accorded to him. Isaac, too,
was benefited through him, and more than one fair lady
visited the invalid, growing strangely interested in the
gentle “Yankee boy,” and bringing many a delicacy
with which to tempt his capricious appetite. But no
amount of kindness could win him back to health so
long as he breathed the atmosphere of prison walls. To
go home was all he desired, and day after day the flesh
shrivelled from his bones, and the blue veins stood out
round and full upon his wasted hands until there came a
night when the physician told the jailer, whom he met
upon the stairs, that “the Yankee boy was dying.”

There were not many now in prison, and ere long the
sad news was known throughout the building, causing
the riotous ones to hush their noisy revels, and tread
softly across the uncovered floor, lest they should disturb
the sufferer below. The jailer, too, remembering
his own son, afar in Southern Tennessee, wiped a tear
from his rough face, and drew nearer to the humble cot
where Tom sat watching the panting and seemingly dying
boy. There were moments of feverish delirium,
when the prison, with its surrounding horrors, faded
away, and Isaac was at home, bathing his burning brow
with the snow covering the Northern hills, or talking to
his mother of all that had transpired since the April
morning when, followed by her prayers and tears, he left
her for the battle. Then, reason came back again, as clear
as ever, and with Tom Carleton's hand pressed between
his own he dictated what Tom should say to the mother
when he went back to her alone and left her boy behind.

“I shall never go home any more,” he said, “and I've

built such bright castles about it, too, fancying how nice
it would seem to lie on mother's soft, warm bed, and
watch the sun shining through the windows, or the grass
springing by the door. The snow will melt from the
garden before long, and the flowers I used to tend come
up again, but I shan't be there to see them. I shall be
lying here so quiet and so still that I shall not even hear
the cannon's roar, or the loud huzzahs when peace is at
last declared, and the cruel war is ended. Oh, if all the
dead ones could know, it would be something worth
fighting for, but when the troops are marching home,
and the bells ring out a welcome, there'll be many a one
missing in the ranks, and almost every graveyard, both
North and South, will hold a soldier's grave, but you
will not forget us, will you?” and the sunken eyes turned
pleadingly on Tom. “When the bonfires are kindled at
the North, and the glad rejoicings are made, you will
think of the poor boys who fought and died that you
might enjoy just such a holiday?”

Tom could only answer by pressing the thin hands he
held, and Isaac continued:

“Tell mother not to fret too much for me. I guess
she did love me best, because I was the youngest, but
Eli and John will comfort her old age. Tell them, too,
how much I love them, and how proud I was of them
that day at Bull Run. They used to plague me sometimes,
and call me a girl baby, but I've forgiven that, for
I know they did not mean it. I hope they'll both be
spared. It would kill mother to lose us all. Tell her
how I bless her for the lessons of my childhood, the
prayers said at her knee before I knew their meaning,
the Sunday School she sent me to, and the Bible stories
told in the winter twilight. Tell her I was not afraid to
die, only I wanted her so much, but everybody's been

good. There are kind folks here in Richmond, and God
will bless them for it. Oh, Captain Carleton, I'm a poor,
ignorant boy, and you a proud, rich man, but you will
heed me, won't you, and when I'm gone, you'll take my
little Testament and read it every day. Read it first for
Isaac's sake, but it won't be long before you'll read it for
its precious truths, and you will come to Heaven where
we can meet again—promise, won't you?”

There was a moment's silence, during which Tom
choked down the tears he could scarcely suppress, so
strongly this scene reminded him of another, when he
sat by Mary's side, and heard her dying voice urging
him to meet her. Four years the Southern sun had
shone upon her grave, and he had made no preparation
yet, but now he would put it off no longer, and bending
over Isaac, he replied:

“I promise; and if you see my darling in the better
land, tell her, God helping me, I'll find my way to where
she has gone.”

The white lips feebly murmured their thanks, and then
suddenly asked:

“Do you think mother's got the letter you sent, and
knows how sick I am? If so, she's praying for me now,
and maybe her prayers will save. I'm not afraid to die,
but if I could go home to Rockland first, it would not
seem so bad. Pray, mother, pray—pray, pray hard,” and
too much exhausted to talk longer, the half-delirious boy
turned upon the pillow furnished by some kind lady, and
fell into a heavy sleep, from which the physician said he
would never waken.

Midnight in Richmond, and Tom, counting off the
strokes, bent lower to watch for the expected change.

There was no color in the parted lips, and about the
nose there was a pinched, contracted look, which Tom
remembered to have seen in Mary's face, when by her
bedside he had sat, just as he sat by Isaac's, but where
Mary's hands were cold and dry Isaac's were moist and
warm, while the rapid pulses were not as wiry, and irregular
as hers had been. There was hope, and falling on his
knees, Tom Carleton asked that the life almost gone out
might be restored, and promised that if it were he would
not forget this lesson as he had forgotten the one learned
by Mary's death-bed. He would be a better man, he
said, and God, as he sometimes does, took him at his
word. Gradually the sharp expression passed away, the
hair grew damp with a more healthful moisture, the
pulses were slower, the breathing more regular, and when
a last the heavy slumber was broken, and Isaac looked up
again, Tom knew that he would live.

There was a murmured prayer of thanksgiving, a renewal
of his pledge, and then he bent every energy to
sustain the life coming so slowly back. Softly the
morning broke over the prison walls, and they who had
expected to look on Isaac dead, rejoiced to hear that he
was better.

“It may be I shall see mother yet,” he whispered,
faintly, when Tom told him that the dreaded crisis was
past; “and if I do, I'll tell her of your kindness.”

“Would you like very much to go home to your
mother?” Tom asked, and with a quivering lip and chin
Isaac answered:

“Yes, oh, yes, if I only could! I was willing to die,
but I guess we all cling to life at the last, don't you?”

Tom did not reply to this, but spoke instead of arumor
that all were soon to be discharged and sent back to
Washington.

“We'll go together, then,” he said, “you and I, for I
shall visit Rockland first and see my sister Rose.”

The prospect of release was meat and drink for Isaac,
who rallied so fast that when the joyful news of an exchange
did come, he was able, with Tom's help, to walk
across the floor of what had been his home so long.

Haggard, wasted, weary, and worn were those prisoners
as they filed down the stairs and out into the
streets, but with each moment which brought them nearer
home, their spirits rose, and when at last they stood again
on Federal soil and saw the Stars and Stripes waving in
the morning breeze, long and deafening were the huzzas
which rent the air as one after another gave vent to his
great joy at finding himself free once more. Isaac, however,
could neither shout, nor laugh, nor speak, and only
the large eyes, brimming with tears, told of joy unutterable,
but when arrived at Washington, his two stalwart
brothers took him in their arms, hugging and crying over
him as over one come back to them from the grave, his
calmness all gave way, and laying his tired head on Eli's
bosom, while John held and caressed his wasted hands,
he sobbed out the happiness too great to be expressed in
words. To him a full discharge from service was readily
accorded, while to Tom a furlough of several weeks was
given, and after a few days at Washington both started
northward to join the friends waiting so impatiently for
their arrival.