Libby Prison Break

V. C. Jones has published a number of contributions to Civil War literature, including Ranger Mosby (1944) and Gray Ghosts and Rebel Raiders (1956). He is associated with Curtis Publishing Company and is a member of the Washington Civil War Round Table. Libby Prison Break VIRGIL CARRINGTON JONES a noise m the nicht around Libby Prison at Richmond, Virginia, was never, as a rule, something for the Confederate guards on duty to get excited about. This resulted from the fact that rare was the hour a moan or pitiful cry did not come out of the walls of the old building from some inmate stirred in sleep by sickness, inertia, or worry over loved ones at home. These wails were part of the natural atmosphere, a blending of the babble by day that at bedtime quieted to a restless protest of murmuring voices. By understanding, it was each sentry's responsibility to sift the echoes seeping from the darkness and to recognize those with a warning of danger or trouble. This they had to do by instinct rather than military handbook, and it was well done, as part of a conscientious and thorough job. No matter how much corruption and intrigue were spawned by the war, there was never a taint upon these men who paced away tortuous hours on the outside of the old ship chandler's warehouse. Praise was earned by them from friend and foe alike.1 And their efficiency, saluted by official record, would have accounted for the promptness with which a guard, one night in early February, 1864, jerked his gun to firing position and blurted: "Hush! What's that noise?" Capt. John W. Lewis of Co. I, 4th Ky. Cavalry, in "Libby," E. R. Hutchins, comp., The War of the Sixties (New York: Neale Publishing Co., 1912), p. 377, said: "The regular guard around Libbywas one ofthe best organizations ofthe land I everknew of; they performed their duties right up tothe handle, in a soldierly manner, and they were entirely incorruptible." 93 94VIRGI L C ARRI NGTO N JONES A second sentinel, just beginning another lap of his post, stopped, swung about, and stared at the speaker in the faint glow from a gas light at the street corner. "What noise?" "Didn't ya hear it—a strange noise? Seemed to come out of the ground over there. Kind of like a faint rumbling." The other guard stood in silence and listened. Above him towered the prison, a giant four-story, brick building, each floor divided into three huge warehouse rooms. Its front was on Cary Street and its rear a story lower on Canal. A few feet back flowed the muddy James River, turbulent stream at times, and between them lay the Kanawha Canal, a narrow band of water so still the moon seemed carved into the smooth opaqueness of its mirrory surface. "I don't hear nothin'," the second guard said. "Must be rats. Got millions of 'em along this wharf." The suggestion settled well with the alarmed sentinel. Slowly he turned and resumed his monotonous pacing, his form changing gradually into a silhouette as he moved out of the pale of the street lamp. But the second guard was mistaken about the rats. No rodent was involved in the strange disturbance that had come to the alert ears outside of Libby. This noise was man-made, and it was not intended to have happened. Stealth was the keynote of what was going on under ground, for there, only a few feet beneath the paths of the sentries, Union prisoners were digging to freedom. The sound they had unintentionally created was evidence of their inability to direct a tunnel with accuracy. Almost tragically demonstrated was the tendency of the human mole to turn upward. That was what had happened—too soon. It was like the birth of an uprising, this effort to break away from the clutches of the Rebels. It began with one man, and he, a volunteer from the coal mining area of Pennsylvania, kept the plot to himself until convinced in his own mind it would succeed. After that he slowly bared his plans, cautiously hand-picking those to...