After the funeral was done, they put me into a room with two other officers who were prisoners, one of whom was Capt Broughton, of Dallas, Texas. This room was about 12×14 feet square, and was quite bare as to furnishings. We had to sleep on our blankets and use our canteens for pillows. Just after sunup next morning the Yanks marched in Lieut. Bill Foote. I was sorry for Billy to be a prisoner, but so many things had happened past few hours that I could have cried for joy at sight of his friendly face.
Time did not hang heavy on my hands after his arrival. I made up my mind that I would not go to prison if there was any possible chance for escape. I looked around the little old room in which we were confined and discovered that there was a door leading into another room. This door was locked, but it did not take me long to effect an entrance, and there I found stored away boxes of plug tobacco that reached halfway up to the ceiling. Well, that find was equal to a gold mine, for tobacco was very scarce at that time.
I told my fellow-prisoners to keep a close mouth regarding my find; that it might mean a good many dinners, and breakfasts for us. Foote promised that he would not allow anyone to enter the room under any circumstances. They guarded the secret well. I still had my parole, so I called for a guard to accompany me down to breakfast, and on the way I asked the bluecoat if he chewed tobacco. He said that he did, and I immediately presented him with a plug. He asked me where I got it, and I told him I had a friend who would furnish it.
He said that I could sell a wagon-load. I told him we would divide the profits on the sales if he would help me to dispose of it. That Yankee must have been a retail clerk before he went into the army, for he sold tobacco right and left. On that first morning we sold eleven dollars worth of the weed before breakfast. I had three extra meals put up for my comrades, whenever the Yank was off duty after that, he came around to get a fresh supply.
The next morning I went to see Capt. McGuire and told him that I could not stand being confined in that little old room, and I handed him over a sample of plug tobacco. He cut off a chew and passed it back to me. I told him to keep it, that I knew where I could get plenty more. The tobacco helped to win him over, and he gave me a permit good within city limits during the time of our stay in Raymond. I got more than five hundred dollars clear sale of tobacco.
I had an opportunity to visit every outlet and found them all heavily guarded, and I realized that I could not escape by land. The news came one day that we were soon to start for Yankeedom, so I went in the early morning out to the spot where the remains of my colonel lay, and, longing to see him again and to know sure that he was there he was there, I uncovered the coffin and took off the lid and looked upon his dear face for the last time. His hair and beard seemed to have grown much longer. I covered the coffin over carefully and banked up the grave, and then I took a farewell look at the spot where he lay.
Two days later we were marched to the Mississippi River, where we were put aboard transports and started to a Northern prison. I had CoL McGavock’s watch, his valuable papers, and nine hundred dollars in Confederate money. On board the boat the officers had to pay for their food or starve. My comrades had no money, so I had to come to the rescue with my five hundred dollars tobacco money. Capt Broughton borrowed one hundred dollars from me, and whatever was mine was Foote’s, and of course we had to pay for rations for the rest of the fellows. Well, when we landed at Two Mile Island, above Memphis, I had just one twenty-five-cent shinplaster left.
Capt Neff, of the 51st Indiana Infantry Regiment, was in command of the boat we were on. He was a gentlemanly sort of a fellow, but of course he had to obey the strict orders issued to him. I told him long before we got to Two Mile Island that he would never take me to a Yankee prison. “I’ll bet five dollars I do” was his reply, and I at once bet him five dollars he would not. He smiled and insisted that we should shake hands on the bet. I shook hands with him, and told him to pay the money to Bill Foote when he found me gone.
When we reached the island, I looked around to see how the land lay, but there were too many Yankee guards to hinder my progress. The bluecoats were on each side of the river and Memphis was two miles distant. I knew I could swim down to die city, but was afraid Lieut. Foote could not hold out to get there. However, I went up on deck and talked die matter over with him. Without a moment’s hesitation he said: “I will go with you.” That evening we went down into the wheelhouse.
Foote looked down into the water and then across the river and down the river, and I knew by the expression on his face that it would be best for him to stay on board. I would rather have gone on to the Yankee prison with him than have him drowned.
I told him if he had the least fear he must not attempt it We went up into the cabin, and as I passed Capt Neff I reminded him of our bet and told him to be sure to give the money to Foote, He laughed and said: “All right” I had on a double-breasted military coat, with two lace bars on the sleeve and lace around the collar, denoting my rank. Of course this rendered me a conspicuous figure among the prisoners, and the captain could locate me quicker than anyone else on board.
Lieut. Foote (“Tinfoot” we called him) and I went into one of the staterooms and had a farewell chat. I gave him my uniform coat and cap and insisted that he put them on. I got a life preserver that I had hidden away to use on this occasion, clapped Foote’s old white hat on my head and walked out in my shirt-sleeves. Billy sat down with his back toward me as I walked off.
Thirty-six years elapsed before I saw him again. We met in the city of San Francisco, when I went there with the party of Tennesseans sent to meet the 1st Tennessee Regiment upon its return from the Philippine Islands. During those years he had become one of the most successful lawyers in the West There was nothing about him like the Billy Foote of the old days, save his bright, dark eyes and genial, happy manner. The snows of all those winters had left a whitening touch upon his dark locks, and his figure bad lost its whippersnapper slenderness. It seems only a few short months since we parted with a promise to meet again soon, but my dear old comrade has answered the summons.
(Editor’s note: Patrick’s son, Walker E. Griffin may have been a member of the 1st Tennessee Regiment. Walker was born in 1880 in Nashville, the last child born to Patrick’s first wife, the former Bridgett Welch).
It is my pride and pleasure to be able to say that “Tinfoot” made his mark, and that out there in the sunset land no man stood above him.
But to my story. I went into the wheelhouse, put the life preserver between my legs, fastened it, and let myself down into the water gently. If any one on board saw me, he did not think the matter of enough importance to report it. I floated down the river slowly and steered myself to the back end of a stern-wheel boat. I climbed up on the wheel, went around on the edge of the boat and mingled with the hands who were unloading the cargo. There were a number of soldiers and steamboat men about, and one of the boatmen laughed at my bedraggled appearance and told his companion that I was a country yap who had fallen into the river. A soldier asked me if I fell in, and I answered “yes,” and that I was going home then to get some dry clothes.
I was willing to masquerade as anything or anybody until my colonel’s belongings were turned over to his own people. Only a fellow who had been a prisoner can appreciate the feeling of friendly ground beneath his feet once more.
Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
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