When I first saw Rob Johnson at Point Lookout Prison, he was badly wounded. The Yankee sergeant would have left the lad to die, but I brought him to the surgeon. You see, Rob has the look of me younger brother who died in an English prison. Rob survived and I’ve been looking out for him ever since.
To be sure, I know what it’s like to go up against powerful folk. I came here from Ireland with the nuns who nurse at this godforsaken place. I helped out in the hospital and brought fresh food for the sisters from local farmers and fishermen.
I had the freedom to come and go at the prison camp. In me travels, I made friends and heard news. Local folks knew I wasn’t a Yankee, don’t you see, so they talked with me. The Northern sea blockade angered them, as many of the watermen were also blockade runners – some locked away right here by the Union Army.
I tried to keep an eye on Rob and his friends and slipped them a crock of sour kraut from the kitchen or a plate of oysters. There was little enough food in the camp and rumor had it that more ration cuts would come.
In the winter of 1864, I was forced to work in the pest house, a damp bleak hovel used to treat Rebel smallpox victims. Rob and his friend, Jacobs, were assigned to help me. We saved a few poor lads and lost many more. Finally, we got a chance to escape at Christmas. We made it back to Rob’s home and found that many of his neighbors were set on ruining him.
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