One night in January things took a more serious turn.  The boys on the lower floor of our building had long considered a plan of escape.  There were then about fifteen thousand prisoners in Richmond—­ten thousand on Belle Isle and five thousand in the buildings.  Of these one thousand five hundred were officers in Libby.  Besides there were the prisoners in Castles Thunder and Lightning.  The essential features of the plan were that at a preconcerted signal we at the, second and third floors should appear at the windows with bricks and irons from the tobacco presses, which a should shower down on the guards and drive them away, while the men of the first floor would pour out, chase the guards into the board house in the basement, seize their arms, drive those away from around Libby and the other prisons, release the officers, organize into regiments and brigades, seize the armory, set fire to the public buildings and retreat from the City, by the south side of the James, where there was but a scanty force of Rebels, and more could be prevented from coming over by burning the bridges behind us.

It was a magnificent scheme, and might have been carried out, but there was no one in the building who was generally believed to have the qualities of a leader.

But while it was being debated a few of the hot heads on the lower floor undertook to precipitate the crisis.  They seized what they thought was a favorable opportunity, overpowered the guard who stood at the foot of the stairs, and poured into the street.  The other guards fell back and opened fire on them; other troops hastened up, and soon drove them back into the building, after killing ten or fifteen.  We of the second and third floors did not anticipate the break at that time, and were taken as much by surprise as were the Rebels.  Nearly all were lying down and many were asleep.  Some hastened to the windows, and dropped missiles out, but before any concerted action could be taken it was seen that the case was hopeless, and we remained quiet.

Among those who led in the assault was a drummer-boy of some New York Regiment, a recklessly brave little rascal.  He had somehow smuggled a small four-shooter in with him, and when they rushed out he fired it off at the guards.

After the prisoners were driven back, the Rebel officers came in and vapored around considerably, but confined themselves to big words.  They were particularly anxious to find the revolver, and ordered a general and rigorous search for it.  The prisoners were all ranged on one side of the room and carefully examined by one party, while another hunted through the blankets and bundles.  It was all in vain; no pistol could be found.  The boy had a loaf of wheat bread, bought from a baker during the day.  It was a round loaf, set together in two pieces like a biscuit.  He pulled these apart, laid the fourshooter between them, pressed the two halves together, and went on calmly nibbling away at the loaf while the search was progressing.