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Updated: May 29, 2025
Post number six, twelve o'clock, and a-l-l's w-e-l-l!" When, perhaps, some wakeful wag of a Yankee prisoner would answer: "Post number fo, twelve o'clock, and the Confederacy has gone to h l," in the same sing-song way the reb guard had just given it.
Everything seemed as usual, and wonderfully calm compared with the tumult in our minds. The Hospital guards were pacing their beats lazily; those on the Stockade were drawling listlessly the first "call around" of the evening: "Post numbah foah! Half-past seven o'clock! and a-l-l's we-l-ll!"
Everything seemed as usual, and wonderfully calm compared with the tumult in our minds. The Hospital guards were pacing their beats lazily; those on the Stockade were drawling listlessly the first "call around" of the evening: "Post numbah foah! Half-past seven o'clock! and a-l-l's we-l-ll!"
No one in the prison, except those engaged in the work, would be let into the secret until the work was completed and the tunnel was to be opened. This secrecy was necessary to prevent a curious crowd from hanging around, which would attract the attention of the rebs, who, in blissful ignorance of any plot, would sing out: "Post number fo, twelve o'clock, and a-l-l's w-e-l-l.
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