Macon—A Southern Unionist in the Rebel Army—Beneath a Georgia
Sun—Secession Speech—Thoughts of Home—Political Prisoners—Horrible
Place—Offer of the Gospel—Lieutenant A. P. Collins—Contemplated
Escape—Robes of Blood!—Pinning a Federal Soldier to the Ground.
We were next taken to Macon, Georgia. Traveling by night in box-cars,
we had little opportunity to see the country. We were much annoyed
on this trip by drunken, profane, and sleepy guards. Their cuffs and
curses were almost too intolerable to be borne.
On board the train, however, there was one companionable and
intelligent gentleman. I regret that I cannot record his name, for he
was a worthy man, and a lover of his country. He related to me many
strange inconsistencies of rebeldom. Said he:
“I am here in the army. I was a Douglas Democrat, and opposed this
war until my life was threatened. My only alternative was to become a
soldier. You may think your case a hard one, sir, but I would readily
exchange with you, for then I should not be compelled to fire upon any
who rallied beneath the stars and stripes. I was in the Mexican war,
and there followed the dear old flag until it floated proudly over the
metropolis of the enemy.”
He also informed me that he had a family dependent upon him for a
livelihood, and complained of a government that paid eleven dollars a
month to soldiers, and allowed fifty dollars per barrel to be exacted
for flour, and all other necessaries in proportion. Pointing to his
coarse shoes, he said:
“These cost me eleven dollars; this flimsy clothing I wear cost ten
dollars a yard! Once times were good and we were content and happy;
but now my family is suffering, and I know not my own fate. I know not
whether you are a Christian or not; but, sir, my hope is in the Lord.
He knows my heart; and although I am compelled to do what I believe to
be wrong, I feel that God will forgive me for my family’s sake.”
He was a member of the Methodist Church South, an uneducated man,
but honest and humble. He remarked that, if our conversation were
overheard, we would both be in danger of immediate death.
The morning light appeared at last, and we were passing through a
level, boggy country, very thinly inhabited.
Soon after dawn, the long, shrill scream of the locomotive announced
that we were approaching a place of some note. In a few minutes we
were in Macon depot; but of our destiny or doom we knew nothing. At
this time there were about six hundred of us. Not until ten o’clock
were we permitted to move, hungry and hampered as we were. Then we
were taken from the cars, and for the first time set our feet on the
traitor-cursed soil of Bibb county, Georgia. In a short time we were
driven, like a herd of mules, to the fair-ground, an area of three
acres, surrounded by a picket-fence. Within were several large, rough,
wooden buildings thrown together for the purpose of holding Yankee
prisoners.
It was now the 29th of May, and the noonday heat was intense. They
kept us sweltering in the broiling sun for more than two hours, and
our sufferings were excessive. Suddenly the attention of the crowd was
attracted by a pompous-looking individual, who mounted a stump in the
enclosure, and began, with violent gesticulations, to harangue the
prisoners.
The substance of this speech is herewith appended, though I confess my
inability to transmit it in the _patois_ in which it was spoken. It is
reported to serve as a specimen of the average of Southern logic and
oratory, such as often harried our unwilling ears:
“Prisoners, you have been committed to my charge, and you know that
you are invaders of our soil. You have been stealing our property, and
running them off to Canada and other places. And when we appealed to
you to deliver up our slaves, you passed liberty bills in your States,
nullifying a law that had been passed by the legislature, declaring
that you would not regard the Fugitive Slave Law. We, in assuming
the position we now do, are acting as a safeguard to our slaves, and
protecting them as our property—property to which we have the right
guaranteed to us by God himself, when he said, ‘Servants, be obedient
unto your masters.’ But you of the North have violated the Word of
God, and the Constitution of the once United States. When we asked to
secede from you, giving you all your rights, and demanding only our
own, your government waged an unholy war against us—have carried it
into our country with all its carnage, destruction, and bloodshed. The
God of battles is turning all things in our favor, and we are driving
your army from our soil—taking your men prisoners, which is your own
sad experience. Now, prisoners, you are in my charge, and I am sure
you cannot expect me to treat you only as invaders of our soil, and
murderers of our countrymen. Notwithstanding all this, I shall try to
do the best for you, as poor unfortunate prisoners, that the conscience
of a brave and gallant officer would allow him. While you obey my
orders strictly, you shall not suffer. But if you disobey them, you
must expect to take the consequences.”
After this address, embodying so much profundity and wisdom, we were
surrounded by a heavy guard, and taken within the guard-lines located
on the grounds referred to.
What a dreary spot for our abode, to be endured we knew not how long! A
gloomy, dismal pen was to be our habitation. The only shade afforded us
was that of a few straggling pine-trees, beneath which we sat at times,
brooding over our forlorn and desolate situation. Oh! how wearily
passed the days! how sadly the nights! How much did our thoughts revert
to the “loved ones at home,” and how in imagination did we realize the
loneliness of their sorrowing hearts!
Mr. Rogers—before spoken of—came and informed me that a group of men
standing at a little distance were from Tennessee and Mississippi,
with several of whom he was well acquainted, and asked me to accompany
him to where they were. I did so, and learned that there were seven
hundred from those States in prison, many of whom had been incarcerated
ten or twelve months without any change of clothing, or any comfort to
relieve the gloom and monotony of prison life. Among them were lawyers,
doctors, and clergymen—persons who had been accustomed to the luxuries
of refined society, and the endearments of home. A volume might be
written, recording the reflections, sufferings, and experiences of each
of these brothers, shut up there in a loathsome prison for faithful
adhesion to their loyalty. During that night I slept but little, and
said less. My mind was busy in contemplation.
Mr. Rogers conducted me the next night to a long board shanty, which
was used as a hospital for the sick and wounded. When I entered, my
heart sickened at the awful sight presented. There were confined within
that rough wooden enclosure about one hundred sick and dying, with
nothing upon which to rest their aching heads. We began the work of
contributing as much as possible to their comfort, and of alleviating
their sufferings. Most of them were victims of typhoid fever. We had
no light to guide us, and the only way we could distinguish the dead
from the living was by touch. From time to time was it our painful duty
to carry the dead bodies of these, our fellow-prisoners, and lay them
upon the grass, where they would often be suffered to remain two or
three days, when, being tumbled into rough boxes, they were put upon
a dray, and taken we knew not whither. This night was one of gloom,
loneliness, and desolation. Our bed was the hard floor, and sleep was
too “coy a dame” to be won to conditions so comfortless and lorn. I
lay longing for the morning which came at last; and never did I greet
the light of day more joyously than the 30th of May, 1862. This was my
first night in Macon, Georgia, among the sick, dead, and dying. The
place or pen thus used for a hospital, and the ground enclosing it,
were of such limited dimensions, that the large number of men found
it impossible to be other than exceedingly uncomfortable, and their
clothes became infested with bugs and vermin.
The night of the 30th passed wearily away, and ushered in the
Sabbath—“soft halcyon on life’s turbid waters.” The other ministers
sought to hold a meeting, and I went to the commandant to obtain
his consent, which, he granted. With a light heart, I returned to my
brother ministers to report my success. A moment after, a note was
handed us, stating that no religious services, public or private, would
be permitted. After the lapse of a brief period, they concluded to send
their own chaplain to preach to us. But we declined to hear him; and I
was appointed to give our reasons therefor, which I did as pertinently
as possible. They then threatened to force us to become listeners to
sentiments which were utterly incompatible with our views of patriotism
and Christianity. But they parleyed, and finally desisted from their
threats.
It was here that I first became acquainted with Lieutenant A. P.
Collins, a gentleman of refinement and culture, and with whom I was
destined afterward to share incredible sufferings and perils. He was
a religious man, and a graduate of the Ohio Wesleyan University at
Delaware, Ohio. He had in his possession a portion of the Old and New
Testament, and with this volume it was our wont every day to repair to
the shade of the pine-trees for meditation, reading, and prayer. The
idea of escaping from our horrible imprisonment, which was every day
growing more and more severe, seemed to enter both our minds at about
the same time, and we agreed to make it a subject of special prayer.
We shrank at the thought of abandoning our comrades in distress; but
the hope of life, and the possibility of again striking a blow for
justice and right, stimulated us while contemplating such a daring
and dangerous project. We looked upon the height of the picket-fence
that environed us, the vigilant guard of four hundred men that watched
our every movement, and the battery of artillery planted within the
enclosure, and our hearts oftentimes sank within us. But our friends
were dying around us, and day by day we saw them deposited in rude
boxes, hurried for ever from our sight. Once we relinquished our hope
of personal deliverance, and determined to remain with our brethren,
and, if necessary, die with them. Many who perished there were noble
men, though they passed away “unwept, unhonored, and unsung.” We now
concluded to continue our prayer-meetings in the hospital. In this
work we seconded the efforts of the Rev. Mr. Rogers, Dr. Doke, of East
Tennessee, and Dr. Fisk, of Illinois. We had not acquainted these
gentlemen with our plans. Their names should never die, for
“Midst fawning priests and courtiers foul,
The losel swarm of crown and cowl,
White-robed walked these noble men,
Stainless as Uriel in the sun.”
Their deeds of mercy were too many for record here. No circumstances
too repulsive, no night too dark, no duty too onerous, but they were
ready for every good word and work. Where suffering and pain were,
there were they present to alleviate and sympathize, and many a poor
fellow, now gone to his long home, blessed them for prayers and
consolations in the night of death.
These noble philanthropists determined to ask for something to mitigate
the sufferings of the prisoners, and accordingly made an appeal through
a humane surgeon for some bedding on which the dying men might rest.
This man carried the message to the commandant, Major Rylander, but
that dignitary utterly refused to listen to the appeal. The surgeon
then endeavored to awaken his humanity and Christian feeling; but he
replied to all this, by saying very emphatically:
“Sir, I have laid off my robe of righteousness, and put on one of
blood, and the best way to get rid of these d——d Yankees is to let
them lay there and rot.”
Such was the conduct of this man Rylander.
We were compelled still to submit to our fate, though we employed every
effort in our power to alleviate the sufferings of our dying friends.
One case, in particular, attracted my attention. A political prisoner
named Foote, who had formerly been a captain of a steamboat plying on
the Florida rivers, being suspected as a Union man, was arrested and
thrown into prison. He was occasionally visited by his wife, and so
careful were the rebels, notwithstanding their boasted superiority,
that two guards with loaded guns were invariably detailed to dog the
footsteps of this woman. A system of perfect espionage was constantly
maintained, and so suspicious were the rebels of each other, that they
would not permit a single guard, in any case, to accompany a prisoner.
An instance of the most barbarous torture it was ever my lot to
behold, I witnessed while here. It was inflicted upon a young man from
Illinois, for some offence unknown to me. He was taken and stretched
upon the ground, face downward, his legs and arms drawn as far apart as
possible, and then pinned to the ground by driving stakes across them;
and in this state of terrible torture was he left for twenty-four
hours.
Acts like these filled our hearts with the most gloomy forebodings,
and we began to seriously deliberate the propriety of consummating
our previously contemplated escape. We were about three hundred
and fifty miles from the nearest point where the stars and stripes
could be reached by water, and two hundred and eighty miles by land.
The distance seemed to be insurmountable, to say nothing of the
impossibility of surviving the hot weather. But the hope of liberty
gave zest to the project, and we determined at once and for ever to
abandon the scene of so much horror and misery.