CAPT. HENRI WIRZ--SOME DESCRIPTION OF A SMALL-MINDED PERSONAGE, WHO
GAINED GREAT NOTORIETY--FIRST EXPERIENCE WITH HIS DISCIPLINARY METHOD.
The emptying of the prisons at Danville and Richmond into Andersonville
went on slowly during the month of March. They came in by train loads
of from five hundred to eight hundred, at intervals of two or three
days. By the end of the month there were about five thousand in the
stockade. There was a fair amount of space for this number, and as yet
we suffered no inconvenience from our crowding, though most persons
would fancy that thirteen acres of ground was a rather limited area for
five thousand men to live, move and have their being a upon. Yet a few
weeks later we were to see seven times that many packed into that space.
One morning a new Rebel officer came in to superintend calling the
roll. He was an undersized, fidgety man, with an insignificant face,
and a mouth that protruded like a rabbit’s. His bright little eyes,
like those of a squirrel or a rat, assisted in giving his countenance
a look of kinship to the family of rodent animals--a genus which
lives by stealth and cunning, subsisting on that which it can steal
away from stronger and braver creatures. He was dressed in a pair of
gray trousers, with the other part of his body covered with a calico
garment, like that which small boys used to wear, called “waists.”
This was fastened to the pantaloons by buttons, precisely as was the
custom with the garments of boys struggling with the orthography of
words in two syllables. Upon his head was perched a little gray cap.
Sticking in his belt, and fastened to his wrist by a strap two or three
feet long, was one of those formidable looking, but harmless English
revolvers, that have ten barrels around the edge of the cylinder, and
fire a musket-bullet from the center. The wearer of this composite
costume, and bearer of this amateur arsenal, stepped nervously about
and sputtered volubly in very broken English. He said to Wry-Necked
Smith:
“Py Gott, you don’t vatch dem dam Yankees glose enough! Dey are
schlippin’ rount, and peatin’ you efery dimes.”
This was Captain Henri Wirz, the new commandant of the interior of
the prison. There has been a great deal of misapprehension of the
character of Wirz. He is usually regarded as a villain of large mental
caliber, and with a genius for cruelty. He was nothing of the kind. He
was simply contemptible, from whatever point of view he was studied.
Gnat-brained, cowardly, and feeble natured, he had not a quality that
commanded respect from any one who knew him. His cruelty did not seem
designed so much as the ebullitions of a peevish, snarling little
temper, united to a mind incapable of conceiving the results of his
acts, or understanding the pain he was Inflicting.
I never heard anything of his profession or vocation before entering
the army. I always believed, however, that he had been a cheap clerk
in a small dry-goods store, a third or fourth rate book-keeper, or
something similar. Imagine, if you please, one such, who never had
brains or self-command sufficient to control himself, placed in command
of thirty-five thousand men. Being a fool he could not help being an
infliction to them, even with the best of intentions, and Wirz was not
troubled with good intentions.
I mention the probability of his having been a dry-goods clerk or
book-keeper, not with any disrespect to two honorable vocations, but
because Wirz had had some training as an accountant, and this was
what gave him the place over us. Rebels, as a rule, are astonishingly
ignorant of arithmetic and accounting, generally. They are good shots,
fine horsemen, ready speakers and ardent politicians, but, like all
noncommercial people, they flounder hopelessly in what people of this
section would consider simple mathematical processes. One of our
constant amusements was in befogging and “beating” those charged with
calling rolls and issuing rations. It was not at all difficult at times
to make a hundred men count as a hundred and ten, and so on.
Wirz could count beyond one hundred, and this determined his selection
for the place. His first move was a stupid change. We had been grouped
in the natural way into hundreds and thousands. He re-arranged the men
in “squads” of ninety, and three of these--two hundred and seventy men
--into a “detachment.” The detachments were numbered in order from the
North Gate, and the squads were numbered “one, two, three.” On the
rolls this was stated after the man’s name. For instance, a chum of
mine, and in the same squad with me, was Charles L. Soule, of the Third
Michigan Infantry. His name appeared on the rolls:
“Chas. L. Soule, priv. Co. E, 8d Mich. Inf., 1-2.”
That is, he belonged to the Second Squad of the First Detachment.
Where Wirz got his, preposterous idea of organization from has always
been a mystery to me. It was awkward in every way--in drawing rations,
counting, dividing into messes, etc.
Wirz was not long in giving us a taste of his quality. The next morning
after his first appearance he came in when roll-call was sounded, and
ordered all the squads and detachments to form, and remain standing in
ranks until all were counted. Any soldier will say that there is no
duty more annoying and difficult than standing still in ranks for any
considerable length of time, especially when there is nothing to do
or to engage the attention. It took Wirz between two and three hours
to count the whole camp, and by that time we of the first detachments
were almost all out of ranks. Thereupon Wirz announced that no rations
would be issued to the camp that day. The orders to stand in ranks
were repeated the next morning, with a warning that a failure to obey
would be punished as that of the previous day had been. Though we were
so hungry, that, to use the words of a Thirty-Fifth Pennsylvanian
standing next to me--his “big intestines were eating his little ones
up,” it was impossible to keep the rank formation during the long
hours. One man after another straggled away, and again we lost our
rations. That afternoon we became desperate. Plots were considered for
a daring assault to force the gates or scale the stockade. The men were
crazy enough to attempt anything rather than sit down and patiently
starve. Many offered themselves as leaders in any attempt that it might
be thought best to make. The hopelessness of any such venture was
apparent, even to famished men, and the propositions went no farther
than inflammatory talk.
The third morning the orders were again repeated. This time we
succeeded in remaining in ranks in such a manner as to satisfy Wirz,
and we were given our rations for that day, but those of the other days
were permanently withheld.
That afternoon Wirz ventured into camp alone. He was assailed with a
storm of curses and execrations, and a shower of clubs. He pulled out
his revolver, as if to fire upon his assailants. A yell was raised to
take his pistol away from him and a crowd rushed forward to do this.
Without waiting to fire a shot, he turned and ran to the gate for dear
life. He did not come in again for a long while, and never afterward
without a retinue of guards.