A NEW LOT OF PRISONERS--THE BATTLE OF OOLUSTEE--MEN SACRIFICED TO
A GENERAL’S INCOMPETENCY--A HOODLUM REINFORCEMENT--A QUEER CROWD
--MISTREATMENT OF AN OFFICER OF A COLORED REGIMENT--KILLING THE
SERGEANT OF A NEGRO SQUAD.
So far only old prisoners--those taken at Gettysburg, Chicamauga
and Mine Run--had been brought in. The armies had been very quiet
during the Winter, preparing for the death grapple in the Spring.
There had been nothing done, save a few cavalry raids, such as our
own, and Averill’s attempt to gain and break up the Rebel salt works
at Wytheville, and Saltville. Consequently none but a few cavalry
prisoners were added to the number already in the hands of the Rebels.
The first lot of new ones came in about the middle of March. There
were about seven hundred of them, who had been captured at the battle
of Oolustee, Fla., on the 20th of February. About five hundred
of them were white, and belonged to the Seventh Connecticut, the
Seventh New Hampshire, Forty Seventh, Forty-Eighth and One Hundred
and Fifteenth New York, and Sherman’s regular battery. The rest were
colored, and belonged to the Eighth United States, and Fifty-Fourth
Massachusetts. The story they told of the battle was one which had
many shameful reiterations during the war. It was the story told
whenever Banks, Sturgis, Butler, or one of a host of similar smaller
failures were trusted with commands. It was a senseless waste of the
lives of private soldiers, and the property of the United States by
pretentious blunderers, who, in some inscrutable manner, had attained
to responsible commands. In this instance, a bungling Brigadier named
Seymore had marched his forces across the State of Florida, to do he
hardly knew what, and in the neighborhood of an enemy of whose numbers,
disposition, location, and intentions he was profoundly ignorant.
The Rebels, under General Finnegan, waited till he had strung his
command along through swamps and cane brakes, scores of miles from his
supports, and then fell unexpectedly upon his advance. The regiment
was overpowered, and another regiment that hurried up to its support,
suffered the same fate. The balance of the regiments were sent in in
the same manner--each arriving on the field just after its predecessor
had been thoroughly whipped by the concentrated force of the Rebels.
The men fought gallantly, but the stupidity of a Commanding General is
a thing that the gods themselves strive against in vain. We suffered a
humiliating defeat, with a loss of two thousand men and a fine rifled
battery, which was brought to Andersonville and placed in position to
command the prison.
The majority of the Seventh New Hampshire were an unwelcome addition
to our numbers. They were N’Yaarkers--old time colleagues of those
already in with us--veteran bounty jumpers, that had been drawn to
New Hampshire by the size of the bounty offered there, and had been
assigned to fill up the wasted ranks of the veteran Seventh regiment.
They had tried to desert as soon as they received their bounty, but
the Government clung to them literally with hooks of steel, sending
many of them to the regiment in irons. Thus foiled, they deserted to
the Rebels during the retreat from the battlefield. They were quite an
accession to the force of our N’Yaarkers, and helped much to establish
the hoodlum reign which was shortly inaugurated over the whole prison.
The Forty-Eighth New Yorkers who came in were a set of chaps so odd
in every way as to be a source of never-failing interest. The name of
their regiment was ‘L’Enfants Perdu’ (the Lost Children), which we
anglicized into “The Lost Ducks.” It was believed that every nation
in Europe was represented in their ranks, and it used to be said
jocularly, that no two of them spoke the same language. As near as I
could find out they were all or nearly all South Europeans, Italians,
Spaniards; Portuguese, Levantines, with a predominance of the French
element. They wore a little cap with an upturned brim, and a strap
resting on the chin, a coat with funny little tales about two inches
long, and a brass chain across the breast; and for pantaloons they had
a sort of a petticoat reaching to the knees, and sewed together down
the middle. They were just as singular otherwise as in their looks,
speech and uniform. On one occasion the whole mob of us went over in
a mass to their squad to see them cook and eat a large water snake,
which two of them had succeeded in capturing in the swamps, and carried
off to their mess, jabbering in high glee over their treasure trove.
Any of us were ready to eat a piece of dog, cat, horse or mule, if we
could get it, but, it was generally agreed, as Dawson, of my company
expressed it, that “Nobody but one of them darned queer Lost Ducks
would eat a varmint like a water snake.”
Major Albert Bogle, of the Eighth United States, (colored) had fallen
into the hands of the rebels by reason of a severe wound in the leg,
which left him helpless upon the field at Oolustee. The Rebels treated
him with studied indignity. They utterly refused to recognize him as an
officer, or even as a man. Instead of being sent to Macon or Columbia,
where the other officers were, he was sent to Andersonville, the same
as an enlisted man. No care was given his wound, no surgeon would
examine it or dress it. He was thrown into a stock car, without a bed
or blanket, and hauled over the rough, jolting road to Andersonville.
Once a Rebel officer rode up and fired several shots at him, as he lay
helpless on the car floor. Fortunately the Rebel’s marksmanship was as
bad as his intentions, and none of the shots took effect. He was placed
in a squad near me, and compelled to get up and hobble into line when
the rest were mustered for roll-call. No opportunity to insult, “the
nigger officer,” was neglected, and the N’Yaarkers vied with the Rebels
in heaping abuse upon him. He was a fine, intelligent young man, and
bore it all with dignified self-possession, until after a lapse of some
weeks the Rebels changed their policy and took him from the prison to
send to where the other officers were.
The negro soldiers were also treated as badly as possible. The wounded
were turned into the Stockade without having their hurts attended
to. One stalwart, soldierly Sergeant had received a bullet which
had forced its way under the scalp for some distance, and partially
imbedded itself in the skull, where it still remained. He suffered
intense agony, and would pass the whole night walking up and down the
street in front of our tent, moaning distressingly. The bullet could
be felt plainly with the fingers, and we were sure that it would not
be a minute’s work, with a sharp knife, to remove it and give the man
relief. But we could not prevail upon the Rebel Surgeons even to see
the man. Finally inflammation set in and he died.
The negros were made into a squad by themselves, and taken out every
day to work around the prison. A white Sergeant was placed over them,
who was the object of the contumely of the guards and other Rebels. One
day as he was standing near the gate, waiting his orders to come out,
the gate guard, without any provocation whatever, dropped his gun until
the muzzle rested against the Sergeant’s stomach, and fired, killing
him instantly.
The Sergeantcy was then offered to me, but as I had no accident policy,
I was constrained to decline the honor.