AUGUST--NEEDLES STUCK IN PUMPKIN SEEDS--SOME PHENOMENA OF STARVATION
--RIOTING IN REMEMBERED LUXURIES.
“Illinoy,” said tall, gaunt Jack North, of the One Hundred and
Fourteenth Illinois, to me, one day, as we sat contemplating our naked,
and sadly attenuated underpinning; “what do our legs and feet most look
most like?”
“Give it up, Jack,” said I.
“Why--darning needles stuck in pumpkin seeds, of course.” I never heard
a better comparison for our wasted limbs.
The effects of the great bodily emaciation were sometimes very
startling. Boys of a fleshy habit would change so in a few weeks as
to lose all resemblance to their former selves, and comrades who came
into prison later would utterly fail to recognize them. Most fat men,
as most large men, died in a little while after entering, though there
were exceptions. One of these was a boy of my own company, named George
Hillicks. George had shot up within a few years to over six feet in
hight, and then, as such boys occasionally do, had, after enlisting
with us, taken on such a development of flesh that we nicknamed him
the “Giant,” and he became a pretty good load for even the strongest
horse. George held his flesh through Belle Isle, and the earlier weeks
in Andersonville, but June, July, and August “fetched him,” as the
boys said. He seemed to melt away like an icicle on a Spring day, and
he grew so thin that his hight seemed preternatural. We called him
“Flagstaff,” and cracked all sorts of jokes about putting an insulator
on his head, and setting him up for a telegraph pole, braiding his
legs and using him for a whip lash, letting his hair grow a little
longer, and trading him off to the Rebels for a sponge and staff for
the artillery, etc. We all expected him to die, and looked continually
for the development of the fatal scurvy symptoms, which were to seal
his doom. But he worried through, and came out at last in good shape, a
happy result due as much as to anything else to his having in Chester
Hayward, of Prairie City, Ill.,--one of the most devoted chums I ever
knew. Chester nursed and looked out for George with wife-like fidelity,
and had his reward in bringing him safe through our lines. There were
thousands of instances of this generous devotion to each other by chums
in Andersonville, and I know of nothing that reflects any more credit
upon our boy soldiers.
There was little chance for any one to accumulate flesh on the rations
we were receiving. I say it in all soberness that I do not believe
that a healthy hen could have grown fat upon them. I am sure that any
good-sized “shanghai” eats more every day than the meager half loaf
that we had to maintain life upon. Scanty as this was, and hungry as
all were, very many could not eat it. Their stomachs revolted against
the trash; it became so nauseous to them that they could not force
it down, even when famishing, and they died of starvation with the
chunks of the so-called bread under their head. I found myself rapidly
approaching this condition. I had been blessed with a good digestion
and a talent for sleeping under the most discouraging circumstances.
These, I have no doubt, were of the greatest assistance to me in my
struggle for existence. But now the rations became fearfully obnoxious
to me, and it was only with the greatest effort--pulling the bread into
little pieces and swallowing each, of these as one would a pill--that
I succeeded in worrying the stuff down. I had not as yet fallen away
very much, but as I had never, up, to that time, weighed so much as one
hundred and twenty-five pounds, there was no great amount of adipose to
lose. It was evident that unless some change occurred my time was near
at hand.
There was not only hunger for more food, but longing with an intensity
beyond expression for alteration of some kind in the rations. The
changeless monotony of the miserable saltless bread, or worse mush, for
days, weeks and months, became unbearable. If those wretched mule teams
had only once a month hauled in something different--if they had come
in loaded with sweet potatos, green corn or wheat flour, there would be
thousands of men still living who now slumber beneath those melancholy
pines. It would have given something to look forward to, and remember
when past. But to know each day that the gates would open to admit the
same distasteful apologies for food took away the appetite and raised
one’s gorge, even while famishing for something to eat.
We could for a while forget the stench, the lice, the heat, the
maggots, the dead and dying around us, the insulting malignance of our
jailors; but it was, very hard work to banish thoughts and longings
for food from our minds. Hundreds became actually insane from brooding
over it. Crazy men could be found in all parts of the camp. Numbers of
them wandered around entirely naked. Their babblings and maunderings
about something to eat were painful to hear. I have before mentioned
the case of the Plymouth Pilgrim near me, whose insanity took the form
of imagining that he was sitting at the table with his family, and
who would go through the show of helping them to imaginary viands and
delicacies. The cravings for green food of those afflicted with the
scurvy were, agonizing. Large numbers of watermelons were brought to
the prison, and sold to those who had the money to pay for them at from
one to five dollars, greenbacks, apiece. A boy who had means to buy a
piece of these would be followed about while eating it by a crowd of
perhaps twenty-five or thirty livid-gummed scorbutics, each imploring
him for the rind when he was through with it.
We thought of food all day, and were visited with torturing dreams
of it at night. One of the pleasant recollections of my pre-military
life was a banquet at the “Planter’s House,” St. Louis, at which I was
a boyish guest. It was, doubtless, an ordinary affair, as banquets
go, but to me then, with all the keen appreciation of youth and first
experience, it was a feast worthy of Lucullus. But now this delightful
reminiscence became a torment. Hundreds of times I dreamed I was
again at the “Planter’s.” I saw the wide corridors, with their mosaic
pavement; I entered the grand dining-room, keeping timidly near the
friend to whose kindness I owed this wonderful favor; I saw again the
mirror-lined walls, the evergreen decked ceilings, the festoons and
mottos, the tables gleaming with cutglass and silver, the buffets with
wines and fruits, the brigade of sleek, black, white-aproned waiters,
headed by one who had presence enough for a major General. Again I
reveled in all the dainties and dishes on the bill-of-fare; calling for
everything that I dared to, just to see what each was like, and to be
able to say afterwards that I had partaken of it; all these bewildering
delights of the first realization of what a boy has read and wondered
much over, and longed for, would dance their rout and reel through
my somnolent brain. Then I would awake to find myself a half-naked,
half-starved, vermin-eaten wretch, crouching in a hole in the ground,
waiting for my keepers to fling me a chunk of corn bread.
Naturally the boys--and especially the country boys and new prisoners
--talked much of victuals--what they had had, and what they would have
again, when they got out. Take this as a sample of the conversation
which might be heard in any group of boys, sitting together on the
sand, killin lice and talking of exchange:
Tom--“Well, Bill, when we get back to God’s country, you and Jim and
John must all come to my house and take dinner with me. I want to give
you a square meal. I want to show you just what good livin’ is. You
know my mother is just the best cook in all that section. When she lays
herself out to get up a meal all the other women in the neighborhood
just stand back and admire!”
Bill--“O, that’s all right; but I’ll bet she can’t hold a candle to my
mother, when it comes to good cooking.”
Jim--“No, nor to mine.”
John--(with patronizing contempt.) “O, shucks! None of you fellers were
ever at our house, even when we had one of our common weekday dinners.”
Tom--(unheedful of the counter claims.) I hev teen studyin’ up the
dinner I’d like, and the bill-of-fare I’d set out for you fellers when
you come over to see me. First, of course, we’ll lay the foundation
like with a nice, juicy loin roast, and some mashed potatos.
Bill--(interrupting.) “Now, do you like mashed potatos with beef? The
way may mother does is to pare the potatos, and lay them in the pan
along with the beef. Then, you know, they come out just as nice and
crisp, and brown; they have soaked up all the beef gravy, and they
crinkle between your teeth--”
Jim--“Now, I tell you, mashed Neshannocks with butter on ’em is plenty
good enough for me.”
John--“If you’d et some of the new kind of peachblows that we raised in
the old pasture lot the year before I enlisted, you’d never say another
word about your Neshannocks.”
Tom--(taking breath and starting in fresh.) “Then we’ll hev some fried
Spring chickens, of our dominick breed. Them dominicks of ours have the
nicest, tenderest meat, better’n quail, a darned sight, and the way my
mother can fry Spring chickens----”
Bill--(aside to Jim.) “Every durned woman in the country thinks she can
‘spry ching frickens;’ but my mother---”
John--“You fellers all know that there’s nobody knows half as much
about chicken doin’s as these ’tinerant Methodis’ preachers. They give
’em chicken wherever they go, and folks do say that out in the new
settlements they can’t get no preachin’, no gospel, nor nothin’, until
the chickens become so plenty that a preacher is reasonably sure of
havin’ one for his dinner wherever he may go. Now, there’s old Peter
Cartwright, who has traveled over Illinoy and Indianny since the Year
One, and preached more good sermons than any other man who ever set on
saddle-bags, and has et more chickens than there are birds in a big
pigeon roost. Well, he took dinner at our house when he came up to
dedicate the big, white church at Simpkin’s Corners, and when he passed
up his plate the third time for more chicken, he sez, sez he:--I’ve et
at a great many hundred tables in the fifty years I have labored in the
vineyard of the Redeemer, but I must say, Mrs. Kiggins, that your way
of frying chickens is a leetle the nicest that I ever knew. I only wish
that the sisters generally would get your reseet.’ Yes, that’s what he
said,--‘a leetle the nicest.’”
Tom--“An’ then, we’ll hev biscuits an’ butter. I’ll just bet five
hundred dollars to a cent, and give back the cent if I win, that we
have the best butter at our house that there is in Central Illinoy. You
can’t never hev good butter onless you have a spring house; there’s no
use of talkin’--all the patent churns that lazy men ever invented--all
the fancy milk pans an’ coolers, can’t make up for a spring house.
Locations for a spring house are scarcer than hen’s teeth in Illinoy,
but we hev one, and there ain’t a better one in Orange County, New
York. Then you’ll see dome of the biscuits my mother makes.”
Bill--“Well, now, my mother’s a boss biscuit-maker, too.”
Jim--“You kin just gamble that mine is.”
John--“O, that’s the way you fellers ought to think an’ talk, but my
mother----”
Tom--(coming in again with fresh vigor) “They’re jest as light an’
fluffy as a dandelion puff, and they melt in your month like a ripe
Bartlett pear. You just pull ’em open--Now you know that I think
there’s nothin’ that shows a person’s raisin’ so well as to see him
eat biscuits an’ butter. If he’s been raised mostly on corn bread, an’
common doins,’ an’ don’t know much about good things to eat, he’ll most
likely cut his biscuit open with a case knife, an’ make it fall as flat
as one o’ yesterday’s pancakes. But if he is used to biscuits, has had
’em often at his house, he’ll--just pull ’em open, slow an’ easy like,
then he’ll lay a little slice of butter inside, and drop a few drops
of clear honey on this, an’ stick the two halves back, together again,
an--”
“Oh, for God Almighty’s sake, stop talking that infernal nonsense,”
roar out a half dozen of the surrounding crowd, whose mouths have been
watering over this unctuous recital of the good things of the table.
“You blamed fools, do you want to drive yourselves and everybody else
crazy with such stuff as that. Dry up and try to think of something
else.”