July 9.—Battese brought me some onions, and if they ain’t good then
no matter; also a sweet potato. One-half the men here would get well
if they only had something in the vegetable line to eat, or acids.
Scurvy is about the most loathsome disease, and when dropsy takes
hold with the scurvy, it is terrible. I have both diseases but keep
them in check, and it only grows worse slowly. My legs are swollen,
but the cords are not contracted much, and I can still walk very
well. Our mess all keep clean, in fact are obliged to or else turned
adrift. We want none of the dirty sort in our mess. Sanders and Rowe
enforce the rules, which is not much work, as all hands are composed
of men who prefer to keep clean. I still do a little washing, but
more particularly hair cutting, which is easier work. You should see
one of my hair cuts. Nobby! Old prisoners have hair a foot long or
more, and my business is to cut it off, which I do without regards
to anything except to get it off. I should judge that there are one
thousand rebel soldiers guarding us, and perhaps a few more, with the
usual number of officers. A guard told me to-day that the yanks were
“gittin licked,” and they didn’t want us exchanged; just as soon we
should die here as not; a yank asked him if he knew what exchange
meant; said he knew what shootin’ meant, and as he began to swing
around his old shooting iron we retreated in among the crowd. Heard
that there were some new men belonging to my regiment in another
part of the prison; have just returned from looking after them and
am all tired out. Instead of belonging to the 9th Michigan Cavalry,
they belong to the 9th Michigan Infantry. Had a good visit and quite
cheered with their accounts of the war news. Some one stole Battese’s
wash board and he is mad; is looking for it—may bust up the business.
Think Hub Dakin will give me a board to make another one. Sanders
owns the jack knife, of this mess, and he don’t like to lend it
either; borrow it to carve on roots for pipes. Actually take solid
comfort “building castles in the air,” a thing I have never been
addicted to before. Better than getting blue and worrying myself to
death. After all, we may get out of this dod-rotted hole. Always an
end of some sort to such things.
July 10.—Have bought of a new prisoner quite a large (thick I mean,)
blank book so as to continue my diary. Although it’s a tedious and
tiresome task, am determined to keep it up. Don’t know of another man
in prison who is doing likewise. Wish I had the gift of description
that I might describe this place. Know that I am not good at such
things, and have more particularly kept track of the mess which was
the “Astor House Mess” on Belle Isle, and is still called so here.
Thought that Belle Isle was a very bad place, and used about the
worst language I knew how to use in describing it, and so find myself
at fault in depicting matters here as they are. At Belle Isle we had
good water and plenty of it, and I believe it depends more upon water
than food as regards health. We also had good pure air from up the
James River. Here we have the very worst kind of water. Nothing can
be worse or nastier than the stream drizzling its way through this
camp. And for air to breathe, it is what arises from this foul place.
On all four sides of us are high walls and tall trees, and there is
apparently no wind or breeze to blow away the stench, and we are
obliged to breathe and live in it. Dead bodies lay around all day in
the broiling sun, by the dozen and even hundreds, and we must suffer
and live in this atmosphere. It’s too horrible for me to describe in
fitting language. There was once a very profane man driving a team
of horses attached to a wagon in which there were forty or fifty
bushels of potatoes. It was a big load and there was a long hill to
go up. The very profane man got off the load of potatoes to lighten
the weight, and started the team up the hill. It was hard work, but
they finally reached the top and stopped to rest. The profane man
looked behind him and saw that the end board of the wagon had slipped
out just as he had started, and there the potatoes were, scattered
all the way along up the hill. Did the man make the very air blue
with profanity? No, he sat down on a log feeling that he couldn’t do
the subject justice and so he remarked: “No! it’s no use, I can’t do
it justice.” While I have no reason or desire to swear, I certainly
cannot do this prison justice. It’s too stupenduous an undertaking.
Only those who are here will ever know what Andersonville is.