REMOVED FROM ANDERSONVILLE TO THE MARINE HOSPITAL, SAVANNAH—GETTING
THROUGH THE GATE—BATTESE HAS SAVED US—VERY SICK BUT BY NO MEANS
DEAD YET—BETTER AND HUMANE TREATMENT.
Aug. 1.—Just about the same. My Indian friend says: “We all get away.”
Aug. 2.—Two hundred and twenty die each day. No more news of exchange.
Aug. 3.—Had some good soup, and feel better. All is done for me
that can be done by my friends. Rowe and Sanders in almost as bad a
condition as myself. Just about where I was two or three weeks ago.
Seem to have come down all at once. August goes for them.
Aug. 4.—Storm threatened. Will cool the atmosphere. Hard work to
write.
Aug. 5.—Severe storm. Could die in two hours if I wanted to, but
don’t.
Aug. 12.—Warm. Warm. Warm. If I only had some shade to lay in, and a
glass of lemonade.
Aug. 13.—A nice spring of cold water has broken out in camp, enough
to furnish nearly all here with drinking water. God has not forgotten
us. Battese brings it to me to drink.
Aug. 14.—Battese very hopeful, as exchange rumors are afloat. Talks
more about it than ever before.
Aug. 15.—The water is a God-send. Sanders better and Rowe worse.
Aug. 16.—Still in the land of the living. Capt. Wirtz is sick and a
Lieut. Davis acting in his stead.
Aug. 17.—Hanging on yet. A good many more than two hundred and
twenty-five die now in twenty-four hours. Messes that have stopped
near us are all dead.
Aug. 18.—Exchange rumors.
Aug. 19.—Am still hoping for relief. Water is bracing some up, myself
with others. Does not hurt us.
Aug. 20.—Some say three hundred now die each day. No more new men
coming. Reported that Wirtz is dead.
Aug. 21.—Sleep nearly all the time except when too hot to do so.
Aug. 22—Exchange rumors.
Aug. 23.—Terribly hot.
Aug. 24.—Had some soup. Not particularly worse, but Rowe is, and
Sanders also.
Aug. 25.—In my exuberance of joy must write a few lines. Received
a letter from my brother, George W. Ransom, from Hilton Head.[A]
Contained only a few words.
[A] My brother supposed me dead, as I had been so reported; still,
thinking it might not be so, every week or so he would write a letter
and direct to me as a prisoner of war. This letter, very strangely,
reached its destination.
Aug. 26.—Still am writing. The letter from my brother has done good
and cheered me up. Eye sight very poor and writing tires me. Battese
sticks by; such disinterested friendship is rare. Prison at its worst.
Aug. 27.—Have now written nearly through three large books, and still
at it. The diary am confident will reach my people if I don’t. There
are many here who are interested and will see that it goes north.
Aug. 28.—No news and no worse; set up part of the time. Dying off a
third faster than ever before.
Aug. 29.—Exchange rumors afloat. Any kind of a change would help me.
Aug. 30.—Am in no pain whatever, and no worse.
Aug. 31.—Still waiting for something to turn up. My Indian friend
says: “good news yet.” NIGHT.—The camp is full of exchange rumors.
Sept 1.—Sanders taken outside to butcher cattle. Is sick but goes
all the same. Mike sick and no longer a policeman. Still rumors of
exchange.
Sept. 2.—Just about the same; rumors afloat does me good. Am the most
hopeful chap on record.
Sept. 3.—Trade off my rations for some little luxury and manage to
get up quite a soup. LATER.—Sanders sent in to us a quite large piece
of fresh beef and a little salt; another God-send.
Sept. 4.—Anything good to eat lifts me right up, and the beef soup
has done it.
Sept. 4.—The beef critter is a noble animal. Very decided exchange
rumors.
Sept. 5.—The nice spring of cold water still flows and furnishes
drinking water for all; police guard it night and day so to be taken
away only in small quantities. Three hundred said to be dying off
each day.
Sept. 6.—Hurrah! Hurrah!! Hurrah!!! Can’t holler except on paper.
Good news. Seven detachments ordered to be ready to go at a moment’s
notice. LATER.—_All who cannot walk must stay behind._ If left
behind shall die in twenty-four hours. Battese says _I shall go_.
LATER.—Seven detachments are going out of the gate; all the sick are
left behind. Ours is the tenth detachment and will go to-morrow so
said. The greatest excitement; men wild with joy. Am worried fearful
that I cannot go, but Battese says I shall.
Sept. 7.—Anxiously waiting the expected summons. Rebels say as soon
as transportation comes, and so a car whistle is music to our ears.
Hope is a good medicine and am sitting up and have been trying to
stand up but can’t do it; legs too crooked and with every attempt
get faint. Men laugh at the idea of my going, as the rebels are very
particular not to let any sick go, still Battese say I am going.
MOST DARK.—Rebels say we go during the night when transportation
comes. Battese grinned when this news come and can’t get his face
straightened out again.
MARINE HOSPITAL, Savannah, Ga., Sept. 15, 1864.—A great change has
taken place since I last wrote in my diary. Am in heaven now compared
with the past. At about midnight, September 7th, our detachment
was ordered outside at Andersonville, and Battese picked me up and
carried me to the gate. The men were being let outside in ranks of
four, and counted as they went out. They were very strict about
letting none go but the well ones, or those who could walk. The
rebel adjutant stood upon a box by the gate, watching very close.
Pitch pine knots were burning in the near vicinity to give light.
As it came our turn to go Battese got me in the middle of the rank,
stood me up as well as I could stand, and with himself on one side
and Sergt. Rowe on the other began pushing our way through the gate.
Could not help myself a particle, and was so faint that I hardly knew
what was going on. As we were going through the gate the adjutant
yells out: “Here, here! hold on there, that man can’t go, hold on
there!” and Battese crowding right along outside. The adjutant struck
over the heads of the men and tried to stop us, but my noble Indian
friend kept straight ahead, hallooing: “He all right, he well, he
go!” And so I got outside, and adjutant having too much to look after
to follow me. After we were outside, I was carried to the railroad
in the same coverlid which I fooled the rebel out of when captured,
and which I presume has saved my life a dozen times. We were crowded
very thick into box cars. I was nearly dead, and hardly knew where we
were or what was going on. We were two days in getting to Savannah.
Arrived early in the morning. The railroads here run in the middle of
very wide, handsome streets. We were unloaded, I should judge, near
the middle of the city. The men as they were unloaded, fell into line
and were marched away. Battese got me out of the car, and laid me on
the pavement. They then obliged him to go with the rest, leaving me;
would not let him take me. I lay there until noon with four or five
others, without any guard. Three or four times negro servants came
to us from houses near by, and gave us water, milk and food. With
much difficulty I could set up, but was completely helpless. A little
after noon a wagon came and _toted_ us to a temporary hospital in
the outskirts of the city, and near a prison pen they had just built
for the well ones. Where I was taken it was merely an open piece of
ground, having wall tents erected and a line of guards around it. I
was put into a tent and lay on the coverlid. That night some gruel
was given to me, and a nurse whom I had seen in Andersonville looked
in, and my name was taken. The next morning, September 10th, I woke
up and went to move my hands, and could not do it; could not move
either limb so much as an inch. Could move my head with difficulty.
Seemed to be paralyzed, but in no pain whatever. After a few hours
a physician came to my tent, examined and gave me medicine, also
left medicine, and one of the nurses fed me some soup or gruel. By
night I could move my hands. Lay awake considerable through the
night thinking. Was happy as a clam in high tide. Seemed so nice to
be under a nice clean tent, and there was such cool pure air. The
surroundings were so much better that I thought now would be a good
time to die, and I didn’t care one way or the other. Next morning
the doctor came, and with him Sergt. Winn. Sergt. Winn I had had a
little acquaintance with at Andersonville. Doctor said I was terribly
reduced, but he thought I would improve. Told them to wash me. A
nurse came and washed me, and Winn brought me a white cotton shirt,
and an old but clean pair of pants; my old clothing, which was in
rags, was taken away. Two or three times during the day I had gruel
of some kind, I don’t know what. Medicine was given me by the nurses.
By night I could move my feet and legs a little. The cords in my feet
and legs were contracted so, of course, that I couldn’t straighten
myself out. Kept thinking to myself, “am I really away from that
place Andersonville?” It seemed too good to be true. On the morning
of the 12th, ambulances moved all to the Marine Hospital, or rather
an orchard in same yard with Marine Hospital, where thirty or forty
nice new tents have been put up, with bunks about two feet from the
ground, inside. Was put into a tent. By this time could move my arms
considerable. We were given vinegar weakened with water, and also
salt in it. Had medicine. My legs began to get movable more each day,
also my arms, and to-day I am laying on my stomach and writing in my
diary. Mike Hoare is also in this hospital. One of my tent mates is a
man named Land, who is a printer, same as myself. I hear that Wm. B.
Rowe is here also, but haven’t seen him.
Sept. 16.—How I do sleep; am tired out, and seems to me I can just
sleep till doomsday.
Sept. 17.—Four in each tent. A nurse raises me up, sitting posture,
and there I stay for hours, dozing and talking away. Whiskey given us
in very small quantities, probably half a teaspoonful in half a glass
of something, I don’t know what. Actually makes me drunk. I am in no
pain whatever.
Sept. 18.—Surgeon examined me very thoroughly to-day. Have some bad
sores caused by laying down so much; put something on them that makes
them ache. Sergt. Winn gave me a pair of socks.
Sept. 19.—A priest gave me some alum for my sore mouth. Had a piece
of sweet potato, but couldn’t eat it. Fearfully weak. Soup is all I
can eat, and don’t always stay down.
Sept. 20.—Too cool for me. The priest said he would come and see me
often. Good man. My left hand got bruised in some way and rebel done
it up. He is afraid gangrene will get in sore. Mike Hoare is quite
sick.
Sept. 21.—Don’t feel as well as I did some days ago. Can’t eat; still
can use my limbs and arms more.
Sept. 22.—Good many sick brought here. Everybody is kind, rebels and
all. Am now differently sick than at any other time. Take lots of
medicine, eat nothing but gruel. Surgeons are very attentive. Man
died in my tent. Oh, if I was away by myself, I would get well. Don’t
want to see a sick man. That makes me sick.
Sept. 23.—Shall write any way; have to watch nurses and rebels or
will lose my diary. Vinegar reduced I drink and it is good; crave
after acids and salt. Mouth appears to be actually sorer than ever
before, but whether it is worse or not can’t say. Sergt. Winn says
the Doctor says that I must be very careful if I want to get well.
How in the old Harry can I be careful? They are the ones that had
better be careful and give me the right medicine and food. Gruel made
out of a dish cloth to eat.
Sept 24.—Arrowroot soup or whatever you may call it; don’t like it;
makes me sick. Priest spoke to me. Cross and peevish and they say
that is a sure sign will get well. Ain’t sure but shall be a Catholic
yet. Every little while get out the old diary from under the blanket
and write a sentence. Never was made to be sick—too uneasy. This will
do for to-day.
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