CHAPTER VIII.

We went back in the other room and talked over the prospects of the war

without any hard feelings. The rebel captain had gone off with the

girls. The Colonel said,

"I will put a guard around the house to-night. We do not want you men to

go away until we move on."

I looked out and saw that the storm was over. The old gentleman told us

we could go to bed any time, so it being ten o'clock, we took our arms

and followed the old man up stairs. He took us into a room where there

were two beds, put the candle on a stand, bade us good-night and left us

alone.

"Now," said Thorne, "I don't like the looks of things here. That rebel

captain means mischief."

"Well," said Jim, "that old Colonel is all right; he will keep that

Captain straight, you can bet on that."

Soon after we got in bed, I heard some one talking in the room below us.

I slid out of bed slyly and pulled a piece of the carpet away and

discovered a large knot hole in the floor. I made a sign for the boys to

keep quiet while I looked through the hole. The rebel captain sat there

with his arm around the girl's waist and she had her head on his

shoulder. She was talking to him about us and this is what she said:

"That Yankee told the truth when he said he had a square fight with one

of our men."

"Yes, the man he fought belonged to my company. He is in camp now and a

better marksman can not be found in the regiment. Now, my dear, can't we

study up some plan to get away with these Yanks?"

"No, pa want let us do anything, for you know he has fifty thousand

dollars in gold buried down in one corner of the cellar, and if he did

not have a protecting guard, the Yanks might go through the house and

find it. I know it is hard and mean to have the dirty things here, but I

suppose we will have to stand it."

"I will tell you how we can fix them in the morning. Treat everybody to

some of that nice peach brandy of yours, and put a good dose of arsenic

in the Yankees' glasses, and you may be sure that will fix them."

"Do you really want me to do that?"

"Of course I do."

"What will pa say when General Curtis comes along and wants to know what

has become of the guards he sent?"

"You folks can say that they never came and he will just think they have

deserted."

"But you know pa is so particular about his honesty, that he would spoil

the whole thing."

"Your pa would not know what killed the Yanks, and we would take their

horses and arms and your pa would be so frightened that he would keep

still."

"Well, what about your Colonel?"

"Oh, the devil with him. I sometimes think he is half Yank by the way he

acts and talks. Now, if you will kill these Yanks, you will be doing the

confederacy a great favor. It might not be three days before we get into

a fight with them and they might kill your brother or me, so you see you

can do as much as any soldier if you are brave and do what I want you

to."

"Well, I will do it, for it may be as you say, and if my brother and you

should be killed, I wouldn't want to live."

"Now you talk like my own brave little girl."

They had a good deal more to say that would not interest the reader. As

long as we were in no immediate danger, I crawled back to bed and went

to sleep. The next morning, when we woke up, I posted the boys about

what I heard but there was no need of that, for away up toward the rebel

camp we could hear the clash of fire arms--first one gun, then bang!

came a shell right over the house. Everything was confusion in the

house, women screaming, men cursing and negroes yelling. It was a

perfect bedlam going on below. It did not take long to go down and out

on the stoop and look away up toward the rebel camp. The smoke of the

battle was rising above the trees and the rebel Colonel and the two

captains were running up toward the conflict and soon disappeared around

the bend in the road. The two girls came out on the porch, wringing

their hands and crying. Just then there came another shell crashing

through the air and struck in front of the house, plowing a furrow in

the ground and throwing dirt all over the porch. The girls skipped into

the house and shut the door with a bang. The fire now became a steady

roll. Here they come around the bend in the road. They are forming

another line of battle, when crack comes another shell, striking through

the top of the chimney, the brick and mortar flying in every direction.

Here comes the Johnnies again, the "Yanks" right after them. Bang at

bang, pop at pop! See the Johnnies tumbling on every side! See the

horses running pell mell, without riders. Here they go right by the

house, our brave boys in blue right after them. 'Round the corn-field

they go, the fire growing fainter and fainter in the distance. Now the

worst part is to come. They commence to bring in the wounded. The first

to come was the rebel Colonel, two of our men bearing him on a

stretcher. His face was pinched and pale, with the blood oozing out of a

wound in his breast. One of our surgeons came and gave me orders to

bring in the wounded. As we got on the road where the most desperate

part of the battle took place, what a sight met our gaze. All kinds of

arms scattered over the ground. Hats, caps and blankets, here a horse

and there a horse, struggling in the agony of death, and men scattered

all over the ground. Here a Yank and there a Reb, some dead, and others

wounded. The rebels suffered the more, for they were taken wholly by

surprise.

It was a regular cavalry fight. It was now about ten o'clock, and our

infantry began to come up. It did not take long to get the wounded to

where they could get care. Our forces took possession of the rebel camp,

capturing all their wagons, tents and baggage. There were thirty killed

and one hundred wounded. We lost eleven killed and thirty wounded. The

wounded were mostly taken close to the house, on account of having them

close to the water. The rebel Colonel died before night. We had our ten

thousand troops camped within one mile of the house. Now the tables had

turned. We were with our own men again.

I know what my comrade soldiers would say. They would say, "Why did you

not go and dig up that money?" No, my dear comrades. I went to General

Curtis' headquarters and made a report of everything that happened. He

gave me strict orders to keep a guard over everything and not allow

anything to be taken from the premises; but the next morning there was

not a ham or shoulder in the smoke-house or a chicken on the place, and

Gen. Curtis himself told the old gentleman that he had better take care

of his money, for it was known that he had it. I want to say that the

two girls did nobly. They did all that they could for the Yanks as well

as the Rebs. We stayed there until the Yankee army passed, and the

young lady never offered to treat us to that nice peach brandy. The

morning that we were to go we shook hands all around, bade them

good-bye, and as we were standing on the stoop, Jim spoke:

"We are about to go and you will probably never see us again, and we

would like to have some of that nice peach brandy, but would prefer to

have it without arsenic."

The girl turned as white as a sheet and staggered into the house. The

old gentleman did not know what ailed the girl, but ordered a negro to

bring up a bucket full. We filled our canteens and took a good drink out

of the bucket and bade them all good-bye again.

We mounted our horses and started on after our men. We came up to the

rear-guard five miles west of Jacksonport. I rode up to headquarters and

reported to General Curtis: For the benefit of the reader who does not

understand army discipline I want to say that when a soldier or

detachment of men was sent out from camp, it did not matter how

important or how trifling their mission was, they were expected to go to

headquarters and report as soon as they returned. That was to let the

officers know what success they had, and also to let them see that they

were back again. At this time the rebel guerillas were concentrating

their forces at Jacksonport, and the picket post was doubled. The next

day after I got back to Jacksonport I was ordered to take twenty-five

men and go out to the long bridge in the rear of the town and do picket

duty. The guard had been fired on during the night before and one of our

sentinels killed. So you may depend we kept a sharp lookout for

bushwhackers. Just as we had relieved the old guard and they had

disappeared around the roads, one of my guards came running in from the

brush and said, "There is a lot of young pigs running around out there."

We all went out but those who were on post, and through the brush we

went and got thirteen of them; went back, built a rousing fire of rails,

skinned and washed our pigs, and stuck them on sticks all around the

fire. A sentry hollered to us that Gen. Curtis and his staff were coming

up the road. We formed a line of the guards and as the old General came

riding up we presented arms.

"Are you the sergeant of the guards?"

"Yes, sir," said I.

"Well," said the General, "this is a very important post; now you must

be very careful and tear up the planks in the middle of the bridge and

pile them up at this end, and if the enemy come up set the bridge on

fire. You can pile up all the brush and rails under this end of the

bridge and have it fixed so you can fire it in three or four places at

once." Then the old gentleman looked around and saw the pigs in a line

around the fire and said: "Hello, what have you here, sergeant?" I was

staggered for a moment, but finally blurted out:

"Coons, sir."

The old General drew his sword and stuck it into one of the skins that

was close by. He held it up on the point of sword, with the little pig's

tail hanging down, and said:

"That beats all the coon skins I ever did see." He tried to keep from

laughing and look stern, but couldn't; it was too much for him. As soon

as the old General could control himself, he turned to me and said:

"Sergeant, don't catch any more of those kind of coons." He rode off

laughing while the whole staff followed suit.

On the 27th of June a large force of rebels made an attack on one of our

government trains near Stewart's plantation, and as we were going to the

rescue of the train the rebels fired at us. I felt a burning sensation

as if a bullet had passed through my head. Everything got dark. I fell

from my horse. The bullet came so close that the bridge of my nose was

broken and made me totally blind for awhile. My comrades carried me back

in an ambulance. The whole of Gen. Curtis' army was on the march for

Helena. My head felt as big as a bushel basket, and fever set in; then I

was in a very critical condition. On we went through swamps, over miles

of corduroy. The burning sun was enough to kill a well man; there was no

water only what we could get from the dirty swamps. No wonder the men

died at a fearful rate. The enemy had chopped the timber down and filled

up all the wells along the road. Some of the time I was delirious,

calling for water all the time. Oh, that long, dreary march through

those dirty swamps! We finally got to Helena and I was taken to the

hospital, and from there was sent to Jefferson barracks, St. Louis, and

lay there until Sept. 20th, when I was discharged and sent home. Just as

soon as I got well and strong I re-enlisted in the Ninety-fifth Illinois

Infantry. The reason I did not get back to my old regiment was that my

brother had just enlisted in the Ninety-fifth, and my brother and I

enlisted and joined our regiment at Vicksburg. Nothing happened of any

consequence until the spring of '64, then we started from Vicksburg and

went on the famous Red river expedition. I will not go into the

particulars of this trip, but some time in the near future I will write

on that subject. However, I will give you a few points on the incidents

of March 9th, 1864.

The Ninety-fifth embarked on board a transfer at Vicksburg, and started

for the mouth of Red river. Gen. Smith had command of our division and

we proceeded up the river. The first place we took was Fort Russey. We

captured that stronghold, with three thousand prisoners, arms and

equipments. We then went on up the river. There was a good deal of

skirmishing all the way. At Pleasant Hill occurred the hardest fought

battle of the expedition.

Then commenced the retreat to the Mississippi. We were under constant

fire for nineteen days, and arrived at the mouth of Red river on the

21st day of May. This ended the expensive and fruitless attempt to reach

the head waters of the Red river.

On the 22d day of May the Ninety-fifth embarked at the mouth of the

river and sailed up the Mississippi as far as Memphis, where we arrived

the latter part of May.

Now comes the hardest part of my experience as a soldier. I will give

you my experience, also the experience of others as prisoners of war at

Andersonville.

Memoirs of Andersonville.

CHAPTER I.

It is said that we should forgive and forget; but the man who invented

that saying never was in Andersonville prison.

No, my readers, I purpose to tell you just as nearly as one man can tell

another how the Union soldiers were treated at Andersonville. I shall

begin by my capture, and then take you right along with me through the

prison.

About the first of June, 1864, we were ordered out from Memphis to fight

the rebel General Forrest, then operating near Guntown, Miss. We met him

near that place on the tenth day of June, and here occurred one of the

most desperate battles I ever witnessed.

A great many think to this day that we were sold out to the Johnnies;

and I must say it looked very much like it, indeed.

Our horses, our ambulances, and our wagons were run up to the front. The

field lay in the form of a horse-shoe, with heavy timber and dense

brushwood on all sides. The rebels were ambushed on three sides of our

regiment; consequently they had a cross-fire on us.

Our Colonel was killed in the first fire. I thought for awhile that the

whole line of battle would fall. One after another of our captains fell,

until all were dead or so badly wounded as to incapacitate them for

duty.

Finally one of our lieutenants took charge of the regiment. He had no

sooner done so than he was shot through the foot. As he went hobbling

off he gave the command to fall back. Well, now, you can bet that we did

fall back, and in double-quick time, too.

Now, right here occurred an incident that was laughable, notwithstanding

the serious position we were all in. We had a large negro to do our

cooking. For some reason or other he had got up toward the front. In his

hand he held a camp-kettle, and when the Johnnies first fired he stood

paralyzed with fear. Finally he got his right mind, and then you ought

to have seen him run. He turned, and giving an unearthly yell, skipped

across the battle-field. He did not let go of his kettle, and at every

jump he yelled, "I'se going home!"

We all gave leg-bail for security, and got across the field in a lively

manner, I tell you.

I made a straight line for a creek, and when I got there I saw a tree

had fallen across it, and twelve of our men crossed on it. In the

meantime the rebels had captured one of our guns, and turned it on our

men who were crossing, and swept every man off into the creek. About

this time I made a big jump and landed up to my cartridge box in the

water. Again, another shot came booming along and cut a nice path

through the canebrake. It did not take me long to take advantage of

these paths made by the cannon, and get out of that. The first men that

I met were of my own company. We formed a line and held the rebels in

check until our cartridges gave out; then commenced one of the most

shameful stampedes I ever witnessed. We set fire to the wagons that were

near us, and retreated. By this time the sun was very nearly down, so we

did not get far before dark.

We traveled all night, and in the morning came to a little town called

Ripley. Here we made a halt to allow the stragglers to catch up; and

while waiting here the rebel cavalry got ahead of us.

The little squad that I was with stood right in front of a large white

house with a bay window in front. A woman stepped to the window with a

revolver in her hand and fired into our crowd, killing one of our

lieutenants. Some of our men still having their guns loaded turned, and

without orders, fired and killed the woman.

Just as we got to the town we found the rebel cavalry waiting for us. We

formed and charged. The cavalry opened and let us through, we only

losing three men.

By this time I was getting tired. I told my brother I could stand it no

longer. He told me to try to keep up, but I knew I could not go much

further.

About the middle of the afternoon we stopped to rest. We had been

resting only a few minutes when bang! bang! went the rebel guns. My

brother and I jumped to our feet, took hold of hands started down a

steep hill.

"Now," said I, "go on, for I cannot go any farther; I am played out. You

go and try to get through to Memphis, and I will hide here and get away

if I can."

So he went on and I went down the hill and crawled under a large tree

that had probably blown down. It was not five minutes before the

Johnnies were jumping over the very tree I was under. While lying there

I saw a big black negro jump up out of the brush with a navy revolver in

his hand. He saw that the Johnnies were all around him, and that his

only chance was to fight. So he jumped upon a large rock. The rebels

told him to surrender, and at the same time began firing at him. The

negro was plucky; he raised his revolver, took steady aim, and fired. He

killed a Johnnie, and fetched three more before they fetched him. Having

killed the poor fellow, they went up to him and ran their bayonets

through him time and again.

While this was going on you had better believe I was hugging the ground.

I lay so flat and close that had I been a case-knife I could not have

been much thinner. Well, I lay there until it was getting dark, then

crawled from under the tree and went back up the hill. Right in the

middle of the road I found a gun, which, upon examination, proved to be

loaded. I bent my own gun around a tree, took up the loaded gun and left

the road. I made up my mind that I would go about four miles south and

then strike west; by doing this I was bound to strike the Mississippi

somewhere south of Memphis. The country between Guntown and Memphis is

all timber land.

Well, I went stumbling over logs, tearing through briar-bushes, and

finally struck a swamp. Yes, I struck it suddenly and unexpectedly. I

struck my toe against a log and went head-foremost, casouse into the mud

and water. I floundered around in there until I got completely covered

with mud and filth. I finally got clear of the swamp and came to a

densely wooded place upon ground a little higher. Here I curled up under

a tree and went to sleep. The first thing I heard in the morning was the

whip-poor-will. I saw by the light in the east that it was getting well

on towards daylight.

Knowing which direction was east, I knew that the opposite direction

would take me to the Mississippi, and in that direction I took my

course. I hadn't gone more than a mile when I struck one of our men. He

belonged to the cavalry. As he came up to me I asked him which way he

was going. He told me he was going to Memphis. "No," said I; "you are

going directly east." After talking the matter over we started off

together. We had not gone fifty yards when we heard the click of guns

and "Halt! you Yanks; throw down your guns!" "Come up here!" "Give me

that hat!" "Here, I want them boots!" I had a pocket knife and seven

dollars and thirty cents in my pockets. My boots were new, and I had

made up my mind to wear them if anybody wore them. So when I took them

off, I stuck the point of my knife into the toe and ripped them up to

the top of the leg. "Now you d----d Yank, I'll fix you for that." He

dropped on his knee, took deliberate aim, and just as his finger pressed

the trigger, the rebel captain raised the muzzle of his gun and it went

off over my head. The captain said, "That man is a prisoner, and

whatever you do don't shoot him."

Well, the Johnnies did not want my boots then, but they took my pocket

knife and money. I told them I had been in quite a number of battles,

and seen a great many men captured, but that I had never known one of

our men to take a single thing from them; that if their men were

captured without blankets we gave them some. "Keep your damn mouth shut,

or I'll plug you yet," said the Johnnie. So I kept it shut, you bet.

The rebel Captain had his son with him, a boy about sixteen years old.

He came up to me and said, "I'se sorry for you." Well, to tell the

truth, I was a sorrowful looking object, covered with mud from head to

foot, hungry, tired and in the hands of what I knew to be a cruel enemy.

You will perhaps say that I was not much of a soldier when I tell you

that I cried. I could not help it. The Captain's boy said, "Don't cry,

and I will give you a piece of corn bread." I could not help laughing at

the simplicity of the child, and it made me feel better.

Well, they started us for the main road, and you can imagine my

astonishment when we came at last to the road, and found that the rebels

had 1,800 of our men prisoners. They then started us toward the battle

ground. We marched till sundown and then went into camp.

CHAPTER II.

I thought about my brother, but was too tired and worn out to look him

up, so lay down on the ground, without blanket or covering of any sort

(for the rebels had taken everything and anything that they could make

use of) and went to sleep, and I did not waken until I was aroused by

the call to fall in. I had had nothing to eat since I left the

battle-field, except the piece of corn bread the Captain's boy gave me,

and this was the third day.

I was so sore and stiff that it was hard for me to move, and in the

march if I did not move fast enough, the Johnnies would prod me with

their bayonets. We finally reached the battle-field, and when we got

there, the rebels gave each of us a hard tack. Then they got us on a

train of cars and started us for Meriden, Miss. Arriving at Meriden, we

got off the cars for the evening. You can bet I was glad to stop. When

we finally got fixed for what I supposed the evening, we were ordered to

form in line, and then the Johnnies went through us again; and what

they did not take the first time, they did not leave this time. When

they got through with us I went and lay down. I will never forget how

good it did feel to stretch out at full length on the ground and rest.

The next morning one of our men asked the guard if he was going to get

any rations. "Yes," he answered, "I will give you your rations, you

d----d Yank," and deliberately shot the man dead on the spot. In a short

time they took us down to the Tombigbee river. From there we went

straight through to Andersonville.

When we got within a short distance of that place, we smelt something

rather strong. I asked one of the guards what it was. He said, "You will

soon find out what it is," and you bet we did.

We were, as I said before, in flat-cars. As we came up to the little

station, we could look right over the stockade into the pen. The pen

looked then as if it would hold no more. I looked back over the whole

train, which carried 1800 men, and wondered how in the world we could

all get in there. At this time there were only sixteen acres inclosed by

the pen, and it contained about 35,000 men. I little thought that I

would get out of Andersonville alive; and oh! how many that marched

through the prison gates that day came out on the dead-cart!

The stockade was in the form of a square, and made by placing logs in

the ground and forming a fence eighteen feet high. Inside of the main

fence was a line of posts set twelve feet from the stockade proper, and

joined together with slats about as wide as the hand, thus forming a

second fence four feet high which ran parallel to the stockade and all

around the pen. This was the dead line. A prisoner that came anywhere

near the line was shot by the guards. The guards had little sentry boxes

built to the outside, and well up to the side of the stockade; were just

high enough to allow the guard's head and shoulders to come above the

stockade; these were reached from the outside by means of a ladder.

They took us from the cars and marched us up before Captain Wirz's

headquarters. We were formed into line and counted off; were divided

into hundreds, and again into squads of twenty-five.

A sergeant was appointed over each department. Captain Wirz came out in

front of us and said: "You are a fine looking lot of men. I will fix so

you will not want to fight any more."

I will leave the readers to say whether he kept his word. The big gates

were now swung back and we marched in. The old prisoners crowded around

us and were eager to find out what was going on on the outside, and if

there was any chance for an exchange.

On the day of my capture I was a hard looking sight, but it was nothing

to what I saw on first going into Andersonville. The ground was white

with maggots, and as the men crowded up to me the smell was sickening.

Some of the men had great sores on them that were full of maggots. They

had lost all the spirit and energy that makes the man. They were filthy,

and the lice could be seen crawling all over them. There were men with

their feet, and others with their hands rotting off with the scurvy. Men

were lying on all sides dying, while others were dead.

Was this some horrible dream, or was it real? I asked myself. I could

hardly believe my own eyes at first. Such a terrible sight but few men

in the world have ever seen. I looked around for some place to sit down,

but there was nothing but the ground, and even that was out of the

question, we were so crowded. So thickly were we packed that I found it

difficult to do anything but stand or move as the crowd moved. I felt my

head grow light. Finally everything became dark, and I was gone. Yes, I

had fainted. How long I lay there I do not know, but when I came to

again it was night. It was some time before I could realize where I was,

but the groans of my dying comrades brought me to my senses. The air had

become chilly. I went a short distance and fell in with my crowd. We all

lay down spoon-fashion. One could not turn unless we all turned. The man

at the head of the rank would give the command "right spoon," or "left

spoon," and then we would all turn together. The next morning I got up

and looked upon one of the most horrible sights I ever saw. Within

twenty yards of us three men had died during the night. Some of the men

were engaged in carrying the dead to the gate entrance. I saw, without

moving from the place where I slept, the bodies of fifty-three men that

had died during the night. I brushed the maggots from my clothes, and

walked down to the creek to wash. When I got there and had a good view

of it, it was hard to tell whether it would make one clean or dirty. The

rebel guard was camped above on the creek, and they made it a point, it

seems, to throw all their filth into it, and at this time it was all the

water we had to drink. I asked one of the prisoners if they ever gave

the men soap. He laughed and wanted to know if he looked like a man

that had ever seen soap. Just the looks of him would have convinced the

most skeptical mind on that point. I went in, however, rubbed some dirty

water on my face, and called it a wash. At 12 o'clock the wagon with the

meal came in. When I saw them giving it out I thought we were about to

get a good ration, but when they came to divide I found my share to

consist of two-thirds of a pint. The meal had been ground with the cob,

the same way in which farmers grind it for their hogs to-day. I drew

mine in my two hands, for I had no dish to put it in. After two hours I

got a tin pail from one of the prisoners; but then I had no wood to cook

it with. One of the old prisoners came to my relief with a few shavings,

and showed me how to use them. He dug a little hole in the ground and

set fire to the shavings. After placing the shavings in the hole, he set

the pail over the fire, stirred in the meal and made a mush of it. I did

not get mine more than half done, but I tell you it was good. I had been

without anything to eat for three days. I found that the old prisoners

made but one meal a day of their rations. For my part it was hard to see

how more could be made. After I had been there about two months, they

began to prepare the mush outside and bring it in to us in barrels.

Before going any farther I shall give a complete description of the

stockade. When I went in first there were about sixteen acres enclosed.

The gates were on the west side, one on each side of the creek, which

ran from east to west through the middle of the pen. The land rose

abruptly on each side of the creek, forming steep rills. About the

center of the stockade was a regular quagmire, which covered about two

acres, and this was one reason why we were so crowded. About this time

the weather began to get very hot and the death-rate began to increase.

The suffering among the prisoners was such as I hope never to witness

again. The water was fearful, and we begged the rebels to give us tools

to dig wells with. We dug wells all over the prison, but could get no

water. About this time they enlarged the prison and took in eight more

acres. I tell you it was great relief. In and around Andersonville was a

forest of pitch pine, so in enlarging the stockade they enclosed part of

this timber land which had been cleared, but then contained a great many

stumps and roots, which were made use of for fire-wood. Still the well

digging went on but no water was found. We were exposed to the heat of

the sun during the day and at night suffered from cold, for we had no

shelter or covering of any sort. Starved for want of food and water,

hundreds died daily.

For a long time our men had been trying to get up some plan to make

their escape from prison. We had dug a number of tunnels, but old Wirz

had always found us out. We finally concluded to start in one of our

wells which we had dug about sixty feet without getting water. This well

was about seventy-five feet from the stockade; so we went down about

eighteen feet and commenced digging a tunnel in under the stockade.

Night after night we worked and threw the dirt into the well until we

filled it to the place started from. Then we handed the dirt up in part

of a blanket, and carried it down and threw it in the mire. This all had

to be done at night, for the rebel guards were on the watch, and the

least thing that looked suspicious was investigated immediately. So we

labored away, night after night, till we were sure we had passed the

stockade and then commenced to dig up toward the surface.

We finally got so near the surface that we could hear the rebels talk

and walk; so we concluded to wait until some dark night, and then make

the attempt. In three or four days we had our tunnel finished (I shall

never forget it) it was a dark, rainy night, and we commenced dropping

down into the well, one by one, until there were thirteen of us in the

tunnel. I was the second. Having got to the end of the tunnel, we lay

there and listened. All being still my comrade began to remove the soil.

"Hark," he said, "the rebels are changing guard."

We remained still for half an hour. Everything having become quiet, our

leader stuck his head out of the hole. He crawled out, and I, being

behind him, gave him a boost. The next man boosted me, and so on until

we were all out except the last man. He was the largest man in the

crowd, and in trying to get up through the hole got fast in some way.

While we were trying to pull him out he hollered. I tell you there was a

commotion among the Johnnies then. They commenced firing, and you could

hear them running in every direction. The only thing we could do was to

leave him take care of ourselves. Three of us staid together and made

for the woods. Oh, how we did run! Every stump and bush we saw we

thought a rebel. I said, "Boys, hold up; I can't stand this any longer."

No wonder, for we were so starved that there was nothing left but skin

and bones. Being in such a weak condition I was surprised that we had

gone so far in so short a time. In a few minutes we struck a swamp, and

started to wade along the edge. At the same time we could hear a fearful

uproar back among the rebel guards. The noise got fainter and fainter,

and at last ceased. It was so dark that you could scarcely see your hand

in front of your face.

Where the rest of the men were we didn't know. We kept along the edge of

the swamp. Sometimes we were up to our knees in water, sometimes we were

up to our armpits. We kept steadily on until daylight. Just about this

time we heard the bloodhounds away off in our rear. We pushed on with

increased vigor. The sounds came nearer and nearer. When it became broad

daylight we could see, in the middle of a swamp, a small island. If we

could only get to it, we thought we would be safe, for a time at least.

The water was covered with slime, and full of all kinds of reptiles. The

deadly water moccasin predominated. Our only chance was to get to the

island; so in we went. We finally got to the island, and found it

covered with a dense growth of laurel. We crawled up under the brush and

lay down. We could easily see the side from which we came. In a few

minutes two very large bloodhounds came out of the timber to the edge

of the swamp. They stood as if undecided what to do, but finally set up

a kind of howl peculiar to them when disappointed or off the scent. In a

few minutes five rebels rode up. The head man turned to the others and

said:

"Them damned Yanks are over on that island." The other said,

"If they are there I don't see how we will get them."

One of the Rebs then yelled to us,

"Hey, you Yanks, if you don't come over here I will send the dogs after

you, and they will tear you to pieces."

We lay perfectly still. Another of the Rebs said,

"I know them Yanks are over there. Don't you see how the cane is parted

where they waded or swam over?"

"I tell you what," said another; "I will get astraddle of a log and take

the dogs over there."

As he was getting off his horse we heard firing in the distance and the

howls of more dogs. The rebels mounted their horses and started for the

place where the firing seemed to be. We then jumped up and went around

on the other side of the island, where we found a small shanty that had

been built by some runaway negro before the war. One of the men, who

had been looking around, came running up and said that there was a

dugout hidden in the brush. To get it into the water was the work of a

minute. It was badly sun-cracked, and leaked, but held us all. Two of us

pushed with sticks while the third baled her out with a gourd which we

found in the boat. We pushed her along in this manner the rest of the

day, and always managed to keep her under the over-hanging trees, where

we would not likely be discovered.

It was now getting dark, and the swamp was narrowing down and the banks

were getting higher. It looked more like a river than a swamp.

"Hark! what is that? Don't you think it is some one chopping?"

"You bet it am. Pull in and we will see."

We pulled in, and climbing out as carefully as I could so as not to make

any noise, I stepped along from tree to tree until I got close up to the

chopper. It was a negro chopping wood in front of a cabin. A large negro

woman stood in the door, and said to him, "Now, Jake, if you want any

supper you want to hurry up and chop dat wood."

I looked around, and seeing no other house I stepped out and said, "Good

evening."

"Hello!" said Jake; "who is you?"

"It don't make any difference who I am," said I; "but, Aunty, can I get

anything to eat?"

"Why, ob course you can, if dat blamed niggah ebber gets dat wood

chopped."

"Is there any white people around here, Aunty?"

"No, honey; dere is no white folks within four miles of us. What's the

matter, honey? Is you afraid of the white people?"

"You bet I am. I've just got out of prison."

"You has? Oh, good Lord! Is you a Yank?"

"You bet I am."

Jake then said, "Dat is just what dem sojers was huntin' to-day wid all

dem dogs, down by de cane-brake. Dey said dey had catched four, and de

dogs tore dem all to pieces."

"Is you all alone, honey?"

"No, ma'am; there are three of us."

"Well, well! bress the Lord. Fetch 'em here."

I then went back to where the boys were, and told them to pull the boat

up and come on. When we got to the shanty, the old woman gave us one

look, and clasping her hands in front of her, said,

"Fo' de Lawd's sake; I never seed such hard looking men in my whole

life!"

No wonder. Each of us had on part of a shirt. Our pants were in rags.

No shoes. No hat. And old Aunty was not much blacker. She gave us

something to eat and then we went up into the loft, and lying down were

soon asleep. We did not wake up until long after daylight. Hearing old

Aunty bustling about I put my head down through the trap door to speak

to her. Just then Jake came in and said: "I'se been all around and don't

see nobody at all." The old woman then told us that we had better stay

three or four days, and then Jake would guide us around the swamp, and

by that time they would have given up their search for us. We concluded

to accept the kind old Aunty's invitation, for we could not possibly

find a more secluded spot if we looked a year for it.

CHAPTER III.

Jake was the old woman's son. Before the war they had been sent to the

swamp to make cypress shingles, and had cleared an acre of ground and

built the little cabin, living there ever since. They were very

ignorant, but were true to the northern principles and the Union

soldiers. Many was the time that our soldiers were taken in and cared

for when they knew that death would be the penalty if they were found

harboring Northern men. They were the friends of the Union soldier, and

he knew he could put his life in their hands and be safe. Jake kept

watch for us, but we did not venture out. We stayed in the loft most of

the time.

On the fourth day of our stay, just about noon, Jake came in very much

excited. "Oh!" said he; "De sojers is coming! de sojers is coming! What

is we to do?" "Shut up, you niggah," said old Aunty, "I will talk to dem

sojers myself. You niggah, does you hear? You go and chop wood." Jake

went to chopping wood. In a few minutes three Rebs rode up.

"Hello! you nig. Seen any Yanks pass this way?"

"Fo' the Lord's sake, massa! Is de Yanks got loose?"

Old Aunty goes to the door and said: "Wot's de matter, massa?"

"Have you seen any Yanks?"

"Is dem Yanks got away? Fo' de Lord's sake; what will become of dis pore

niggah? Dem Yanks will kill us all. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"

"Shut up, you old black cuss, and if you see any Yanks send Jake over to

his master's and let them know there. They will send word to us."

"Now you just depend I will, massa."

At this the Rebs rode off. Aunty had saved us. She said she never was so

scared in all her born days, and Jake's eyes looked like saucers.

I went down from the loft and told Aunty that we had better be going.

"May the good Lord bress you, honey. I does hope dat you may get back to

your own folks. I'se awful 'fraid you won't, 'caus I seed an old cullud

woman to-day who say dat de kentry is jist full of sojers looking for

dem Yanks wot's runned away from prison. I have baked some corn bread

and bacon for you, and Jake will take you around de swamp."

We started about 12 o'clock that night. Our Aunty came to the door, took

each of us by the hand and said: "Good-bye, and may de good Lord bress

you and keep you." We all thanked her for her kindness and started out

into the night. Jake went ahead and we followed along the edge of the

swamp till daylight, when we came onto the main road. "Now, massa," said

Jake, "I'se gone as far as I can go with you. I hope you will git

through all right, but if I was you I would lay down till night and then

take de main road for de north."

We shook hands all around with Jake and he was gone. We then went a mile

from the road and went into a lot of brush and lay there all day. When

it became dark we struck for the north. It was a beautiful starlight

night, and the road stretched straight ahead of us as far as the eye

could reach. We passed a number of plantation houses. While passing one

in particular the dogs set up a terrible howling. A man stood in the

middle of the road. He said:

"Good evening. Who is yous?"

"We are friends."

"Youans look like Yanks."

"Suppose we are. What of that?"

"Well, I supposed you was. My master and a lot of soldiers are in the

house now, and they have got seven dogs. They have been looking for

youans all day. I hope you will get away but I'se afraid you will not,

for the soldiers are all over the country looking for youans."

We then asked him if he would guide us to the big swamp he told us of.

He said he would go a piece with us, and he did go two or three miles,

bringing us out near a large swamp. We traveled along the edge of this

swamp until daybreak, finding ourselves on a large cotton field, when we

made for the woods as fast as we could go. When we got to the timber I

told the boys that I was played out, so we made for a big brush pile and

crawling under the brush ate our breakfast. We then went to sleep and

slept way into the next night. At daylight we again started north. We

went through the woods and came out into a cornfield. Our bread and

bacon had given out the night before and we were talking about something

to eat, when Jesse said, "Hark!" We stopped and listened. Away off over

the fields in the direction we had come we could hear the faint sound of

the bloodhounds. We looked at each other for a moment and then started

for the timber. When we got there each climbed a tree. We had been in

the trees only five minutes when seven large and wonderfully ferocious

bloodhounds cleared the fence and made straight for our trees. I will

never forget what fearful beasts they were. The froth was coming from

their mouths and their eyes shone like candles in the dark. They came

right under the trees and looked up as much as to say, we have got you.

They would back off a few yards and then come at the tree with a bound,

snapping on the jump; then they would chew the bark of the trees. In

half an hour the Rebs came riding up. One of them jumped off his horse

and threw the fence down. Then they rode in. There were fifteen in all,

and their captain was an old gray-headed man. They rode under our trees,

pointed their guns at us and said:

"Come down, you damned Yanks, or we will fill your carcasses full of

cold lead."

"Gentlemen," said I, "if you want to shoot, shoot; for I would rather be

shot than chawed by them dogs."

One of the Rebs spoke to the captain and said, "Let's make them Yanks

come down and see how quick the dogs will get away with them." "No,"

replied the captain, "they look as though they had had trouble enough."

Then they quarreled among themselves. Some wanted to let the dogs at us

and others wanted to take us back to prison. Finally the captain came

out ahead. They muzzled the dogs and tied them together. Then we

surrendered. The captain lived only four miles from where we were

captured. So they took us back to his house. We got there about 4

o'clock that afternoon. The old gentleman treated us kindly, giving us

something to eat and also presented each with a quilt. We stopped here

over night. We had been gone from Andersonville seven days and only got

twenty-five miles away. The Rebs told us that the man who was caught in

the hole had been shot where he stuck. All the others had been torn to

pieces by the dogs except one and he had his arm torn off and died a few

days later. We started next day for the prison. We traveled all day and

camped that evening by the road. At noon the next day we got back to

prison. Wirz told the guards they were d-- fools for bringing us back

and told us we should be thankful to get back alive. After relieving us

of our quilts the gates were opened and we were marched into

Andersonville again.

We had some praying men at Andersonville. They held nightly prayer

meetings, and they prayed for water. They prayed like men that meant

business, for we were all dying for the want of it. One day after one of

these meetings there occurred one of the most fearful rains I ever saw.

It washed the stockade as clean as a hound's tooth. Right between the

dead line and the stockade it washed a ditch about two feet deep and a

spring of cold water broke out in a stream large enough to fill a

four-inch pipe. The spring is there yet, I am told, and to this day is

called Providence spring. It broke out in the very best place it could

for our benefit. The stockade protected it on one side from the rebels

and the dead-line on the other side protected it from the prisoners. The

fountain head was thus protected. We had good water from that on.

As I said before the Johnnies brought in our mush in barrels. After it

was distributed the prisoners would tip the barrels over and go in head

first trying to get what was not scraped out. They fought like cats and

dogs about who would get in first. All sense of manhood had left them.

Starvation had made them little better than brutes. I had often tried to

keep my mind off of anything to eat but it was impossible. I would dream

at night that I was sitting up to a table loaded with good things, but

would always wake up before I got them.

About this time there was a band formed, probably the off-scourings of

the city of New York. They called themselves the New York Bummers. They

made up their minds to live, even if all the rest died of starvation.

They were armed with clubs, and would take the mush away from the weaker

ones. If the unfortunate ones were strong enough to resist they knocked

them down at once; and even went so far as to kill several that refused

to give up to them. We were unable to stand by and permit such outrages,

for to a man who lost one ration there, it meant almost certain death.

So the western prisoners pitched into these "New York Bummers" and had a

regular free fight, the former coming out ahead. We then took six of the

leaders, and, holding a drumhead court-martial, sentenced them to be

hanged. We first sent a report through to Gen. Sherman, explaining the

matter. He sent back word to string them up. The rebels furnished the

necessary timber, we built a scaffold and hanged them. From that time on

every man ate his own rations.

There was one very large man, who was the the only fat man in the pen,

among the six who were to be hanged. When they were swung off the big

man broke his rope, and then you should have seen him jump to his feet,

strike out right and left with his fists, and lay out fifteen or twenty

men, and finally fight his way through the crowd to the creek, but the

poor fellow got mired in the mud, and was captured and brought back. He

looked up and saw the five swinging to and fro, and said, "I will soon

be with you." Then they adjusted the rope around his neck and swung him

off.

Oh, how sad it makes me feel when I get to thinking of the poor fellows

that had to die in that horrible slaughter pen. I speak that which I

know and testify to that which I have seen and nothing more.

I have seen men go to the privy and pick up beans after they had passed

through a man, and eat them. I have seen men lying on the ground calling

for mothers, sisters, and brothers. No one to soothe the aching brow or

whisper words of comfort, but had to die alone in that dirt and filth.

Capt. Wirz got it into his head that we had arms, and were going to make

a break for liberty, and on the other hand we heard that the rebels

intended to take some of us out to shoot, for the Yankees had been

shooting the rebel prisoners, and the rebels were going to retaliate;

so one day a rebel sergeant came in and commanded about one hundred of

us to fall in to go for wood. You may depend we were not long in doing

so, for if there was a happy time at Andersonville it was when we were

let out to get wood.

Why, dear readers, I cannot describe to you the happiness which I felt

to get out of that prison pen for just one hour. We formed a line and

marched out. After they had marched us about half a mile from the pen

they formed us in a line, with one Reb in front of each Yank, then old

Wirz gave the command to ready, aim. You may be sure my heart came up

into my mouth, and for a fact I thought the rebels were going to

retaliate; but instead of shooting they searched us, to see if we had

any arms concealed. Finding nothing of the kind, they put us back into

the prison.

The next day the same sergeant came in and inquired for men by the names

of Root and Tyler. Tyler being my name I knew it was me he was after,

but having the retaliation in my head you may be sure I kept still; but

one of our own men pointed me out. The Johnnie came up to me and said,

"You are wanted outside;" and looking around he found Root, and told us

both to follow him. Our comrades, supposing we were to be shot,

escorted us to the gate and bade us good-bye for the last time, as they

thought. The truth of the matter was we were taken out to help bury the

dead. As far as I was concerned it did not make much difference to me

what I did, for at that time I had the scurvy so bad I could have pulled

most any tooth out with my fingers, while some of them fell out

themselves.

Well, we were taken before Wirz. "Now," said he, "if youans' wont run

away you can stay out here and bury the dead." We took the oath, and

were told to go to a small log cabin, where we found twenty of our men

who had already been taken out for the same business.

CHAPTER IV.

It did seem nice to get into a house which contained a fire-place and a

crane where the kettles hung. One of the men swung the crane out and

hung a kettle of beans over the fire. You bet I looked on with interest.

One of my comrades noticing me watching the cook said, "You had better

be careful how you eat or you will kill yourself." That night I lay as

near the fireplace as possible. The bubble of the bean pot was music in

my ear. I kept quiet until I thought my comrades were asleep, then

raising myself in a sitting posture, swung the crane back and took the

pot of beans off. With much difficulty I succeeded in finding a spoon; I

then sat as close to the kettle as possible, with one leg on each side

of it, and went in for dear life. "Hold on, there," said one of my

comrades, "do you want to kill yourself? I have been watching you all

this time." For a truth I thought I was badly used.

The next day the men concluded to leave me to take care of the cabin,

being too weak to be of much service.

The provisions were locked up in a big box, and the men went to work. I

swept out the cabin and walked out to see what could be seen. Walking

along I saw an old colored woman and her little boy, hanging out

clothes. He was very dirty and ragged. He sat on the bank of the creek

throwing crumbs from a good-sized piece of corn bread to the fish. I

went up to him and snatched the bread from his hands. He jumped up and

ran to his mother crying, "That man has got my bread." "Never mind,

honey; that man must be hungry."

The following day three more men were brought out to bury the dead. Our

cook as usual hung up the kettle of beans to cook for breakfast.

Some time in the night one of the new hands got up and helped himself to

beans, and before twelve o'clock the next day he was a dead man. You may

be sure I was more careful after that how I ate.

The next day the men took me out to help bury the dead. Upon arriving at

the place of burial I was yet so weak that I was of no service. So they

set me to bringing water for the men to drink. The way the graves were

dug was to dig a ditch six feet wide, about one hundred yards long, and

three feet deep. They then laid them as close as possible, without box,

coffin, or clothes, for the men inside stripped the dead as fast as they

died. Most of the prisoners were destitute of clothes, but it looked

hard to see from three to five hundred buried in one day without clothes

on.

The prisoners of Andersonville were dying at a terrible rate, especially

those who had been longest in rebel hands. The rebels had deliberately

planned the murder of the Union prisoners by the slow process of

starvation and disease. It was at first slow but sure, and then it was

sure and rapid. I have counted three hundred and sixty lifeless

skeletons of our boys that had died in one day. You might walk around

the prison any hour in the day and see men closing their eyes in death.

Diarrhoea and scurvy appeared to be the most fatal diseases.

None can know the horrors of scurvy except those who have had it.

Sometimes the cords of the victim would be contracted and the limbs

drawn up so that the patient could neither walk, stand, nor lie still.

Sometimes it would be confined to the bones, and not make any

appearance on the outside. At other times it would be confined to the

mouth, and the gums would separate from the teeth and the teeth would

drop out. I have seen hundreds of cases of this disease in

Andersonville. I have seen many of our prisoners suffering with this

disease, actually starving to death, because they could not eat the

coarse corn meal furnished by the rebels for the Yankee prisoners.

In the month of June it rained continually for twenty-one days, and it

is not strange diseases multiplied and assumed every horrible form;

there were thirty-five thousand prisoners during all the rainy time,

without shelter, lying out in the storm, day and night.

As I was going to the well for water, the third or fourth day of my stay

outside, I met Wirz and two confederate officers. Wirz said, "What are

you doing here?" I told him I was carrying water for the men who were

digging graves. "Well," said he, "If you don't get inside of that gate,

double quick, I will have a grave dug for you, and prepare you to fill

it." You may be sure I went in, and was a prisoner inside again.

About this time Mrs. Wirz took a great liking to one of our little

drummer boys. She took him out and dressed him in a nice fitting suit

of gray. The boy was only eleven years old, and very handsome. The

little fellow put on his suit of gray, and Mrs. Wirz said, "How do you

like your clothes?" "I do not like them at all," replied the boy. "Why,

what is the matter?" "I do not like the color." Mrs. Wirz liked him all

the better for the bold spirit he manifested. She then made him a suit

of blue, and also a nice red cap, and thenceforth he went by the name of

Red Cap.

Red Cap would come in every day or two and tell us what was going on

outside. He told us Mrs. Wirz quarreled with Wirz every day because he

did not try to prepare some kind of a shelter for the prisoners. She

wished him to let a few of us out at a time to cut timber to make our

own shelter with. No, he would not do that. Finally Mrs. Wirz told him

if he didn't do something for the relief of the prisoners, she would

poison him; "For," said she, "I cannot sleep nights; my dreams are one

continued nightmare, and I will stand it no longer." Mrs. Wirz was a

true southerner, of the kind called creole; but for all that she had a

great deal of humanity about her. She continued her threats and

pleadings, but they were of no avail. She finally did give him a dose of

poison. He had been threatened so much that when he did get it he knew

what was the matter, and took something to counteract it. After that

"Old Wirz" let us out oftener for wood.

Dr. John C. Bates, who was a kind-hearted and humane rebel surgeon,

testified as follows:

"When I went there, there were twenty-five hundred sick in the hospital.

I judge twenty-five thousand prisoners were crowded together in the

stockade. Some had made holes and burrows in the earth. Those under the

sheds in the hospital were doing comparatively well. I saw but little

shelter excepting what the prisoners' ingenuity had devised. I found

them suffering with scurvy, dropsy, diarrhoea, gangrene, pneumonia, and

other diseases. When prisoners died they were laid in wagons head

foremost to be carried off. Effluvia from the hospital was very

offensive. If by accident my hands were affected, I would not go into

the hospital without putting a plaster over the affected part. If

persons whose systems were reduced by inanition should purchance stump a

toe or scratch a hand, the next report to me was gangrene, so potent was

the hospital gangrene. The prisoners were more thickly confined in the

stockade than ants and bees. Dogs were kept for hunting the prisoners

who escaped.

Fifty per cent of those who died might have been saved. I feel safe in

saying seventy-five per cent might have been saved, if the patients had

been properly cared for. The effect of the treatment of prisoners was

morally as well as physically injurious. Each lived but for himself,

which I suppose was entirely superinduced by their starving condition.

Seeing the condition of some of them, I remarked to my student, "I

cannot resurrect them." I found persons lying dead among the living.

Thinking they merely slept, I went to wake them up but found they were

taking their everlasting sleep. This was in the hospital, and I judge it

was worse in the stockade. There being no deadhouse I erected a tent for

that purpose. But I soon found that a blanket or quilt had been cut off

from the canvas, and as the material readily served for repairs, the

deadhouse had to be abandoned. The daily ration was much less in

September, October, November and December than it was from the first of

January till the twenty-sixth of March, 1865. The men had never had ten

ounces of food every twenty-four hours. The scurvy was next to

rottenness. Some of the patients could not eat on account of the scurvy;

their teeth were loose; they frequently asked me to give them something

to eat which would not cause pain. While Doctor Stevenson was medical

director he did not manifest any interest in the relief of their

necessities; the rations were less than ten ounces in twenty-four hours;

some men did actually starve to death on it. There was plenty of wood in

the neighborhood, which might have been cut to answer all demands for

shelter and fuel."

This concluded the testimony of Dr. Bates, and considering that he lives

in Georgia it need not be said that he testified reluctantly to the

truth.

Charles W. Reynolds, of Company B, Ninth Illinois Cavalry, writes his

experience: "We reached Andersonville about 2 o'clock P. M. on the first

day of April, 1864. We got off the cars in a timbered country with a dry

sandy soil. About three quarters of a mile off we could see a large

enclosure composed of timber set on end in the ground, with sentry boxes

set along the top, and that was the Andersonville prison pen. The old

Dutchman, as he was called, Captain Wirz, riding a white horse, came

along and escorted us to the prison gate. Here he left us with the

guards and himself went inside to learn what part of the prison to

assign us to. While we were waiting outside of the prison gates a lot of

Yankee prisoners came from the woods with arms full of fagots that they

had been gathering for fuel. At first we thought they were a lot of

negroes; but as they came nearer we saw that they were Yankee prisoners.

They were as black as negroes, and such downcast, hopeless, haggard and

woe-begone looking human beings I never saw before. They said they were

glad to see us, but would to God it was under better circumstances.

"After a while the prison gates were opened for us to pass through. As

we entered a sight of horror met our eyes that almost froze our blood

and made our hearts stop beating. Before us were skeleton forms that

once had been stalwart men, covered with rags and filth and vermin, with

hollow cheeks and glowing eyes. Some of the men in the heat and

intensity of their feelings exclaimed, 'Is this hell?' Well might Wirz,

the old fiend who presided over that rebel slaughtering pen, have

written over its gates, 'Let him that enters here leave all hope

behind.' It may be that some of the readers of this little book think

there is a good deal of exaggeration, but I want to say right here that

it is impossible to write or tell the horrors of Andersonville prison so

that anybody can understand or realize them."

It was getting along toward fall and the rebels told us there was going

to be an exchange. Oh, how my heart did jump. Could it be possible that

I was to get back to see my kind old mother, and my wife and little ones

who had mourned for me as dead? If I could only write the feelings that

overcame me I know you would feel happy for me. It, however, turned out

to be false. We also heard that General Sherman was getting close to us

and the rebels began to move us out of the way.

The greatest portion was taken to Charleston, North Carolina. There were

seven thousand of us left. In a few days they marched the rest of us out

and shipped us to Savannah. We arrived there the next day, the hardest

looking set of men you ever set eyes on. They marched us from the cars

to a new stockade they had prepared for us. As we marched through the

city the citizens gathered on each side of the street to see the Yankee

prisoners pass. As we marched along some of the citizens said they felt

sorry for us, others said we were treated too well. They finally got us

to the gate and we were marched in. We were then in hearing of our own

guns. This stockade consisted of about ten acres. But after all the

citizens gave us more to eat than they did around Andersonville, for

they sent in beef and other things that we never got at any other

prison. We did not stay long at Savannah. They took us from there to

Thomasville, one hundred miles south of Savannah. On our way from

Savannah two of our men made their escape. The guards were stationed on

top of the cars and the prisoners were inside. Two of our men made a

desperate jump for liberty. We were going at the rate of twenty miles an

hour when they made the jump. When they struck the ground they tumbled

end over end. The guards blazed away at them. I could see the dirt

flying all around them where the bullets struck, and we were gone, and

so were they, and I found out since that they got through to our lines

all right.

When we arrived at Thomasville our guards marched us back in the woods

about three miles. They did not have any stockade at this point, so in

order to keep us from making our escape they had a ditch dug all around

us. Four more of our men made a break for liberty at this place; three

of them got away, the fourth was shot and died in two days afterwards.

We stayed at Thomasville two weeks and then our guards marched across

the country to a small town called Blacksheon. As we were marching

through the country the colored people came out on the road to see the

Yankees go by. We were in a deplorable condition, the larger part of

the prisoners were almost destitute of clothes, and as we were forced to

march along in the cold biting wind, there were a good many of the

prisoners died on the road. Most of the men were without shoes. Their

feet looked more like big pieces of bloody meat than like human feet.

They could easily be tracked by their poor, bleeding feet.

As I said before the colored people gathered on each side of the road to

see the Yankees by. Seeing an old lady standing close by the road I

spoke to her and said: "Aunty, what do you think of us, anyway?" "Well,

mas'er, I'se very sorry for you." Well, to state the fact, the tears

forced themselves to my eyes in spite of all I could do to hear one

sympathizing word, even if it was from an old colored woman.

When we first started from Thomasville one of the guards came up to me

and said, 'Yank, I want you to carry this knap-sack. I told him I was

not able to carry myself. "It don't make no difference to me whether you

can carry yourself or not; but you will carry this knap-sack as far as

you go, or I will blow your brains out." So I was forced to carry his

knap-sack, which weighed about forty pounds.

Some of the time I thought I would fall, but I managed to keep along

until the first day noon, when we made a halt, and the rebel gave me a

small piece of meat. "Now," said the Johnnie, "I have given you a good

ration, and I hope you will carry my knap-sack without grumbling." We

started on, but had not gone over five miles when I gave out. I could

not go any farther; so down I went my full length on the road. "Get up,

you d----d Yank, or I'll run you through with this bayonet."

If he had done so it could not have made any difference with me, for I

had fainted. A confederate officer made him take the knap-sack, and he

put it on another prisoner. I staggered to my feet and went on and on.

Oh, would this thing never end! But finally we did get through to

Blackshire, more dead than alive. That was the terminus of the railroad

that went through Andersonville. I was glad to get where I could rest.

To lie down and stretch out at full length was more delightful than I

can describe. Ah, would this thing never end, or was I doomed to die in

rebel hands? I want to say right here that there were seventeen

thousand, eight hundred and ninety-six deaths of Union prisoners at

Andersonville.

We went into camp about half a mile from the town. The next morning they

marched us through town. The colored folks came from all sides to see

the prisoners and their guards go by, all dressed in their holiday

clothes, for this was the day before New Year's. One old colored woman

had a piece of sugar-cane. She was some distance ahead, standing close

to the road, watching us go by. Many of the guards made a grab for the

piece of cane, but she avoided them every time. Just as I got opposite

her she darted forward and handed me the cane. The rebel guard raised

his gun and brought it down over the poor old woman's head, and she fell

in the road like one dead. The last I saw of her, her colored friends

were carrying her off. However, I heard the next morning that the woman

had died during the night, of the blow she received from the rebel

guard. You may be sure I was pleased to get the sugar-cane, and it was a

great thing. The cane was very refreshing and nourishing, and I felt

very grateful to the poor old colored woman who lost her life trying to

give me something to eat.

They marched us up to the cars. We were put in box-cars. Just as the

guards had got us loaded a handsome lady came riding on horseback and

began talking very earnestly to one of the confederate officers. Our

guards told us she was pleading with the officer to make us a New

Year's present. She finally got the officer's consent, and two large

wagons drove up to the cars, and each prisoner got a good half pound of

pork, and it was good pork, too. Oh, how thankful we did feel to that

good lady for making us that nice present. It is a singular fact, that

always during our despondent times there is sure to break through the

black clouds a ray of bright sunshine.

We lay in box cars all night, and next morning went through to

Andersonville. We arrived there about ten o'clock the same day. On New

Year's day, 1865, we were ordered out of the cars. It was a very

unpleasant day. The wind was blowing cold from the north, and we huddled

up close to keep warm. The rebels were all around us and had fires. We

were not in the pen, but just outside.

One of our little drummer boys stepped up to the fire to warm, when old

Wirz came along and ordered him back. The boy started back, but seeing

Wirz going away went back to the fire again. Wirz turned, and seeing the

boy, drew his revolver and shot him dead. The little fellow fell in the

fire. I could not hear what the rebel guards said to Wirz, for the wind

was blowing the other way, but this I do know, he took their arms away

and put them in irons. They then counted us off and opened the gates,

and we marched in. We were prisoners in Andersonville once more. Well, I

must say my hope of getting out was very small; for even if I had been

permitted my liberty I could not have walked five miles. There were only

about seven thousand of us, altogether; so you see we had plenty of

room; in fact it looked almost deserted. I had been used to seeing it

crowded. We had no shelter of any kind, so four of us clubbed together

and dug a hole seven feet deep, and then widened it out at the bottom so

as to accommodate four of us. It was all open at the top, but it kept

the cold winds from us.

It finally came my turn to go for wood. There were six of us picked out

to go. One of the six was a very sickly man, and could hardly walk,

without carrying a load. He could not be persuaded to let some stronger

man take his place, so out we went, sick man and all. We went about half

a mile from the pen, and every man went to work picking up his wood.

Finally, we started for the stockade; but the sick man could not keep

up; he had more wood than he could carry. We went as slow as our guards

would let us, in order to give him a chance. Just then Wirz came riding

along on his old white horse, and seeing the sick man some twenty yards

behind, said, "Close up there, close up there, you d----d Yankee." The

sick man tried to hurry up, but stubbed his toe and down he went, wood

and all. Wirz sprang from his horse and ran up to the poor sick soldier

and kicked him in the stomach with the heel of his big riding boot, and

left him a dead man. "That is the way I serve you d----d Yanks when you

don't do as I tell you." The rest of us went back to the prison pen,

sick at heart.

How was it our government left us there to die? We knew the rebels were

anxious for an exchange, and we could not understand why our government

would not make the exchange. I know this much about it, if our

government had made the exchange the rebels would have had about forty

thousand able-bodied men to put in the field, while on the other hand

our government would have had that many to put in the hospital. The

rebel sergeant came in every day and said, "All you men that will come

out and join our army, we will give you good clothes and rations." There

were a few that went out, but they went out simply to make their escape.

As far as I was concerned, I would have died before I would have put on

their gray uniform.

We had no snow, but had cold and heavy rains. One night, just as the

guard called out "Twelve o'clock and all is well," our hole in the

ground caved in, and we had a terrible time struggling to get out; but

we finally got out, and there we sat on the ground, that cold rain

beating down on our poor naked bodies. When it did come daylight, we

could hardly stand on our feet. One of my poor comrades died before

noon, and another in the afternoon, from the effects of that cold storm;

so there were only two of us left.

In about a week from the time our place caved in we were taken out to

get wood again. As our little squad marched out, about fifty yards from

the stockade I saw a good sized log lying there. It was about eight feet

long and two feet in diameter. I saw that the rebel guard was a kind

looking old man, and asked him if he would be so kind as to help me get

the log inside of the stockade. "Now," said he, "If youans won't try to

run away, I will help you." I gave him the desired promise, and he laid

down his gun and helped me to roll the log in. That was the second time

I had received a kind act from one of the rebel guards. The other time

was when the rebel Captain gave us three quilts. I got a couple of

railroad spikes from one of my comrades, and split the log all up in

small strips, and then we fixed our cave up with a good roof, and I must

say it was really comfortable.

CHAPTER V.

One day, when the Rebs brought in our meal, an old prisoner managed to

steal one of the meal sacks. He stole the sack to make him a shirt. He

cut a hole in the bottom for his head, one in each side for his arms. It

made the old gentleman quite a shirt. Wirz missed the sack, and refused

to issue any more rations till the sack and man were found. He found the

man and took him out, and put him in the stocks and left him there all

night. In the morning when he went to let him out the man was dead.

In the middle of February the guards told us they didn't think we would

have to stay much longer, as the south was about played out. Could it be

possible that we were about to get home again, or were they about to

move us to another prison, and simply telling us this to keep us from

running away? Finally we were ordered out and put on flat cars and sent

through to Salem, Alabama. There we were ordered off the cars. As we

stepped out on the platform a rebel citizen came up with a stove-pipe

hat in his hand. He had it full of confederate money; and as we passed

him he gave each one of us a bill. I got a fifty-dollar bill for mine

and I traded it off to an old woman for a sweet potato pie, and thought

I had made a big bargain at that.

The guards marched us to a pen they had prepared for us. They opened the

gates, and we marched in. Now you could see a big change in the guards

and rebel officers. We were used better in every respect. That night the

rebel band came up and serenaded us, and finally passed their

instruments through to the Yankees, who played Yankee Doodle, Hail

Columbia, the Star Spangled Banner, and a good many other pieces. Then

they passed the instruments out, and the Johnnies played the Bonnie Blue

Flag, and Dixie, and a good many more rebel pieces.

The next morning they marched us out to the depot, and we got on to flat

cars again, and were sent through to Jackson, Mississippi, where we were

ordered off the cars and formed in line. The rebel officers said, "You

will have to march on foot to Vicksburg," and we had to take an oath not

to molest anything on our way. Then the guards were taken off, and only

a few rebel officers sent to guide us through to Vicksburg. We were

three days in marching through, if I remember right. Finally we came in

sight of our flag, on the other side of Black river from us. What a

shout went up from our men. I never shall forget it. It did seem as if I

could fly. I was going home for sure; there was no doubt now. As we came

up we found a good many ladies that had come down from the north to meet

us. They brought us towels, soap, shears, razors, paper and envelopes,

and even postage stamps, and our government had sent out new clothes,

blankets and tents. Oh, this was a perfect heaven. We washed, cut our

hair, and put on our new clothes. The clothing was not issued just as it

should have been, but every man helped himself. I got one number seven

and one number twelve shoe. By trading around a little, however, I got a

pair of twelves; so I was solid. Then I looked around for my comrade,

who had slept with me for the past six months, but could not find him. I

saw a man standing close by me, laughing, but I did not know it was my

comrade I had slept with, until he spoke to me. It is impossible for me

to make you understand the immense change made in us. From dirt and

filth and rags, we stepped out clean and well dressed.

When I came through to our lines I weighed just one hundred pounds. My

average weight is one hundred and ninety. Some of the men were worse off

than I. You may be sure, my dear readers, I did feel thankful to God for

my deliverance. I had a praying mother away up north, and do feel it was

through her prayers, that I got through to our lines once more.

We got some coffee and hard-tack, and pitched our tents about five miles

in the rear of Vicksburg. Well, my dear readers, it did seem nice to go

into camp in our own lines. I was almost rotten with the scurvy, and so

weak that I could hardly walk, and my skin was drawn down over my bones,

and it was of a dark blue color.

Our men died off very rapidly for the first few days. Finally, our

doctor had our rations cut down, and the men began to gain. My mind at

this time was almost as badly shattered as my body, and didn't become

sound till I had been home two years; and the fact of the matter is, I

never have become sound in body. I have the scurvy yet; so bad at times

that my family cannot sit up and eat at the same table with me; and as

far as manual labor is concerned, I am not able to do any. The

government allows me four dollars a month pension, which I am very

thankful for.

Our camp was on the west side of Black river. After we got in the rear

of Vicksburg, we were put on what was called neutral ground, and the

rebels had their officers over us. We were not exchanged, but our

government made this bargain with the rebels: If they would send us

through to our lines, our government would hold us as prisoners of war

until they could come to some kind of an understanding. The fact was,

the seven thousand that I came through with never were exchanged, but

were discharged as prisoners of war. It has been now twenty-two years

since the war, and there may be some things that are not correct, but

you may depend that everything is as near true as I can remember, in my

story.

After we had drawn our clothes and tents and got our tents pitched, and

drawn our rations, the first thing done was to write up to Belvidere,

Illinois, to my wife and mother, to let them know that I was through to

our lines. Oh, what rejoicing there was away up in my northern home.

When they first got my letter my wife exclaimed, "Will is alive! Will is

alive!"

As I have said, ladies from all over the northern states brought to us

books, papers, writing-paper and envelopes. So it seemed like a perfect

paradise to what we had seen for a long time. Finally I got a letter

from home. I cannot describe to you how happy I did feel to hear from my

wife and little ones once more, and from my dear old mother. She wrote

they were all well, and so anxious for me to come home. My brother who

had left me on the side hill, had been captured, but made his escape. He

had died shortly alter reaching our lines, and my other brother had died

at Nashville hospital. So out of three brothers I was the only one

likely to get home.

Every time that we wanted to go outside of our camp we had to go to the

rebel Colonel and get a pass. One morning I went up to headquarters to

get a pass. I wanted to go down to Vicksburg, but could not find a rebel

officer in camp. It was the day that Abraham Lincoln was assassinated.

Our officers had let the rebel officers know it the moment they had

received the news of the assassination. The rebel officers had made a

general stampede during the night. They were afraid that when the

prisoners of war heard of it they would want to retaliate. I do think

that the rebel officers were wise in getting out of camp.

When the news came that Abraham Lincoln was killed there was silence in

the camp. Every man you met looked as though he had lost all the

friends he ever had. It was days before the men acted like themselves

again.

We finally received orders to embark for St. Louis, and at the same time

received news that the rebel armies were surrendering on all sides; so

we were sure that the war was over. We marched down to Vicksburg to take

a steamer for St. Louis. When we got on the levee we found only one boat

ready to leave. Our officers then divided us up and put three thousand

of us on board the "Henry Ames," and the balance had to wait for another

boat. It was my luck to get on the first boat. I never will forget how

happy I did feel when the big wheels began to revolve, and she made out

into the broad Mississippi. I was on my way home, sweet home, where I

would have a good bed, and sit up to the table and eat with my family

once more. Oh, happy thought! It seemed to me as if the boat only crept

along; I wanted to fly; I was sick of war and rumors of war; I did not

want any more of it in mine. It was all the officers of the boat could

do to keep their prisoners in subjection. They were running from one

side of the boat to the other for every trifling thing they saw on the

banks of the river. They were free men once more, and were going home;

no wonder they were wild.

We finally got to St. Louis. We were then marched up to Benton

barracks. When we arrived there we heard that the other prisoners we had

left at Vicksburg had embarked on board the steamer "Sultant," and when

just off from Fort Pillow her boilers had exploded, and out of three

thousand and five hundred prisoners only three hundred were saved. How

hard it did seem for those poor men, after going through the hardships

of Andersonville, and almost in sight of their homes, to have to die. I

knew that my folks did not know which boat I was on, so I hastened to

let them know.

We staid in Camp Benton about three weeks and got paid for rations that

we did not eat while prisoners of war, and three months' extra pay. My

pay altogether amounted to seventy-six dollars. They then sent us across

the Mississippi and we took the cars for Chicago. The citizens all

through Illinois heard of our coming and out of every door and window we

saw the welcome waves of handkerchiefs and flags; and they had tables

set in the open air with everything good you could think of to eat upon

them for the prisoners of war. We finally got to Chicago, and then there

was a grand scattering of the prisoners. They went in all directions to

their homes.

From Chicago I went to Belvidere. My father, mother, wife and little

ones live about four miles south of town. There were ten or twelve who

belonged in and around Belvidere, and when we got off the train there

was a large crowd of citizens there to meet us; and such a cheer as they

set up I shall never forget. There was a carriage waiting to take me out

home.

As I came in sight of the old farm house the feelings that came over me

I shall never forget. The carriage stopped; I got out and stepped to the

gate; my old mother stood in the door; we gave one another a look and I

was in her arms. "Oh, this is my son, who was lost and is found; who was

dead and is alive again." And surely, if ever the fatted calf was killed

it was killed for me. Then, oh, how good it did seem to have my wife and

little ones around me once more; and sit up to the table and eat like a

Christian.

Now, my kind readers, I will bid you good-bye, and some time in the near

future I will give you the remainder of my recollections of the war.

THE END.