FRESH FISH--ARRIVAL OF COL. MILLER--DEATH OF LIEUT. WOOD, 82ND
INDIANA--MORE FRESH FISH.
Upon the arrival of new prisoners at the gate of the stockade, there would
be a cry raised throughout the camp, commencing near the entrance, and
spreading rapidly to the farthest extremity of the enclosure, of "fresh
fish! fresh fish!!" It was like the alarm of fire in a city, and quickly
collected a crowd, and as the numbers increased, the din became more
deafening, and to the new comer who did not know what it meant, perfectly
appalling.
I have seen prisoners come in who looked perfectly bewildered as they
gazed upon the mob of ragged, shoeless, hatless, unshaven, long-haired,
howling beings who confronted them, looking more like escaped lunatics
than officers; when some one back in the crowd would sing out, give the
gentleman air, don't take his haversack, keep your hands out of his
pocket, don't put that louse on him, why don't some of you fellows take
the gentleman's baggage, and show him to his room, Johnny show the
gentleman up to No. 13. I remember especially, the look of perfect
bewilderment on the face of Col. Frank C. Miller, of the 147th New
York, as he stood at the entrance of the enclosure, and the look of joyful
relief as I called out, hello Frank, come over here, and he recognized an
old and intimate friend. And he told me afterwards, that he never in his
life was so pleased to see any one as he was to see me just at that
moment, for, said he, I thought they were putting me into a lunatic
asylum.
[Illustration: FRESH FISH.]
A stinging rebuke was given by, I think it was Gen. Schaler, who said to
his escort, loud enough to be heard by all: "I thought I was going to be
put in an officer's prison." This practice was mostly confined to the old
Libby prisoners, who had, some of them, been confined for more than a
year, and had, in a measure, become demoralized; for I do not believe
there can be anything more demoralizing than the sufferings, privations,
and hardships endured by our prisoners; and I wish to say right here, that
to Chaplain Dixon, of the 16th Connecticut, and Chaplain White of the 5th
R. I. Heavy Artillery, the officers owe a debt of gratitude for the
faithfulness with which they performed their christian duties. They were
both earnest christian workers, zealous in the cause of the Master,
anxious for the eternal welfare of the souls of those who were placed in
their keeping, and fearless in the discharge of the duties devolving upon
them as embassadors for Christ. While all did not profit by their earnest
exhortations, there were few who were not benefitted by their presence and
faithful counsels, and all held them in high respect and admiration for
their christian qualities. Speaking of Col. Miller's entrance into Macon,
as soon as the crowd saw that he had found an old friend, they gave way
and I escorted him to our quarters, where I went to work, and soon had the
satisfaction of seeing him happy in the enjoyment of a good breakfast. I
cooked a couple of eggs, with a small piece of bacon, and fried a few
sliced potatoes, which, with a biscuit, made what we called an elegant
meal. The Colonel was busy talking and eating when, looking up, he said,
as he helped himself to the last egg and biscuit, "By George, Lon, they
give you good rations here, don't they?"
"Good rations!" said I, "good rations! why, Frank how much do you think
this breakfast cost?"
"Why, I don't know, I supposed you drew this for rations."
"Well," said I, "this meal cost just about eleven dollars. All the rations
you draw for two days, wouldn't make such a meal as this."
Colonel Miller, who had been a near neighbor and associate of mine long
before the war broke out, received a severe wound in the chest by a minnie
ball, at the Battle of the Wilderness, and was reported dead and was
mourned as such by his family for a long time, but was rescued from the
flames that broke out, after the battle, and taken a prisoner to
Salisbury, and placed in the hospital there, whence he was removed when
convalescent, to Macon. He soon found the Adjutant of his regiment,
Lieutenant H. H. Lyman, who gave him a place in his quarters, and they
afterwards remained together.
On the 23d of May, Lieutenant Wood, 82nd Indiana, died in the hospital,
just outside the stockade, and was buried the next day at 1.30 p. m.
Chaplain White being allowed to hold the funeral service, a number of us
offered to give our parole to attend the funeral, but our request was
denied. On the same day one hundred and eleven _fresh fish_ were brought
in, among whom were Brigadier Generals Seymour and Schaler. That night
about ten o'clock a tremendous storm came up, which drowned out all who
had not built themselves sheds, and the main building, where were
quartered the general officers, etc., was crowded with those driven from
their quarters by the drenching rain. This main building as it was called,
was a large hall, that had been built for the display of goods during the
fair, which had heretofore been held on these grounds, and was the only
building in the stockade that was clapboarded and shingled, and with the
exception of an old tumble down affair on the opposite side, east, was the
only building in the enclosure when we took possession.
Having built myself a shelter on the first day I entered the stockade, I
was all right; but those who had burrowed for shelter were driven out like
rats from a flooded cellar, and were obliged to seek shelter in the large
hall from the pitiless storm. There was not room for all, and those who
could not crowd in there had to rough it out as best they could. On the
25th of May, I first met Adjutant H. H. Lyman, of the 147th New York, from
whom I learned that Col. Miller was wounded and a prisoner.
About this time, they brought us in lumber, pine poles and nails, to build
ourselves some sheds, and all went to work on the construction. I belonged
to No. 9 squad, and on the 27th of May, our lumber and other materials
were furnished, and we all went to work, and by night had our shed so
nearly completed that we moved in, though it took us several days to get
our bunks finished and everything comfortably arranged. It was amusing to
see a squad of ninety men go to work to erect one of these sheds.
Out of the ninety, about thirty would do the work, and the rest would
stand around and make suggestions. Among so many who should be equally
interested, it was astonishing how many bosses there would be, who could
tell how it ought to be done, but seemed indisposed to do it. Nothing was
done to suit these Superintendents, but when their grumblings became too
loud and boisterous, some one who was tugging away at the big end of one
of these fifty feet pine poles, would rest it on his knees long enough to
shout "Louder, old pudden head." This was a favorite epithet, used to
quiet any one in camp who got too excited or eloquent on any subject, and
I remember one Tennessee officer, Captain Hayes, who so objected to it
that he was ready to fight any one who called him "old pudden head"--and I
have seen him furiously searching for the man who had yelled this, while
he was loudly proclaiming his sentiments on some subject, but it only
caused him to be annoyed the more, for when it was seen how sensitive he
was on this point, there were plenty to be found to thus pester him, while
they dexterously avoided the blows, aimed at their heads with a stick he
hurled after them. He was a large, powerful man, with a voice that could
be heard from one end of the camp to the other, very excitable when
talking, and could never understand a joke, but took everything in
earnest, and nothing afforded the boys more pleasure than to get him
boiling mad.