First Visit to Annapolis.—Stories of Starved Men.—Burial
at Andersonville.—Neely’s Life in the Dungeon of Castle
Thunder.—Sergeant Kerker.—Captains Wilson and Shelton in the “Iron
Cage,” in Buncombe County, Tenn.—The Boy and the Flag.—Gould’s
returning Consciousness.—Mr. Brown in Danville Prison.
In this closing period of the war, and of our labor in the
hospitals, comes the darkest, saddest page of all—too terrible to
be lightly spoken, and too painful in its remembrances to be dwelt
upon any longer than is needful for the connected continuance of
the narrative. The inhuman, fiendish treatment of our soldiers in
Southern prisons has now become a matter of history, the truthfulness
of which cannot be doubted. Would that it could be!
By the bedsides of dying skeletons, as they shudderingly recalled
their prison life, I have written their sad stories, which often
ended with: “We can never tell the half of all we have endured; it
would not be credited, if we did.” All of horrors that I had seen and
known during these memorable years, faded into insignificance when
contrasted with this heinous crime—a systematic course of starvation
to brave men made captives by the chances of war! Our first visit
to Annapolis was with the object of seeing and knowing more of them;
that by a recital of their condition, I might interest still more
those who were devoting themselves to the preparation of hospital
comforts. The little we saw of the starved men, at that time,
enlisted all my sympathies. In one of the wards of the hospital at
Camp Parole, a man belonging to the 5th Indiana Cavalry was reclining
in a large rocking-chair near the stove; his features sharpened by
suffering, the eyes sunken, skin tightly drawn over the lips, as
though they could never smile again; the whole face had an unearthly,
smoke-dried parchment look. Upon asking him where he was from, he
answered plainly: “Anderson; that cruel treatment, no shelter, with
want of food and water, had brought him to this condition.” His age
was _almost_ eighteen; I should have said at least _forty_. There was
no appearance of flesh upon the attenuated hands and arms; he died
within an hour, before we left the building. Near him lay two others,
who seemed pleased to relate their stories and have any one listen
to them. All had been so long unused to kindness, that a pleasant
word or the _least_ attention surprised them. They also had been at
Andersonville, Florence, and other prisons; but the first named was
worse than all. Their statements as to kind of food, want of shelter,
etc. were afterward confirmed by hundreds of others. They gave their
corps, regiment, when captured, etc., stating that of the large
number who entered with them, but few left it alive.
Their mode of burial was this: every morning a wagon was driven
through the camp, to pick up those who had died during the night;
the poor, emaciated bodies were caught up by an arm and foot, and
_pitched_ into the wagon as a stick of cord-wood would be thrown;
this was continued until no more could be piled in, then taken to the
shallow trenches which were to receive them; they were packed in,
lying upon the side, the head of one over the shoulder of the man in
front of him; a slight covering of earth concealed the victims from
sight, relieving them of that much care by lessening the number in
their vile prisons—but adding another to the list of martyrs from
the North. They crept, at night, in holes burrowed in the ground;
those too feeble to prepare such shelter, crowded together in _rows_
for warmth; during the winter, the _outside sleepers_ were almost
invariably found stiff and cold, in the morning light.
The appearance of those with whom I had been conversing reminded me
of the skeletons I had seen washed out, upon Antietam, Gettysburg,
and other battle-fields, only _they_ had ceased from suffering,
and were at rest; _these_ were still living, breathing, helpless,
_starved_ men.
On board a vessel, which had just unloaded its miserable passengers,
came a young boy, who was carried on shore; when bathed, and made
comfortable with clean clothing, taken into one of the tents at
Naval School Hospital. As he was laid upon his nice, clean mattress,
he called to his comrades in suffering: “Boys, I’m ready to _die_,
now that I’ve heard the music, and have seen the old flag.” Some
one answered: “Surely you don’t want to _die_, now that we are
home again?” The boy replied: “I prayed so earnestly that I might
live only long enough to die upon our own soil; and now, though I
should like to see my own home, I am perfectly happy, and ready to
go; I know I can’t live.” He continued to talk cheerfully of death,
repeating every few minutes: “I’ve heard the music, and I’ve seen the
old flag.” In three hours the feeble spark of life was gone; and he
was, the next morning, carried to the cemetery—with _sixty-five_ of
his companions! the most saddening funeral procession that perhaps
was ever formed. _Sixty-five_ starved men, who lingered long enough
to die upon our own soil, and under the “dear old flag!”
“In treason’s prison-hold,
Their martyr-spirits grew
To stature like the saints of old,
While, amid agonies untold,
They _starved_ for _me_ and _you_!”
In one arrival of four hundred and sixty, only sixty were able to
walk ashore; the four hundred were carried; half of these died within
a few days; one-third of the whole number imbecile. They appeared
like a wretched bundle of bones, covered with a few filthy rags. Of
those who were able to totter about, the greatest care was requisite;
they would search eagerly for bones, crusts, crumbs, or anything that
was or _had been_ eatable; some discovered the slop-barrels, and took
out of them the savory morsels of bones or vegetables. There were
instances where a sick man was feebly raising the bread to his lips,
when a stronger one would snatch it from his fingers. The same look
of hopeless sadness is on every face, without a smile—smoke-dried
skeletons.
Their statements, though coming from different prisons, all agree
in this one fact: they were starved, without shelter, and wearing
only the scantiest clothing—the rags which remained from the time
they were captured;—when their coats, blankets, and valuables were
all taken from them. Many, after conversing about it, will say: “You
never could imagine such horrors.” In one room, I singled out the
two most skeleton like, and asked the least emaciated one: “What
prison did you come from?” He looked at me with a vacant stare, and
answered: “Prison? ah—yes, I’m Anderson!” I gave him up, and his
friend replied: “He thought they had been shown through _all_ the
prisons, though last from Anderson.” Another, that I asked the same
question, replied: “He was from Florence; had been at Charleston
once; didn’t know how long since; they were all bad alike.”
In another ward were five, all very low: two of the most fearfully
emaciated men that we had yet seen; one from Iowa, the other from
Michigan; they were too feeble to speak; we could only take the
nurse’s account, which varied but little from the others; both died
during the night.
In the next room was —— Andrews, from Ohio; at the commencement of
the war, he was about finishing his college course—and wrote to his
parents that “he _must_ go, it was his duty to do so; that his life
was no more precious than others which must be given.” His mother,
repeating to me what I have just written, said: He was an only son,
it was agony to think of parting with him; but they did not, could
not object, and he went. In the same town was his very dear friend,
also an only son; _his_ parents would not consent to his going, and
during that year he died at college. Now, her son had been spared
through many battles and hardships, and through the sufferings of
prison life; he was ill, when exchanged; had at one time escaped; but
chased by dogs to the swamps, was concealed in them until he became
so exhausted for food, that when he came out in search of it, was
unable to run from his pursuers, and taken back to prison; where
his only shelter was a narrow alley between two buildings, until a
rebel, with some kindness of heart, picked him up and laid him upon
a scrap of blanket, from which a dead man had just been carried out.
At length, some Sanitary Commission blankets were given them—one for
five men; as their companions died, they crept closer together; and
at the time of leaving, he had half of one. When he arrived, he was
among the bad cases; his mother heard he was in Annapolis, and came
directly on; to her devoted care he owes his life; she never left
him day or night, but gave him, by the spoonful, nourishing food
and drink as ordered by his surgeon; at length, to her great joy,
was pronounced some change for the better. When we saw him, he was
sitting up for the first time: had he been anything but a “returned
prisoner,” we would have said such an emaciated man could _not_
live. His mother was sitting by him, bathing his skeleton-looking
hands; and calling our attention to the shrunken arms, said they were
looking so much better, that she was perfectly happy in the thought
of soon taking him home.
In the same building is a man whose mind seems quite gone: he is
always looking for his mother; unconscious as he is, they cannot tell
where to write, or whether she is living. As I entered the door, he
sprang up in an excited manner, calling out; “Yes, yes, there is my
mother!” With a few soothing words, he was soon quieted; but when
the nurse attempted to give him medicine, threw it from him, saying:
“They are always trying to poison us in prison.”
On the second floor was —— Arnold, from Milesburg, Centre County,
Penna.; his feet were frozen, and he was so starved that but little
hope was entertained of his recovery. His mother was with him, doing
all in her power for him.
A boy who had been very low, but then seemed rallying, was requested
by the surgeon to show his emaciated arms; unfastening his collar, he
said: “This is the color I was all over, when we landed; but it is
_not_ dirt, lady; I’m clean now.” The bony framework of the chest was
plainly visible, giving painful evidence of what he had endured.
In the officers’ ward was a young man from the 121st New York, who
looked feeble and emaciated, with but little hope of life; he had
just picked out a tooth; thought all were loose. Another, with a
fractured thigh when captured, but who now seemed apparently doing
well, had been without _any_ care while in rebel hands; they never
did anything for him. As a general rule, the officers fared better
than the men; but there were also many sad cases among them.
The food given to the men in those hospitals was the _very best_,
and most nourishing that could be prepared. As one of their surgeons
remarked: “Medical skill was often at a loss; their books never
taught them how _starved_ men should be treated.” They relied almost
entirely upon good food for their cure.
Upon our return home, the work for the hospitals was resumed; with
this added incentive, to urge upon those we met untiring efforts in
behalf of our returned starved prisoners. There were but few families
who had not some friend or relative among them, whose stories of
patient endurance of suffering touched all hearts. While help was
needed for them, there seemed no limit to the generous offerings
of the people. Through the Sanitary Commission, an immense supply
was forwarded for their use, beside what was sent through other
sources. There was too much to be done at Annapolis, for the returned
prisoners, to remain contentedly telling others what _they_ could do;
so that in a very short time we returned,—accompanied by a friend,
Mrs. S., of Boston, who had with her a valuable contribution of
articles from persons there; she remained a few weeks,—our stay was
until July.
Directly after our return to Annapolis, while waiting in the Sanitary
Commission Rooms, a train of ambulances, containing nineteen bodies,
passed, the first and last of the number covered with the flag; we
followed the procession to the cemetery, and saw them laid side by
side in their quiet resting-place—Chaplain Sloan officiating. Upon
the head-boards of all the prisoners should be inscribed “starved to
death!” that in future years Southern “chivalry” might read and know
the fact.
In one of the wards of St. John’s Hospital was Mr. Kerker, of Ohio,
watching by the bedside of his only child—the last of six; an elder
son had been captured a year previous, and afterward murdered by the
rebels. This one was a sergeant of the 2d Virginia Cavalry: with
three others, had volunteered to go upon a dangerous expedition for
the purpose of carrying a dispatch to headquarters for Merril’s
Division; seeing troops in the distance, and not knowing who they
were, gave his saber, etc. to the men, telling them if he was not
back in two hours, to return and report his fate, but he would go on
alone. Moving cautiously, hiding in the bushes and grass, he was at
length seen by their pickets,—surrounded and captured,—but tore his
dispatch into small pieces; the rebels picked it up, and fitting it
all together, read that the general must take the north road with his
force, and troops would be sent to meet him. Missing the dispatch,—as
intended,—he took the south road, as had previously been decided;
the rebels were deceived, and the division saved. It was a ruse—to
sacrifice one man, and save numbers. The poor fellow lived through
his imprisonment, reaching Annapolis an emaciated skeleton. His
father heard of his arrival, and came immediately to wait upon him:
he watched him with the most anxious, tender care,—hoping each day to
see him better, that he might take him where he was so impatient to
be—home; but all in vain: we saw how the wasted frame daily became
weaker, and at length there came suddenly to both father and son the
utter hopelessness of anticipating any change but that which death
must bring. From that time, cheerfully and pleasantly, as though
preparing for a delightful journey, his last arrangements were made,
looking forward to that home “not made with hands, eternal in the
heavens.” As his father remarked: “He had always been a good boy,
attentive at church and other religious duties.” The first letter
which he wished to dictate was to his former pastor, thanking him
for all his care and kindness during his early life, and telling
him how happy he was, now that earthly scenes were so nearly over,
etc. There were parting messages to dear friends at home; and all
the time, loving words of thanks, and pleasure, that his _father_
could be with him. With the most earnest, childlike faith and trust
in our Saviour’s promises, his face ever wore a bright look when
telling that “he was going home to God.” A lady who had manifested
much interest in him, he asked to “be his mother while he lived, and
watch over him.” Most faithfully did she fulfill the request. As
we entered his tent in the morning, he would greet us with a smile,
and say: “Still here, waiting.” It was one of the most beautifully
touching death-beds that I have known in the hospitals. Early in the
morning of the 20th of April, 1865, death came gently to the boy who
had so longed for him, and the freed spirit was at rest. The wasted
body was taken by the sorrowing father to their home in Ohio: another
martyr added to the fearful list, whose reckoning God alone can
balance.
In the officers’ ward, at Naval School, was Capt. Washburn, of
Boston; he was ill when he came from prison. His father, who had five
sons out of six in the service,—all who were old enough to go,—was
waiting upon him.
In the late arrival was a young officer, emaciated and ill. His
brother had been with him during all his imprisonment: and when the
order came for their exchange, both were permitted to leave, if they
could reach the station, three miles distant; _this_ one started,
carrying his skeleton brother upon his back for two miles, when his
strength entirely failed, and he sank, overcome by the exertion, upon
the ground; after resting some time, started again with his burden;
but the effort was in vain—his wearied frame could go no farther: and
as he laid him down, the brother clasped his arms around his neck,
and died! There, by the dusty roadside, the brave young officer’s
grave was made.
In the chapel were a number of very bad-looking skeletons; several
with frozen feet.
A few days since an old gentleman came, inquiring for his son: he had
died two hours before his arrival—the last of seven! Four starved
to death in rebel prisons: all were in the service. Well might he
exclaim: “Behold, and see, if there be any sorrow like unto my
sorrow!”
Steward Newman, of Company D, 5th Michigan Cavalry,—whose statements
are confirmed by Lieut. Hayes, from near Lock Haven, Penna., ——
Miller, of Boston, and other comrades,—says: while in prison at
Andersonville, he has frequently seen our soldiers tied to the
whipping-post by the thumbs, their toes just touching the ground,
the helpless sufferers so thin and weak that their bodies swayed in
the wind like a moving pendulum; the crime, asking for food!—unable
to eat what, at home, their cattle and horses would refuse, and even
chickens could not live upon. At thanksgiving, they were kept _eighty
hours_ without any food, because they refused to tell where the
tunnel was which they were digging. At length it was completed, and
all their arrangements made for escaping, when one of their number,
tempted with tobacco, revealed their plans: one thousand were to have
left that very night. The tunnel was so wide that two could go out
abreast. They caught the scamp who told: with india-ink, put a large
letter T, for traitor, upon his forehead and nose, shaved half his
head, and turned him off. Their coffee was made of the burnt crusts
of their miserably baked corn-cob bread. At long intervals a little
rice would be given them, which they browned and made of it what they
thought good coffee, eating the roasted grains afterward. Another
drink was made by putting corn-cob meal in a bucket, and standing
it for three days in the sun to ferment, adding to it molasses and
sassafras—which the negroes would procure for them. A man fortunate
enough to have sufficient money for the purchase of a barrel and
the needful corn-meal and molasses, would soon improvise a sutler’s
establishment by stretching over poles the ragged remains of an old
blanket: and there, with this attempt at shelter from the sun, would
call to the ragged crowd, as they passed along:
“Here’s your good, nice beer, five cents a glass!
Good, cool, and tart! walk up and try;
If you don’t like, you needn’t buy!”
When the prisoners were moved from Andersonville to Florence, they
left behind them all their cooking utensils, as they were told
they were to be exchanged, not sent to prison; but finding they
had been deceived, asked permission of a rebel, Major Brown (it is
humiliating to add that he was formerly from Pennsylvania), to
use the tin-roofing of the cars which stood near; he consented,
and they took off the entire roof of one. The only tools they had
were a cold-chisel, a railroad spike, and an old table-knife; in a
marvelously short time, cooking pans, cups, and buckets were cut out
and hammered together; and when the variety was shown to the rebel
major, he remarked: “They might turn a Yank into the woods with
nothing, and he would soon have all he needed.” Buckets, plates,
and spoons were made of wood. For the buckets, they split staves of
wood, the negroes furnishing poles for hoops and handles. As far as
ingenuity could go, they made the best they could of their wretched
surroundings. The men were divided by thousands, then hundreds,
for convenience in distributing rations: while at Florence, Newman
entered his name three times in one thousand,—giving, of course, two
feigned names,—that he might draw sufficient food to sustain life;
fortunately, he was not found out; if he had been, the penalty of one
hundred lashes, in his enfeebled health, would have killed him.
Staunton, Pete Obrey, and Hoover were the men of infamous notoriety,
who did more lashing of our soldiers at Andersonville than any
others. Staunton was chief of police: the few picks and spades within
the stockade were under his control; Newman asked permission to use
one, to repair his sleeping-pit; instead of a reply, was felled with
it to the earth; when consciousness returned, he dare not complain;
suffering with the blow, and ill as he was, could only crawl away to
his ditch, thankful to escape with life. The two first named were
at Annapolis while we were there; their lives had been so often
threatened, if found outside the hospital, that they were glad to
keep within its walls for safety. Pete disappeared one night, no one
knew where. These men all wore the Federal uniform: while doing so,
possessed the entire confidence of the rebels in command—proving
that, though wearing the “army blue,” they were rebels in disguise.
A Massachusetts sergeant said when his regiment entered Anderson, one
hundred and thirty-five men answered roll-call; after a captivity of
eight months, nineteen only could be found. An Illinois man remarked
that twenty of his company were taken prisoners with him; at the end
of five months, five were living. A little Massachusetts fellow,
wounded in the leg when captured, cut crutches from the woods, and by
their aid marched, for sixty miles, with his comrades. He was afraid
the rebels would do as they threatened, leave him to starve to death
if he did not keep up with the party. When they reached prison, he
was sent to the hospital. The ball is still in.
A fresh arrival of prisoners to-day, 27th of March; the most of them
can walk; if these were the first we had seen, we would think them
all bad. Among them was a young German who had lain for three days
beside his dead comrade, that he might draw his rations; representing
all the time that he was too ill to get up for them; and keeping him
covered with their rags, when the “dead-cart” passed along. Many are
suffering with frozen feet: some have lost all their toes, others
only on one foot.
On the 28th, assisted in the distribution of Sanitary Commission
articles—needles, thread, comb, paper, envelopes, and towel—to
fourteen hundred of the late arrivals: these are presumed to be well
men, at least they are well enough to keep out of the hospital for
a time. They march up in line for their dinner, which consists of
good soup, boiled cabbage, and half a loaf of bread, given to them
from an open window; in the same order, they march on to the next
building, where they receive the articles named. Their remarks, as
they pass along, are amusing; many “thank you’s” were said heartily;
they all looked, and I have no doubt were, pleased. “Boys, wouldn’t
we like the rebs to see this,” “the folks _do_ care for us at home,”
etc., showed how gratifying it was to them to be thus remembered. In
about two hours the fourteen hundred were all supplied, and the crowd
scattered.
A Maryland infantry boy, belonging to the ninth corps, was a prisoner
eight months; had had a furlough, and was now back ready for duty;
had “asked to be sent front,” saying, “the rebels had boarded him
eight months, and he was anxious to go back and settle his bill of
fare!”
April 29th. A boat, with three hundred, just arrived: the drum calls
the “stretcher-bearers” to fall in line; and all who can, rush to
the landing. Following the crowd, we come to the wharf just in time
to see the unsteady column begin to move. On board the vessel the
hospital band is playing cheerful strains of welcome, and they come
ashore to the music of familiar tunes.
“Back to the North, where the air is free;
Back from the land of pain.”
Tottering and feeble, bronzed and smoke-blackened, tangled hair
and matted beards, some in rebel garb, many barefooted and
bareheaded, the majority clothed in shirt and drawers furnished by
the Sanitary Commission in Wilmington, a few fortunate possessors
of a blanket,—such is the walking party. It was more than some of
them could do to walk, so they gave it up, and, as the line of
“stretcher-bearers” followed in their wake, were added to the number.
Sorry plight for three hundred brave men to come from Southern care!
Martyrs for the nation, patient and uncomplaining, they do not blame
the government—they censure no one!
In all the precious lives lost to friends and home, and the wrecks of
noble soldiers yet remaining, is not the hand of God seen? The costly
offering was asked for, and given, that the nation might be saved,
and that distant lands might learn to what refinements of cruelty
SLAVERY had educated a people!
Among them one was noticed straining his eyes toward the shore, and,
as they neared the wharf, was one of the first to press forward to
leave the vessel; he walked along the plank, eagerly looking in
the distance; tottered with a few feeble steps upon our soil, and
then—fell dead! his wish gratified: he died at home.
Another load of two hundred: some skeletons among them who could not
be made to comprehend that they were in a land of plenty, and _would
be_ provided for; but clutched with a firm grasp the bones and scraps
which they had concealed; and when forced to drop them outside the
gate, did so with tears, repeating, “they had been in prison eighteen
months, and _knew_ what starvation was.”
Thomas G. Spikean, from New York, while at Florence was set to work
outside of their prison inclosure, building chimneys for the rebels;
finding food daily becoming more scarce, determined to escape, or
perish in the attempt. Thinking death preferable to slow starvation,
five men broke their parole and started with him: for ten days kept
together, until they were tracked by dogs, and obliged to secrete
themselves in the swamps; wading about in them until they became
chilled, at length reached a small island in safety; from there to
land; came to Orangeburg just as Sherman’s forces left it, and to
Columbia as they were taking up the last pontoon; crossed in a skiff,
and were then taken care of by the army.
There had been terrible suffering during all the winter months,
among our soldiers in prisons, for want of clothing, food, fire, and
shelter. Five sticks of wood were given to one hundred men once in
three days! _That_ amounted to none at all, for, as they have shown
me the size, it could _all_ be burned in an hour.
A man, who has been a prisoner since the battle of the Wilderness,
now lies entirely stiffened, helpless, and unable to move, from
exposure and sleeping upon the cold ground: he says, at one time
Sanitary Commission clothing was pretended to be distributed by the
rebels—_six_ pieces to _one thousand_ men! the rebel guard wore the
caps, clothing, and blankets, while our men died by scores for the
want of them.
Again assisting in distributing Sanitary Commission articles to
sixteen hundred and forty men: they had been in prison but a few
months; a small number among them, eighteen months; these had
been resting at Wilmington, where they were well fed and kindly
cared for, and now looked well and happy in their new blue. The
distributions, which are made at College Green Barracks, are a source
of pleasure to the recipients, while it is both gratifying and
amusing to those who act as donors.
A German named Neabal, 54th New York, eleventh corps, who was
captured at Gettysburg, July, 1863: stayed in that horrid Belle
Island eight months; from there to Andersonville, thence to Savannah,
where they had good rations; then taken to Macon and Charleston; for
three weeks they were kept moving, for fear Gen. Sherman would find
and release them; the corn which the cavalry horses dropped upon the
ground, when they were fed, was all they had to eat for several days;
he was paroled in Wilmington the last of February, and soon after
sent North.
April 4th. Three boats filled with prisoners arrived: some
shocking-looking cases among them; as soon as they were bathed,
dressed, and made comfortable in good beds, you could hardly
recognize the squalid-looking crowd we had so lately seen. As soon
as possible, passed through the wards, taking names, and notes of
messages to write to friends at home—that is always the _first_
request; wrote, and mailed for them that evening, twenty-two letters.
In the morning, was pained to learn the number that died during the
night. Mrs. Hulster, of Ohio, found her nephew in this arrival: he
had been reported dead by his comrades, and so they all believed at
home. The toes of one foot were entirely gone, part of the other
badly frozen; he is ill with the terrible fever brought here by the
prisoners.
The one great, exciting event is the fall of Richmond, so long
expected, and now occurring so quietly that these poor fellows think
it cannot be; as we move among them, they constantly ask: “_Is_ it
true? God grant it may be!” The salute of one hundred guns, which
was soon afterward fired, confirmed their belief that it was so. The
Naval School band played patriotic airs in the cupola of the State
House, Governor Bradford made a speech to the excited crowd, flags
were floating, and the Union people here, as everywhere, jubilant
over the good news.
To-day, met Captains Wilson and Shelton, of the 57th Ohio Vols., who
have been in the service four years, and intend to remain while there
is a rebel in arms against the government; they were captured at
Atlanta, 20th of July, 1864; sent from there to Macon, thence through
nearly all the prisons in the Confederacy. As soon as taken, were
asked for all valuables—watches, rings, money, and clothing,—_last
of all_, their honorable captors took their arms. On the 10th of
November, escaped from Columbia; finding great difficulty in eluding
the pickets, they secreted themselves in the mountains, and built a
hut for shelter; while there, they were kindly provided with food by
the Union people and colored population; many very poor were anxious
to give up their small amount of provisions for Union officers
and soldiers; at night, some of the loyal people of Transylvania
County, N. C., would come, driving a cow before them loaded with
whatever provisions they could collect. The rebels became so expert
following a trail, that they would track them as the Indians do: as
they would not suspect a _cow_, she was made to carry the burden,
and deceive them. By such acts of kindness they were kept in good
health until the 18th of January, when they were recaptured and taken
to Asheville, Buncombe County, Tenn., where, with six others, they
were put in an _iron cage_ used as a dungeon. It was eleven feet in
length, nine wide, and seven high; there was no bed, bench, stool,
or anything to sit or lie down upon; no blanket, or covering of any
kind, except the scanty clothing which had been left them; they were
not out of the dungeon once during the month: filth and vermin in it
beyond description; a stove stood outside their bars: if the wood
was not placed just in one spot, they could have no fire, no matter
how much might be there. Their miserable allowance of food consisted
of the black corn-cob bread, varied at long intervals with rough
pieces of boiled pork, which was carried to them in a bucket, and
served out by a rebel, who had the itch, dipping his hand into the
bucket and tossing them whatever the fingers brought up! At first
they turned away with loathing, unable to catch the dainty morsels;
but continued starvation brought them to eat it without a word. While
in the cage, a lieutenant in our army, Wm. Johnson, a resident of
Haywood County, N. C., was placed there for a few hours; no clothing
left him but drawers; he was told he was a traitor, and a doomed man;
listened to it all with folded arms; and soon afterward was taken out
to a field near by, and deliberately shot by a rebel sergeant named
Bright; earth was thrown thinly over the young martyr’s remains; and
when their food came in the morning, the man brought the tidings that
the body had been nearly devoured in the night. After remaining there
one month, they were taken to Morganton and put in a similar cage for
a few days; from there sent to be exchanged. Capt. Wilson said he
had, at one time, a tender, sympathizing heart, even for _rebels_ in
suffering; but that was all gone now, and in its place something as
hard as their own cob bread.
Again occupied in the pleasant duty of distributing Sanitary
Commission articles, at the Barracks, to seventeen hundred and sixty
men: many have been prisoners but a little while. Among them are
some of Sherman’s veterans, and his noted “bummers,” who, smart as
they were, could not always escape from the rebels. Such work as
this is a most agreeable contrast to the wards, where we see nothing
but skeletons, and hear their sad tales of suffering so touchingly
related.
In this arrival were many wounded from the late battles and
skirmishes; their blankets and coats were taken from them: at night,
without any shelter, they suffered from exposure. From Danville to
Richmond, one hundred and forty miles, they were crowded on top of
box-cars: the rebel lieutenant in charge telling the guard to “push
them with his bayonet, crowd them up; he wished they were _all_
dead!” The poor wounded men had to hold on with both hands; many,
unable to do so, rolled off, and had broken bones added to the
suffering of their wounds; some died there from the effects of that
ride, and others who are here cannot live.
A young boy, after he was captured and robbed of his clothing, was
shot in the side by a man who rode up, and without one word, fired a
revolver, aiming at his heart; a quick movement saved his life, but
he lies helpless, and suffering with an ugly wound.
Many of the prisoners have been so long away from home and friends,
that they cannot understand why so much sympathy should be manifested
for _them_. Thomas Brown, Company I, 58th Massachusetts, who has
been for weeks the most patient sufferer, and now very near his end,
says he never saw anything like the kindness and attention shown to
the men in this hospital (St. John’s); that certainly the Lord put it
into the hearts of the people to do all this for them; he wished the
men in Southern prisons might know it.
Calder, of the 174th Ohio, is a Virginian, his wife and children
living on the Rapidan when last he heard from home. He had great
difficulty in eluding the conscript officers; at length crossed the
lines, and enlisted in Ohio; when captured by the rebels, was tried
for treason, and a rope tied round his wrists and ankles for three
months; was nine months in prison, then made his escape.
A boy was brought into “St. John’s” to-day, the son of a Presbyterian
clergyman near Baltimore: since the first battle in which he was
engaged, he has been frantic with terror; he knows very well that
he was a prisoner in Castle Thunder, but thinks he was put there
as a punishment for praying daily “that God would end the war,
give victory to our armies, and peace to the land.” His dread of
Southern prisons is painful to behold: when the flags which hang
upon the walls are pointed out, and he is asked “if _they_ look
like the rebels’?” conscious for the moment, he will reply, “oh,
no; _that_ looks like home;” but with a shudder he is again in the
dreaded prisons, and it is with difficulty he can then be calmed and
quieted. The surgeons think the rest and pleasures of home will, in
time, restore his mind; he will very soon be sent there.
In another ward is a case something similar to the Maryland boy,
though this man has endured longer imprisonment and greater
suffering. His name is Ephraim Gould, from Maine; his mind seemed
entirely gone; he was only conscious of his prison life: _that_ was
all fearfully distinct. To-day there seemed a gleam of returning
reason: and observing a lady near him, called his wife, and asked,
was she here, had she written, or was it all a dream? Fortunately,
his wife had been written to, and a letter received from her; some
money was handed to him, and told it was his own; he looked intently
at it for a moment, and then remarked: “Surely that is United States;
it don’t look like the rebel stuff!” Then recognizing a ten, a five,
and so on, gave their value correctly. Inquires as a little child
would do how he must get out of bed, must he ask if he wants to sit
up, and so on. It is the most complete awakening of an imbecile man
that I have yet seen. To the regret of all who knew him, this was but
a faint glimmer of reason, ere exhausted nature gave up the struggle.
Once more he was conscious for a short time; then sank into the
repose of death.
Among those whose minds were _not_ restored was “Fred,” supposed
to be a Swede: when asked his name and residence, would give the
first he thought of—rarely the same twice. At the breaking up of the
hospitals, “Fred” was sent to Baltimore: we saw him there in August,
1865; he seemed better; and wrote his name in a beautiful hand,
“Fred, Chicago.”
An intense love of the flag is observed in nearly all who are
received here. From the high flag-staff at the Naval School, the
vessels can distinguish the flag floating while yet some distance
out. A boy was lately carried from one of the boats who seemed wild
with excitement when he gazed upon it; and when laid upon his bed in
the hospital, asked that it might be placed where he could see it.
A small one was given to him: his greatest pleasure seemed to be to
lie under its folds; he held it in his hands, laid it upon his face,
nestled close to it in sleep, and would never have it out of his
sight. The poor emaciated child lingered a few days, forgetting his
sufferings and all the dark, weary months of hopeless imprisonment;
he was perfectly happy under its protection, and died with his flag
in his hands; was carried to his grave with it resting upon the
coffin lid.
Another boat load, of two hundred, just arrived: many of them in good
condition, having been sent from Wilmington to Fortress Monroe, where
they have been for three weeks; some skeletons in the number.
Met Mrs. Galbraith, of Ohio, looking for her son; she was lost and
bewildered in the crowd, and knew not where to go or what to do;
taking charge of her, he was soon found—the mother sobbing for joy
that her boy was alive. He was sitting up: now, with her care, can
soon bear the journey home.
In the last arrival, came Wm. Neely, Company B, 83d Pennsylvania
Vols., enlisted in Philadelphia. He was captured the 11th of October,
1863, and taken to Richmond, Va. After having made several desperate
efforts to escape with his comrades, on the 24th of December he was
put in the dark, condemned cell of Castle Thunder; an iron bar,
fifteen inches long, was _riveted_ upon his wrists and ankles; the
other end of the _same_ bar fastened in like manner to Capt. Avery,
of Kentucky. They were kept in that dungeon four months and six days;
the only clothing they were permitted to keep was pantaloons and
blouse; no covering of any kind allowed them; no chair, bench, or
bed; nothing to sit or lie down upon but the filthy floor. Sometimes
six men were kept in the same cell with them; at night, a light was
placed near the bars; during the day, total darkness. He concealed
in the roof of his mouth, for six weeks, a fine steel saw, such as
is used about gun-barrels: at the time they were sent away, had one
bar cut through, ready to make another effort to escape. The iron
bar upon his wrist cut into the bone, making an offensive wound;
the scar it made he carried to his grave. When taken out, they were
covered with filth and vermin, so enfeebled that they could with
difficulty stand alone, and looking like nothing human. The captain
was started for Tennessee to be tried for treason; but on the way
escaped, and reached his command at Knoxville in safety. Neely was
sent to Salisbury, from there to Columbia, thence to Macon, and
hurried back again to Columbia, dodging Sherman. He finally escaped,
by tunneling out under his prison walls, the Asylum in Columbia,
eight days before Gen. Sherman entered the town; a Union lady
concealed him, a lieutenant, and sergeant until they could rejoin our
forces; he came to Fayetteville with the second division hospital of
the fifteenth army corps; from there to Wilmington with the refugees,
where they were kindly fed and cared for until able to bear the
journey, when he was sent with others to Annapolis. He lingered two
months, and died in St. John’s Hospital. Continued efforts have been
made to find his family: this statement has been published in city
and country papers without avail: information of importance to _them_
is still in my possession.
Harris was one of the most revolting-looking skeletons that was
landed: when brought in, his head was without hair, except a little
tuft in front; his head and neck were eaten in great holes by
vermin—they had burrowed in ridges under the skin; mind and body were
alike weakened. He rallied for a few days: with good treatment and
kindness, it seemed as though his life might be saved; but all was of
no use: rebel cruelty had too surely done its work, and the victim
suddenly died without any apparent illness other than starvation.
The 15th of April, 1865, came the saddest news that ever startled the
American people: our beloved President Lincoln murdered! It seemed
incredible, and it was long before it could be realized. Where so
lately was rejoicing, all is now changed to mourning.
In one of the wards of “St. John’s” is a man who had been three
months a prisoner, and wounded. The flag always remained fastened to
his bed: this morning it was at half-mast, heavily draped with black.
Continuing our walk, found many others like it: the only token of
sorrow they could give.
In the Naval School Hospital is a man from New York Mounted Rifles
who has been a prisoner two years and three months, having tried all
their prisons in turn. His stories of the “dead line” are terrible,
yet agreeing accurately with all others I have heard speak of it.
A boy was with him, going to the stream near the “line” to procure
water that would be a _little_ purer than that farther down: as
he stooped to fill his cup, the guard tossed a piece of bread near
him—eagerly the hand was outstretched to grasp it, the fingers up to
the “line,” when, in an instant, his brains were scattered upon the
cup and bread he held! and the guard resumed his walk, well satisfied
that he had performed a commendable act.
A daily occurrence is the number of those who come searching for
friends: all they know is, they _were_ prisoners; and so hope to find
them, or hear tidings of them. Many, alas! have filled an unmarked
grave at “Andersonville,” “Florence,” or “Millen,” or perhaps may
have been among those who, unable to tell their names when landed,
died and were buried as “unknown!” and so added to—
“The brave hearts that never more shall beat,
The eyes that smile no more, the unreturning feet.”
An old gentleman from Ohio could not give his son up: but telling,
with tears, his affecting story, would ask help from every one he met
to find his boy. All the records were searched in vain for John H.
Ritchey, Company C, 122d Ohio Vols.
A mother came from New York to the Sanitary Home: after searching
all the records without success, she walked through all the
hospitals—gazing at every man, and inquiring if they knew her son;
at length a man said there was a book here with that name in it,
that the man died as they came to the wharf; as soon as she saw it,
exclaimed: “It was a Bible she had given him; her writing was in it!”
It was a great comfort to her to find out that much certainly.
Miller, belonging to a Massachusetts regiment, was so emaciated
when he arrived that, when his father came for him, it was thought
he could not reach Baltimore alive; by resting with him frequently,
reached home in safety. His weight then was sixty-five pounds, his
height six feet: after some weeks’ stay, returned, weighing one
hundred and twenty pounds. He walks very well with a cane, but cannot
stoop to the ground—as there are still large sores upon his back,
from lying on the ground through storms and sun.
Calling at the embalmer’s about the body of a man who had just died,
I found a gentleman from Connecticut waiting to have a coffin,
that had been disintered, opened. When the lid was thrown off, it
proved to be one of the most terribly starved ones. The face had
not changed: it was a ghastly green color, with mould upon it, as
he came from prison; the fair, light hair was brushed smoothly off
the forehead—for some reason it remained uncut, showing that it had
been matted and sunburnt. The father’s agony was most painful to
those who were present: taking up the skeleton hands, would exclaim:
“If he had fallen when with Sheridan, upon the battle-field, or by
illness, he could have borne it without a murmur; but _this!_—he
never thought his brave young boy would _starve_ to death!” repeating
over and again, “_starved, starved_ to death!” After the embalmer had
prepared the body, it was again robed in nice, clean clothing from
the Sanitary Commission; but the _face_ remained unchanged, when the
father took the wasted remains to his home.
Mr. Brown, a New York man, who enlisted in a Pittsburg regiment, is
one of the most suffering cases among the prisoners. Directly after
their capture, he was standing quietly with a group of others, when
a brutal rebel soldier struck him down with his musket; he was never
able to straighten himself afterward. He was taken to one of their
hospitals, where, without any care, the wound sloughed and became
offensive. When the men were taken from No. 4, Danville, he was left
in the room alone—as he says, to die; calling to a rebel nurse, he
implored him to carry him out with the others; but all in vain; at
length some one came in to hear what he was saying, when, with the
desperation of a drowning man, he clung with both arms round his
neck, telling him he would not let him go until he was taken to his
companions. In that way he was carried and laid upon the platform,
to wait for the cars: no blanket, or covering of any kind, to cover
his poor suffering body; his moans and cries from pain and the cold
were constant, until a rebel, more kind than his fellows, came to
him, saying “he had been in our prisons, and knew how well they
were treated; and would do all he could for him.” He succeeded in
procuring some whisky, which he gave him—that warmed and quieted him;
then finding a piece of blanket, wrapped him in it and laid him near
the fire. When the cars came, lifted him in, bidding him “good-by,”
with “Yank, you will soon be in your lines, while I go to the front
to bring over a crowd with me.” That was the last he saw of the man
who, at that time, saved his life. During all the time he lingered,
his sufferings were intense; his sister, Mrs. Clark, of Alleghany
City, waited upon him most devotedly until death released him from
all pain.
Two Georgia women, wives of prisoners, came on the boat with them,
and were brought to the “Sanitary Commission Home.” While the
prisoners were at Macon, these girls worked in a woolen mill near:
whenever they could do so unobserved, would take some of the cloth
and divide among them. The men assisted in some kind of work
outside their prison, and there the girls could take them food;
when released, they were married, and marched with them fifty-eight
miles—until they were put upon the cars, and sent on by boat. This is
the third party of the kind we have seen here.
The “Sanitary Commission Home” at this place, Annapolis, has been to
hundreds a place of shelter when the town was crowded to overflowing,
and a home at all times to those who were received beneath its
roof: here the relatives and friends of those in the hospitals were
provided for, meals and lodgings furnished gratuitously, and all made
comfortable. Mrs. Hope Sayers, the estimable matron who presided
so efficiently and pleasantly over the establishment, will ever be
kindly remembered by all who were its inmates.
May 13th. Eleven hundred and fifty men landed at the Barracks:
again employed distributing articles among them, which are always
received in the same pleasant manner. Those sent to the hospital are
very dark with smoke and sun, and skeleton-looking like those who
preceded them. They tell the same stories of their prison life, and
repeat what others have said—how they dug wells at Andersonville
fifty feet deep, their only tools the halves of a canteen and an old
table-knife. An arrival of rebel officers and privates with several
hundred “galvanized Yanks,”—an expressive term in army parlance,
meaning that these men, in their desperation for food, accepted the
tempting offers of the rebels,—but they were never trusted or kindly
treated by them—and despised by their old comrades.
Among the wounded is Sergeant Black, State color-bearer of the 67th
Pennsylvania Vols., who lost a leg while carrying the flag. He was
shot by a rebel not a yard from him: as he fell, they caught the
colors; it was but a moment ere his company had them back again, and
their rebel bars with it. The fight was through a swamp, which varied
in depth from four inches to as many feet.
May 29th. Another arrival of prisoners: among them are the _blackest
white_ men I have ever seen. These are nearly the last from the
South: they are suffering with scurvy and kindred ailments; exposed
for months to the sun and storms and the smoke of pitch-pine, they
are most thoroughly browned and tanned. Among them is a perfect
skeleton—a boy from Ohio: he enlisted in a Kentucky regiment; is now
sixteen, and has been in the service two years. Longing and praying
to see his mother, inquiring of every one how soon he will be sent
home—he died suddenly at the end of two days. There are twenty
others in the same arrival almost as bad as he is; the most of them
must die, as Ohio did.
The wife of one of these skeletons arrived directly after they
landed. She had heard, in her home in Western Pennsylvania, that he
was living, and was here. She came, dressed in the deep mourning she
had worn for him for two years: for so long was it since she had
heard of his death; but—
“Southern prisons will sometimes yawn,
And yield their dead into life again.”
There was a happy meeting: he recognized, and could converse with his
wife for a few hours—and then death came. The following morning a few
sympathizing strangers stood with her, in the little chapel, as the
last impressive service was performed; and then he was carried to
rest beside the thousands of his fellow-soldiers.
A browned and emaciated boy, who had endured a long imprisonment,
said the earth he burrowed out was his only shelter until he planted
a few grains of corn: with great watching and care, it grew to screen
him slightly from the sun, and remind him of _fields_ of it at home.
A man from the 15th Massachusetts, whose name I neglected to take,
was captured at the battle of the Wilderness eight days after
re-enlisting. He had with him a blackened, soiled Bible: the binding
and paper had once been handsome, but now, from exposure to storms,
like its owner, looked badly; he said the rebels often tried to
get it, but he managed to secrete it: it was his best friend, and
very precious to him; he hoped to take it with him to his home in
Massachusetts.
Upon giving to one of them some trifling articles, he thanked me
very cordially, and said: “You must not think us a set of children,
because such little things make us so happy; but remember we have had
_no_ kindness shown us for fifteen months, and these things tell us
we are home again among friends.” And thus they talk by the hour.
Two brothers were lying side by side: one had lost half his foot
and was in the hospital, while his brother was in the stockade at
Andersonville. The one in the hospital had concealed some money,
which he divided with his brother as soon as he could get out to him;
thus enabling both to purchase food, and probably saved their lives.
Near them was a wounded Indian, and a Maine man six feet four inches
tall—now so emaciated that he does not weigh one hundred pounds: in
health, weighs over two hundred.
June 6th, came the last arrival of bad cases: among them Philip
Hattel, Company I, 51st Pennsylvania Vols., from near Barren Hill,
Montgomery County; he was captured at the battle of the Wilderness;
from prison, sent to Fortress Monroe; from there to this place. He
lingered three weeks, and died, as thousands of his comrades had,
from cruel starvation.
It seems strange that one of the earliest captured should be returned
among the very last. The name I have lost, but the facts are as I
wrote them when the man related the story to me: After the first
Bull Run fight, a number of men were making their escape to a place
of safety, when some negroes offered to pilot them beyond the
rebels; but they were soon surrounded, and the whole party taken to
Richmond, where they were tried for abducting slaves, and sentenced
to imprisonment during the war. They were kept in Richmond two years:
then moved in regular rotation through all the prisons, and sent
North with the very last. What became of their colored friends, they
never knew. It was very mortifying to the soldier to think he had
been a prisoner during the entire war: and fearful that his friends
would not receive him, he determined to take the name of one who had
died in prison; his comrades had great difficulty in dissuading him
from doing so.
An old gentleman, from Columbia, Penna., came inquiring for “St.
John’s Hospital.” Two days previous he had received a letter from his
son, whom they had long mourned as dead; and now, overjoyed to know
that he was alive, he could hardly wait to be directed to the place.
The boy came in the last arrival, is convalescent, and will return
with him.
The 1st of July found the hospitals vacated, and a few months later
restored to their former uses. The war ended, peace ensured, men
mustered out of service, our work completed, there came for the
first time in all these long, eventful years, to overtasked mind and
wearied body, the perfect _rest of home_!
This glimpse of hospital work can give but an imperfect sketch of
a portion of that mighty host “who have filled history with their
deeds, and the earth with their renown.”
THE END.
Transcriber’s Notes
pg 56 Changed: were also alotted as part
to: were also allotted as part
pg 59 Changed: anchored at Port Poyal
to: anchored at Port Royal