THE EXCHANGE AND RETURN NORTH.
We left Columbia, but no one knew where we were going. After a slow run
of three hours the engine struck a cow; as the cow would not get off
the track the engine did, and we were delayed several hours, but we did
not mind that. Having no destination, we might as well be in one place
as another. After being two days on the cars we arrived at Charlotte,
N. C.
It was quite evident that the rebels were near the last ditch. Our
South Carolina guard would not go into North Carolina, and we had
a new guard from the latter State. We left the cars and marched to
camp, where an order was read, signed by Adjutant-General Cooper, that
a general exchange of prisoners would begin at once. Many took no
stock in the order and escaped, but the guard did little or nothing
to prevent them, and the next day the officers commanding in the city
requested us to remain in camp, as they had a strong police guard in
the city and we might get into trouble.
We had had some fun mixed with our misery. Our band had retained their
instruments, and while they had not played at Camp Sorghum for want of
strings, with the money we received they bought new ones, and our glee
club was as good as ever. The citizens often came from the city to hear
them sing.
[Illustration: CAPTAIN “JACK” ADAMS.
July, 1865.]
One day we had a rich treat. The adjutant of an Ohio regiment wrote a
song called “Sherman’s March to the Sea,” Major Isitt and Lieutenant
Rockwell arranged the music, and one night the glee club sang it from
the steps of the hospital. The boys went wild over it, and even the
rebels could not fail to appreciate it. We also organized the I. O. of
M. E. (Independent Order of Mush Eaters), and met in house No. 9. It
was not a charitable organization, as we had no charity for any one.
Our meetings were opened by the prisoners forming a circle, one man in
the centre with a stick. He must do something for the entertainment of
the brothers, then give the stick to another, who must do the same, and
so on, until all had done their part.
We brought out some fine talent, and were the liveliest crowd in
prison. Often we would go out and catch some fellow, who was despondent
and nearly dead with the blues, bring him before the Grand Mogul and
try him for some offence by court-martial. While he would get mad, kick
and swear, it revived him, gave us lots of fun, and as we elected him a
Mush Eater, it gave him a chance to enjoy the meetings. I remember one
lieutenant of an Illinois regiment who had dug a hole in the ground and
declared that he would not come out, but would die there. One night he
came out, was tried and sentenced to be marched around the camp. The
sentence was duly executed, the comb band playing the “Rogue’s March.”
He began to improve after that, attended the meetings regularly,
and, I believe, was elected to the office of Deputy High Grand M. E.
We undertook to capture a captain of a Tennessee regiment, called
“Puddinghead Hayes,” but, as he could whip any two of us, we let him
alone.
One afternoon at three o’clock the order was given to “fall in.” It was
an uncommon call at this hour, and “exchange” thoughts came to all.
Soon the adjutant introduced us to a new commander, a Dutchman who had
just come from the north, having been captured at Gettysburg. Said
he: “Ghentlemens, I comes to take command of you. I have been in Fort
Delaware fifteen months. You peoples teach me how to behave myself. I
does for you all I can. You treats me like ghentleman, I treats you
like ghentlemen. This place not fit for hogs. I sends in one hundred
load of straw, right away, quick. Break ranks, march!” He went through
our quarters and swore worse than we could at our treatment. He then
went to the hospital, had a row with the surgeon because he had done
nothing to make us comfortable, and kicked up a row generally in our
behalf. We felt that “the morning light was breaking” for us, and that
we should now be made comfortable. The major came in the next day with
more suggestions, but in a day or two we saw him no more. He was not
the man the rebels wanted, as they were not anxious for our comfort,
and his official head was removed as soon as he made requisition for
the straw.
On the 20th, two hundred of us left to be exchanged. We had quite a
pleasant ride to Salisbury. Here I saw some of my men, the first I had
seen since we left them at Macon, in July. I remember two, my first
sergeant, James Smith, and Private Jerry Kelly. I dare not undertake
to describe their condition; they were nearly starved to death and
could only walk by the aid of sticks. They told me of the other boys
captured,—that Lubin, a young recruit, had died three days after
entering Andersonville; that Sergt. Geo. E. Morse and Levi Wooffindale
of Company G, and many others, had died at Andersonville, Florence and
other prisons; for, like us, they had been carted from one place to
another, but their faces brightened as they said, “Not one of the boys
went back on the old flag.” I had been proud of the 19th regiment from
the first day I joined it, but never did I see the time when I loved
and respected those boys more than that day.
More than thirty thousand were crowded into the pen at Andersonville.
They had seen their comrades die at the rate of two hundred a day; they
had been offered plenty of food and clothing, and no fighting, if they
would renounce their allegiance to the old flag and join the southern
Confederacy, but they said, “_No!_ _No!_ Death before dishonor!” and
waited to join their comrades beneath the starry flag if they lived to
be free, if not to join those who had been loyal and true in the camp
on the other shore.
We went from Charlotte to Goldsboro, where we arrived the next morning.
Here we saw the worst sight that the eyes of mortal ever gazed upon.
Two long trains of platform cars, loaded with our men, came in.
They had been three days on the road, expecting to be exchanged at
Wilmington, but as the city was being bombarded, were turned back. As
they were unloaded not one in fifty was able to stand. Many were left
dead on the cars, the guards rolling them off as they would logs of
wood; most of them were nearly naked, and their feet and hands were
frozen; they had lost their reason; could not tell the State they came
from, their regiment or company. We threw them what rations we had, and
they would fight for them like dogs, rolling over each other in their
eagerness to get the least morsel. I remember one poor fellow who had
lost his teeth by scurvy; he would pick raw corn out of the dirt by
the railroad track and try to eat it. We gave them everything we had.
I took my only shirt from my back and threw it to them; others did
the same. The rebels allowed us to mingle with them, and with tears
streaming down our cheeks we did what we could.
Lieutenant McGinnis and I were looking for our men, when we found one
named Thompson, of his company. He was a noble fellow, one of the
largest men in the regiment; the only clothing he had on was part of a
shirt and that was covered with vermin; he had lost his sight and was
almost gone; he died while we were with him. I took a little fellow in
my arms and carried him across the street; he could not have been over
sixteen years old, and did not weigh more than fifty pounds; he died
just as I laid him down.
The men were marched to a camp, and the route was strewn with dead and
dying. The citizens gathered around, but I saw or heard no expressions
of sympathy. One of our officers said, “My time is out, but all I ask
is a chance to once more take the field; I would try and get square.”
A rebel officer heard him, and replied, “You are just the man I would
like to meet.” Our officer stepped out and said, “Here I am, I have
been more than a year in prison, but I will whip you or any other
rebel you can furnish.” The rebel sneaked away, and said he would not
disgrace himself by fighting a Yankee except in battle. We wished he
had given our man a chance.
We were again ordered on board the cars, and it was reported that we
were going to Richmond for exchange. We went as far as Raleigh, where
we halted, left the train and marched to an old camp. There were a few
houses standing, but not enough to hold one-fourth of our number. The
rain came down in torrents and we stood all night under the trees. I
never passed a more uncomfortable night, for besides being wet and
cold, I suffered with hunger.
On the 23d they loaded us on the cars again, and had just started, when
the engine ran off the track. This time the cause was an open switch.
We believed that the switch was intentionally left open, but the train
ran so slowly that we were off the cars as soon as the engine left the
track, and no one was hurt. We were then taken to Camp Holmes, some
three miles out of the city, and paroles were made out and signed. This
settled the question of escape and we began to feel happy. We remained
here until the 26th, and began to think that the parole was another
trap to keep us with a small guard. All were excited, and had they not
moved three hundred at noon I don’t believe a man able to travel would
have remained in camp that night.
On the morning of the 27th we found ourselves in Goldsboro again, and
were marched to camp. Here we had to sign another parole, as the first
was not made out properly. All these delays were terrible; our nervous
condition was such that we could not sleep, and days were as long as
weeks. We received very little food, and here I sold the last thing
that would bring a dollar,—the buttons on my jacket. These brought me
eighteen dollars,—two dollars each. It would buy just food enough to
sustain life. At night the rebels gave us some rations, but, hungry as
we were, we sent all to the enlisted men.
The 28th, at five P.M., we again went on board the train, and at
daylight, March 1, were at Rocky Point, three miles from our lines.
Here we left the cars, the rebel guard formed in line and we were
counted through. As soon as we passed the rebel lines we ran down
the road, cheering and singing. About a quarter of a mile further on
the guard stopped us and formed us in some kind of order. Although
we were with the boys in blue we did not fully realize that we were
free, and clung to all our prison outfit. We marched about a mile to
the northeast bridge on the Cape Fear River, and on the other side
saw an arch covered with the stars and stripes. In the centre of the
arch, surrounded by a wreath of evergreen, were the words, “Welcome,
Brothers!” I have no idea what the joy will be when I pass through the
pearly gates and march up the golden streets of the New Jerusalem, but
if it is half as great as it was the morning of March 1, 1865, when for
the first time for nearly nine months I saw the old flag, I shall be
satisfied.
One who did not understand the situation would have thought that an
insane asylum had been turned loose. We hugged each other, laughed,
cried, prayed, rolled over in the dirt, and expressed our joy, each in
his own way. Those who had clung to their meal threw it high in air,
and for once meal was plenty.
The 6th Connecticut were encamped near, and their band played national
airs as we marched over the bridge. We also found our true friend, the
colored man, not as a slave, but as a man and a comrade, clothed in
loyal blue and fighting for a flag that never, until President Lincoln
signed the Emancipation Proclamation, had protected him. As soon as we
were over the bridge they began to provide for our wants. Hard-tack
boxes were burst open, coffee and meat were furnished in abundance; but
we had been starving so long that we did not think it would last, and
I remember that I packed my old jacket—now fastened together with
wooden pins—full, and as it settled down crowded in more. We drank so
much coffee that we were nearly intoxicated.
We cheered the boys who had provided so well for us, and started for
Wilmington. We did not march, but hobbled along as best we could,
anxious to get as far as possible from the rebels. We clung to our
instruments, and carried the big base viol by turns. It was my turn to
carry it, and McGinnis and I started down the railroad. We had gone but
a short distance when we met an officer, who asked me where I got the
big fiddle. I told him I had played it in church before I enlisted;
that I carried it with me when I left home and had it on picket; was
in the middle of a tune when the rebels came on me, and as I could not
stop playing was captured. The man looked at me and said, “I believe
that’s a d—d lie.” “Well,” I said, “you have a right to think so,” and
we moved along. I do not remember what became of the instrument.
Arriving at Wilmington, we were collected together and rations were
served. Here we were placed under guard to prevent our eating too
much, but we would capture the rations each side of us and fill our
pockets. As soon as we had eaten all we could, we would pass out, and
in half an hour try to flank in again. The sanitary commission were
on hand with barrels of weak milk punch and gave us all we wanted; as
we wanted everything to eat or drink that we saw we destroyed large
quantities of it. While standing on the street an officer rode up whom
I recognized as Col. Henry A. Hale, formerly a captain in my regiment.
He was serving on the staff of the general commanding the department.
He took me to a gunboat in the river and bought me a suit of sailor’s
clothes. After a good bath I was transformed from a dirty prisoner into
a respectable Jack Tar. I threw my old clothes overboard, and they
floated down the stream freighted with a crew which had clung to me
closer than a brother for the past nine months, and whose united voices
I thought I heard singing “A life on the ocean wave” as they passed out
to sea.
I returned to the city and walked about, often meeting some of the men
of my regiment, among them Michael O’Leary of Company F, who looked as
though he had just come off dress parade, having a new uniform and his
shoes nicely polished. He was delighted to see me, said that the rebels
had urged him to take the oath of allegiance, but he had told them he
could never look Mary Ann in the face if he went back on the old flag.
He told me of a number of the men who had died, among them my old
friend Mike Scannell. That night I stood in front of the theatre, my
hands in my empty pockets, wondering if I should ever have money enough
to purchase a ticket.
March 3, we went on board the transport “General Sedgwick,” bound for
Annapolis. We pulled out near Fort Fisher and lay over night. Some of
us went on shore at Smithfield and had a nice time. On the 4th we got
under way. It was the second inauguration of President Lincoln, and all
the ships were gaily decked with flags. We passed out over the bar.
The ship was crowded; my berth was on the floor between decks. I find
the last entry in my diary is, “Oh, how sick I am!” I did not come on
deck for four days, and suffered more than I can tell. The sea broke
over the ship, and the water came down the hatchway. A western officer,
suffering near, aroused me by exclaiming, “My God! Jack, there is a
board off somewhere; don’t you see the water coming in?” I didn’t care
if they were all off.
We arrived at Annapolis and quartered in the several hotels. The
following day we received two months’ pay. I bought a good uniform of
a Jew for seventy-five dollars. It was a nice blue when I first put
it on, but before I arrived home it was as brown as a butternut. We
ate from six to ten meals a day for a week, then received thirty days’
furlough and came home to friends who had almost given us up for dead.
I never looked better than when I arrived home. I had bloated so that I
was the picture of health, and no matter what account I gave of prison
life my face contradicted it, so I said little. After thirty days at
home I did not feel able to return, and received an extension. The war
was nearly over, Richmond had fallen, and I was miles away, a paroled
prisoner, not allowed to bear arms until exchanged.
While at home I had the pleasure of meeting my old comrade, Isaac H.
Boyd. He had started as a private in Company A, and was now major
of the regiment. I left him one Saturday at the Providence depot in
Boston, he returning to the front. In two weeks I received his body at
the same depot. He was killed in the last battle of the war, the day
before Lee surrendered,—one of the bravest officers who ever drew a
sword.
Early in May I returned to Annapolis, and was pleasantly quartered
in the house of a Mr. Harper, the only man in the city who voted for
President Lincoln in 1860. While standing on the street one day a small
squad of prisoners passed. This was an unusual sight, as all had come
through the lines weeks before. I heard a voice say, “How are you,
captain?” and looking up saw a white head sticking out of a bundle
of rags, and recognized Sergt. Mike Scannell. I said, “Mike, you are
dead.” “Not yet,” was the reply; “but I have been mighty near it. I was
sent out to die at Andersonville, from there was taken to Blackshire,
Fla., kept until the war was over, then taken within several miles
of our lines and turned loose.” With him was Mike O’Brien of my
company,—hard looking, but full of courage.
On the 15th of May I was discharged by general order, went to
Washington, received my full pay, with transportation to West Newbury,
Mass. I waited to see the grand review of the armies before returning
home. The first day the Army of the Potomac passed. As the 2d corps
drew near I became anxious, and walked towards the Capitol. The white
trefoil came in sight, and at the head of the dear old regiment rode
Colonel Rice. He saw me and turned out of the line to shake hands.
Next came Captain Hume,—the only line officer commissioned when we
were captured. He stopped, and the boys came from every company; for a
few moments I held a reception. Colonel Rice urged me to come to the
regiment, saying he had found a place for me. I informed him that I was
discharged, and was going home, but he said, “Come and see me day after
to-morrow.” In compliance with his request I went out to Munson’s Hill
to visit the regiment, and before night was mustered as captain, and
assigned to the command of Company B.
The duty was very pleasant. I was in command of the regiment a few days
during the absence of Colonel Rice and Captain Hume, and was two weeks
on courts-martial detail. June 30 the regiment was mustered out of
service, and left for Massachusetts, arriving at Readville July 3. We
were invited to take part in the parade in Boston July 4, and Colonel
Rice was quite anxious that we should. After we went to our quarters
for dinner Colonel Rice was called to Boston. Nearly all the officers
had business there, and when we boarded the train found the men taken
the same way. The colonel did not blame them, and said it was all right
if we would report at 9 A.M. the next day at the Providence depot. All
promised. I did not expect they would come but went to the station
at the hour named. I found Colonel Rice and one private. We waited a
while, but no more reported, and as we three would not make much of a
show, concluded to give it up.
July 20 we assembled at Readville for final pay. The men returned to
their homes and took up the duties of citizens which they had laid down
to become soldiers,—and the 19th Regiment Massachusetts Volunteers
became a thing of the past.
The regiment had been frequently complimented by its superior officers
for soldierly conduct, and the following General Orders will show the
opinion in which we were held:—
HEADQUARTERS 2D ARMY CORPS, July 23, 1862.
GENERAL ORDER NO. 21.
The general commanding would hereby announce to this corps d’armee the
fine appearance on the review to-day of the 19th Massachusetts and 1st
Minnesota regiments. The condition of these regiments is an honor to
their States, and reflects great credit upon their commanders.
By command of
Major-General SUMNER,
OFFICIAL. L. KIP, _A. D. C. and A. A. G._
W. D. SEDGWICK, _A. A G._
HEADQUARTERS 2d DIVISION, 2d CORPS,
EDWARD’S FERRY, VA., June 26, 1863.
GENERAL ORDER NO. 105.
The 15th and 19th Massachusetts Volunteers, for marching to-day in the
best and most compact order, and with the least straggling from their
ranks, are excused from all picket duty and outside details for four
days.
By command of
Brigadier General GIBBONS.
Of the thirty-seven commissioned officers who left Massachusetts with
the regiment in 1861 only one returned,—Col. Edmund Rice, who went out
as captain and came home colonel commanding the regiment.
Fourteen officers and two hundred fifty men were either killed or
died of wounds received in action, and four hundred forty-nine were
discharged for disability, occasioned by wounds or disease contracted
in the service.
In no better way can I close my story than by quoting from the 1865
report of Adjutant-General Schouler:—
“No regiment has had a more eventful history, or has fought more,
fought better, or performed its duties with more promptitude and
alacrity. During its existence the regiment has been engaged in
forty-five battles and skirmishes, in six of which it has lost from
one-third to five-sixths of its men. It has captured and turned over
to the War Department seven stands of colors (1st Texas, 14th, 19th,
53d, and 57th Virginia, 12th South Carolina and 47th North Carolina)
and six pieces of artillery. When it is said that the regiment
has been characterized by the most kindly and brotherly feeling,
the best discipline and alacrious obedience in all ranks, that it
has been frequently commended and never censured by its superior
commanders—the story is done.”
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.