But the gods were propitious, and the next day we had the privilege of

going out under guard, and picking up material for a house. Rouse and

myself brought in material enough to fix us up in good shape. We secured

a number of green poles about an inch thick, some of these we bent like

the hoops of a wagon cover, sticking the ends in the ground. Then we

fastened other poles transversely on them fastening them with strips of

bark. We used a U. S. blanket for a roof or cover. The sides we thatched

with branches of the long leaved pitch pine. In a few hours we had a

very fair shelter.

I think the settlers in western Minnesota and Dakota must be indebted to

Andersonville prisoners for the idea of “dugouts.” When we arrived here,

we found many of the unfortunate prisoners from Belle Isle who had no

“pup tent” or blanket to spare, had provided themselves warm quarters by

burrowing into the ground. They had dug holes about the size of the head

of a barrel at the surface of the ground and gradually enlarged as they

dug down, until they were something the shape of the inside of a large

bell. These dugouts were four or five feet deep and usually had two

occupants. These gophers were hard looking specimens of humanity. They

had built fires in their holes, out of pitch pine; over this they had

done their cooking, and over this they had crooned during the cold

storms of March; they had had some bacon, but no soap, and the mixture

of lamp black from the pine, and grease from the bacon, had disfigured

them beyond the recognition of their own mothers. Their hair was long

and unkempt, and filled with lamp black until it was so stiff that it

stuck out like “quills of the fretful porcupine.” Their clothes were in

rags, yes in tatters. They were shoeless, hatless, and usually coatless.

They looked more like the terrible fancies of Gustave Dore than like

human beings. And yet these poor boys were originally fair-haired,

fair-skinned, blue-eyed, loyal, brave sons of fathers and mothers who

were in easy circumstances, and in many cases wealthy; who would have

shed their hearts’ last drop of blood, for that poor boy, if it would

have been of any avail. Or they were husbands to fair women, and fathers

to sweet blue-eyed children, who were waiting for husband and papa, to

come home.

Alas! those fathers and mothers, those wives and children are waiting

yet, yea and shall wait until the sea, and the graves at Andersonville,

give up their dead.

CHAPTER VII.

WINDER AND WIRZ.

“Lady Anne. Foul devil, for God’s sake hence, and trouble us not;

For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell,

Filled it with cursing cries, and deep exclaims.

If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds,

Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.”

—King Richard, III.

Shakspere.

The man who had charge of the prison at Andersonville, and who was

responsible for the barbarities practiced there, more than any other

man, was Gen. John H. Winder.

I had not the honor(?) of a personal acquaintance with that fiend in

human shape, but Comrade John McElroy of the 16 Illinois Cavalry, the

author of “Andersonville,” gives his readers a description of the man. I

quote from that work.

“There rode in among us, a few days after our arrival, an old man

whose collar bore the wreathed stars of a Major General. Heavy white

locks fell from beneath his slouched hat, nearly to shoulders. Sunken

gray eyes too dull and cold to light up, marked a hard, stony face,

the salient features of which was a thin lipped, compressed mouth,

with corners drawn down deeply—the mouth which seems the world over to

be the index of selfish, cruel, sulky malignance. It is such a mouth

as has the school boy—the coward of the play ground, who delights in

pulling off the wings of flies. It is such a mouth as we can imagine

some remorseless inquisitor to have had—that is, not an inquisitor

filled with holy zeal for what he mistakenly thought the cause of

Christ demanded, but a spleeny, envious, rancorous shaveling, who

tortured men from hatred of their superiority to him, and sheer love

of inflicting pain.

The rider was John H. Winder, Commissary General of Prisoners,

Baltimorean renegade and the malign genius to whose account should be

charged the deaths of more gallant men than the inquisitors of the

world ever slew by the less dreadful rack and wheel. It was he who in

August could point to three thousand and eighty-one new made graves

for that month, and exultingly tell his hearer that he was “doing more

for the Confederacy than twenty regiments.”

His lineage was in accordance with his character. His father was that

General William H. Winder, whose poltroonery at Bladensburg, in 1814

nullified the resistance of the gallant Commodore Barney, and gave

Washington to the British.

The father was a coward and incompetent; the son, always cautiously

distant from the scene of hostilities, was the tormentor of those whom

fortunes of war and the arms of brave men threw into his hands.“

Of his personal appearance I have no recollection, but the above is a

true picture of his character. He filled a place in the Confederacy

which no brave officer of equal rank would have accepted. Hill,

Longstreet, Early, Polk, Hardee, even Forrest and Mosby would have

spurned with contempt an offer of assignment to the position occupied by

the cowardly John H. Winder.

Of Captain Henry Wirz I can write of my own knowledge. In personal

appearance he was about five feet nine or ten inches in height, slightly

built with stooping shoulders. He had a small peaked head, small

twinkling eyes, grisly, frowsy whiskers, and the general contour of his

features and expression of eyes reminded one of a rodent.

In character he was pusillanimous, vindictive, mean and irritable to

those beneath him, or who had the misfortune to be in his power; while

to his superiors he was humble and cringing, an Uriah Heep; a person who

would “Crook the pregnant hinges of his knee, that thrift might follow

fawning.”

As a specimen of the contemptible meanness of these two persons, I was

told by a prisoner who attempted to escape, but was recaptured and put

in the stocks, that while at their head-quarters he saw a large

dry-goods box nearly full of letters written by prisoners to their

friends; and by friends to them, which had accumulated, and which they

had neglected to forward or distribute. The paper upon which some of

these letters was written, and the envelope in which it was enclosed had

cost the prisoner, perhaps, his last cent of money, or mouthful of food.

The failure to receive those letters had deprived many a mother or wife

of the last chance to hear from a loved one, or a prisoner of his last

chance to hear from those he loved more than life itself.

Wirz was Commandant of the inner prison and in this capacity, had charge

of calling the roll, organization of prisoners, issuing rations, the

sanitary condition of the prison, the punishment of prisoners; in fact

the complete control of the inner prison.

Winder had control of all the guards, could control the amount of

rations to be issued, make the rules and regulations of the prison, and

had, in fact, complete control of the whole economy of the prison; all

men and officers connected therewith being subordinate to him.

Wirz’ favorite punishment for infringement of prison rules, was the

chain-gang, and stocks. Sometimes twelve or fifteen men were fastened

together by shackles attached to a long chain. These unfortunate men

were left to broil in a semi-tropical sun, or left to shiver in the dews

and pelting rains, without shelter as long as Wirz’ caprice or malignity

lasted. The stocks were usually for punishment of the more flagrant

offenses, or when Wirz was in his worst humor.

Just below my tent, two members of a New York regiment put up a little

shelter. They always lay in their tent during the day, but at night one

might see a few men marching away from their “shack” carrying haversacks

full of dirt, and emptying them along the edge of the swamp. One morning

the tent was gone, and a hole in the ground marked the spot, and told

the tale of their route, which was underground through a tunnel. About 8

o’clock in the morning Wirz came in accompanied by a squad of soldiers,

and a gang of negroes armed with shovels, who began to dig up the

tunnel. I went to Wirz and asked him what was up. He was always ready to

“blow” when he thought he could scare anybody, so he replied, “By Gott,

tem tamned Yanks has got oudt alrety, but nefer mints, I prings tem pack

all derights; I haf sent te ploothounts after dem. I tell you vat I

does, I gifs any Yank swoluf hours de shtart, undt oaf he gits avay, all

deright; put oaf I catches him I gif him hell.” Some one offered to take

the chances. “Allderights.” said he, “you come to de nort cate in der

mornick undt I lets you co.”

The next day we heard that the blood-hounds had found the trail of the

escaped prisoners, but that all but one had been foiled by cayenne

pepper, and that one, was found dead with a bullet hole in his head. We

never heard from our New York friends and infer that that they got to

“God’s Country.”

Many attempts were made to tunnel out that summer, but so far as I know

that was the only successful one. All sorts of ways were resorted to,

the favorite way being to start a well and dig down ten or twelve feet,

then start a tunnel in it near the surface of the ground. By this means

the fresh dirt would be accounted for, as well digging was within the

limits of the prison rules. But before the “gopher-hole,” as the tunnels

were called by the western boys, was far advanced, a gang of negroes

appeared upon the scene and dug it up. We always believed there were

spies among us. Some thought the spies were some of our own men who were

playing traitor to curry favor with Wirz. Others believed Wirz kept

rebel spies among us. I incline to the former opinion.

Among those who were suspected was a one-legged soldier named Hubbard.

He hailed from Chicago and was a perfect pest. He was quarrelsome and

impudent and would say things that a sound man would have got a broken

head for saying. His squawking querulous tones, and hooked nose secured

for him the name of “Poll Parrott.” He was a sort of privileged

character, being allowed to go outside, which caused many to believe he

was in league with Wirz, though I believe there was no direct proof of

it. One day he came to where I was cooking my grub and wanted me to take

him in. He said all his comrades were down on him and called him a spy,

and he could not stand it with them. As a further inducement he said he

could go out when he had a mind, and get wood and extra rations, which

he would divide with me. I consulted my “pard” and we agreed to take him

in. He then asked me to cook him some dinner, and gave me his frying-pan

and some meat. While I was cooking his dinner he commenced finding fault

with me, upon which I suggested that he had better do his own cooking.

He then showered upon my devoted head some of the choicest epithets

found in the Billingsgate dialect, he raved and swore like a mad-man. I

was pretty good natured naturally, and besides I pitied the poor

unfortunate fellow, but this presuming on my good nature a little too

much, I fired his frying-pan at his head and told him to “get”; and he

“got.”

Two days afterwards he went under the Dead-line and began to abuse the

guard, a member of an Alabama regiment, who ordered him to go back, or

he would shoot him. “Poll” then opened on the guard in about the same

style as he had on me, winding up by daring the guard to fire. This was

too much and the guard fired a plunging shot, the ball striking him in

the chin and passing down into his body, killing him instantly.

A few days before this, a “fresh fish,” or “tender foot,” as the cow

boys would call him nowadays, started to cross the swamp south of my

tent. In one place in the softest part of the swamp the railing which

composed the Dead-line was gone, this man stepped over where the line

should have been, and the guard fired at him but he fired too high and

missed his mark, but the bullet struck an Ohio man who was sitting in

front of a tent near mine. He was badly, but not fatally wounded, but

died in a few days from the effects of gangrene in his wound.

The author of “Andersonville” makes a wide distinction between the

members of the 29th Alabama and the 55th Georgia regiments, which

guarded us, in relation to treatment of prisoners, claiming that Alabama

troops were more humane than the Georgia “crackers.” This was

undoubtedly true in this instance, but I am of the opinion that state

lines had nothing to do with the matter.

The 29th Alabama was an old regiment and had been to the front and seen

war, had fired at Yankees, and had been fired at by Yankees in return;

they had no need to shoot defenseless prisoners in order to establish

the enviable reputation of having killed a “damned Yank;” while the 55th

Georgia was a new regiment, or at least one which had not faced the

music of bullets and shells on the field of battle, they had a

reputation to make yet, and they made one as guards at Andersonville,

but the devil himself would not be proud of it, while the 5th Georgia

Home Guards, another regiment of guards, was worse than the 55th.

In making up the 5th Geo. H. G. the officers had “robbed the cradle and

the grave,” as one of my comrades facetiously remarked.

Old men with long white locks and beards, with palsied, trembling limbs,

vied with boys, who could not look into the muzzles of their guns when

they stood on the ground, who were just out of the sugar pap and

swaddling clothes period of their existence, in killing a Yank. It was

currently reported that they received a thirty days furlough for every

prisoner they shot; besides the distinguished “honah.”

In marked contrast with these two Georgia regiments was the 5th Georgia

regulars. This regiment guarded us at Charleston, S. C., the following

September, and during our three weeks stay at that place I have no

recollection of the guards firing on us, although we were camped in an

open field with nothing to prevent our escape but sickness, starvation,

and a thin line of guards of the 5th Ga. regulars. But this regiment too

had seen service at the front. They had been on the Perryville Campaign,

had stood opposed to my regiment at the battle of Perryville and had

received the concentrated volleys of Simonson’s battery and the 10th

Wisconsin Infantry, and in return had placed 146 of my comrades HORS DE

COMBAT. They had fought at Murfresboro and Chickamauga, at Lookout and

Missionary Ridge and had seen grim visaged war in front of Sherman’s

steadily advancing columns in the Atlanta campaign. Surely they had

secured a record without needlessly shooting helpless prisoners.

I believe all ex-prisoners will agree with me, that FIGHTING regiments

furnished humane guards.

For the purpose of tracking escaped prisoners, an aggregate of seventy

blood-hounds were kept at Andersonville. They were run in packs of five

or six, unless a number of prisoners had escaped, in which case a larger

number were used. They were in charge of a genuine “nigger driver” whose

delight it was to follow their loud baying, as they tracked fugitive

negroes, or escaped Yanks through the forests and swamps of southern

Georgia.

These blood-hounds were trained to track human beings, and with their

keen scent they held to the track as steadily, relentlessly as death

itself; and woe betide the fugitive when overtaken, they tore and

lacerated him with the blood-thirsty fierceness of a Numidian lion.

These willing beasts and more willing guards were efficient factors in

the hands of Winder and Wirz in keeping in subjection the prisoners

entrusted to their care. But these are outside forces. Within the wooden

walls of that prison were more subtile and enervating forces at work

than Georgia militia or fierce blood-hound.

Diarrhea, scurvy and its concomitant, gangrene, the result of

insufficient and unsuitable food and the crowded and filthy state of the

prison, were doing their deadly work, swiftly, surely and relentlessly.

CHAPTER VIII.

“Ghost. I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word

Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood;

Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres;

Thy knotted and combined locks to part,

And each particular hair to stand on end,

Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.”

—Hamlet.

The cook-house, which I have already spoken of, had a capacity for

cooking rations for 10,000 men. Our rations consisted, during the latter

part of April and through May, of about a pound of corn bread, of about

the same quality as that at Danville, a piece of meat about the size of

two fingers, and a little salt per day. This was varied by issuing rice

or cow peas in the place of meat, but meat and rice, or peas, were never

issued together. We had no more bug soup, nor soup of any kind from the

cook-house. We got our bugs in the peas, so that we were not entirely

destitute of meat when we had peas. The rice was filled with weevil, so

that that too, was stronger, if not more nutritious. But when our

numbers were increased by the prisoners who had been captured at Dalton,

Resaca, Alatoona, New Hope Church and Kenesaw, from Sherman’s army, and

from the Wilderness, from Meade’s army, our numbers had far outgrown the

capacity of the cook-house and our rations were issued to us raw.

Then commenced real, downright misery and suffering. These men were

turned into the prison after being robbed of everything of value,

without shelter, without cooking utensils, without wood, except in the

most meager quantities, and in most cases without blankets.

Raw meal, raw rice and peas, and no dish to cook them in, and no wood to

cook them with, and yet there were thousands of acres of timber in sight

of the prison, and these men would have been too glad to cut their own

wood and bring it into the prison on their shoulders. But this would

have been a luxury, and Winder did not furnish prisoners with luxuries.

There was an abortive attempt made at cooking more rations, by cooking

them less, and the result was, meal simply scalded and called “mush,”

and rice not half cooked, and burned black wherever it touched the

kettle it was boiled in.

The effects of this unwholesome, half cooked, and in thousands of cases

raw diet, was an increase of diarrhea, and dysentery, and scurvy.

In thousands of cases of scurvy where scorbutic ulcers had broken out,

gangrene supervened and the poor prisoner soon found surcease of pain,

and misery, and starvation, in the grave. Amputation of a limb was not a

cure for these cases; new scorbutic ulcers appeared, again gangrene

supervened, and death was the almost inevitable result.

The prison was filled with sick and dying men, indeed well men were the

exception, and sick men the rule. The hospital was filled to

overflowing; the prison itself, was a vast hospital, with no physicians,

and no nurses.

Thousands of men had become too sick and weak to go to the sinks to

stool, and they voided their excrement in little holes dug near their

tents. The result of this was, a prison covered with maggots, and the

air so polluted with the foul stench, that it created an artificial

atmosphere, which excluded malaria, and in a country peculiarly adapted

to malarial diseases, there were no cases of Malarial, Typhus or Typhoid

fevers.

Your true Yankee is an ingenious fellow, and is always trying to better

his situation. Many cooking dishes were manufactured by the prisoners

out of tin cans, pieces of sheet iron, or car roofing, which had been

picked up on the road to prison.

Knives and spoons were made from pieces of hoop iron, and a

superannuated oyster or fruit can, was a whole cooking establishment,

while a tin pail or coffee pot caused its owner to be looked upon as a

nabob.

Fortunately for myself I was joint owner with six men of my company, of

a six quart tin pail. This we loaned at times to the more unfortunate,

thus helping them somewhat in their misery. Besides this mine of wealth,

I had an interest in the wooden bucket purloined from the Danville

prison, and as Sergeant of the mess, it was in my care. To this bucket I

owe, in a great measure, my life; for I used it for a bath tub during my

confinement in Andersonville.

Another cause of suffering was the extreme scarcity of water. When the

Richmond and Belle Isle prisoners arrived in Andersonville in February

and March, they had procured their water from Dead-run; but by the time

our squad arrived this little stream had become so polluted that it was

not fit for the wallowing place of a hog.

Our first work after building a shelter was to procure water. We first

dug a hole in the edge of the swamp, but this soon became too warm and

filthy for use, so we started a well in an open space in front of my

tent, and close to the Dead-line. We found water at a depth of six feet,

but it was in quicksand and we thought our well was a failure; but again

luck was on our side. One of the prisoners near us, had got hold of a

piece of board while marching from the cars to the prison, this he

offered to give us in exchange for stock in our well.

We completed the bargain, and with our Danville sawknife cut up the

board into water-curbing, which we sank into the quicksand, thus

completing a well which furnished more water than any well in the whole

prison.

To the credit of my mess, who owned all the right, title and interest,

in and to this well, I will say, we never turned a man away thirsty.

After we had supplied ourselves, we gave all the water the well would

furnish to the more unfortunate prisoners who lived on the hill, and who

could procure no water elsewhere.

After we had demonstrated the fact that clean water could be procured

even in Andersonville, a perfect mania for well digging prevailed in

prison; wells were started all over, but the most of them proved

failures for different reasons, some were discouraged at the great

depth, others had no boards for water-curbing, and their wells caved in,

and were a failure. There were, however, some wells dug on the hill, to

a depth of thirty or forty feet. They furnished water of a good quality,

but the quantity was very limited.

The digging of these deep wells was proof of the ingenuity and daring of

the prisoners. The only digging tool was a half canteen, procured by

unsoldering a canteen. The dirt was drawn up in a haversack, or bucket,

attached to a rope twisted out of rags, from the lining of coat sleeves

or strips of shelter tents. The well diggers were lowered into, and

drawn out of, the wells by means of these slight, rotten ropes, and yet,

I never heard of an accident as a result of this work.

But the wells were not capable of supplying one-fourth of the men with

water. Those who had no interest in a well, and could not beg water from

those who had, were compelled to go to Dead-run for a supply.

A bridge crossed this stream on the west side of the prison, and here

the water was not quite so filthy as farther down stream. This bridge

was the slaughter pen of the 55th Georgians, and the 5th Georgia Home

Guards.

Here the prisoners would reach under the Dead-line to procure clean

water, and the crack of a Georgian’s musket, was the prisoner’s death

knell.

During the early part of August Providence furnished what Winder and

Wirz refused to furnish. After a terrible rain storm, a spring broke out

under the walls of the stockade about ten or fifteen rods north of this

bridge. Boards were furnished, out of which a trough was made which

carried the water into the prison. The water was of good quality, and of

sufficient quantity to have supplied the prisoners, could it have been

saved by means of a tank or reservoir. This was the historical

“Providence Spring” known and worshiped by all ex-Andersonville

prisoners.

The same rain storm which caused Providence Spring to break out, gullied

and washed out the ground between our well and the stockade to a depth

of four feet, and so saturated the ground that the well caved in. We

were a sad squad of men, as we gathered around the hole where our hopes

of life were buried, for without pure water, we knew we could not

survive long in Andersonville.

Two days after the accident to our well, we held a legislative session,

and resolved ourselves into a committee of the whole, on ways and means

to restore our treasure. No one could think of any way to fix up the

well, boards were out of the question, stones there were none, and

barrels:—we had not seen a barrel since we left “God’s Country.” As

chairman, ex-officio, of the committee, I proposed that we steal a board

from the Dead-line. This was voted down by the committee as soon as

proposed, the principle was all right, but the risk was too great; death

would be the penalty for the act. The committee then rose and the

session was adjourned. After considering the matter for a time, I

resolved to steal a board from the Dead-line at any risk. I then

proceeded to mature a plan which I soon put into execution. One of my

“pards,” Rouse, had a good silver watch, I told him to go up to the

Dead-line in front of the first guard north of our tent, and show his

watch, and talk watch trade with the guard. I sent Ole Gilbert, my other

pard, to the first guard south, with the same instructions, but minus a

watch. I kept my eyes on the guards and watched results; soon I saw that

my plan was working. I picked up a stick of wood and going to a post of

the Dead-line, where one end of a board was nailed, I pried off the end

of the board, but O horror! how it squealed, it was fastened to a pitch

pine post with a twelve penny nail and when I pried it loose, it

squeaked like a horse fiddle at a charivari party. I made a sudden dive

for my tent, which was about sixteen feet away, and when I had got under

cover I looked out to see the result. The guards were peering around to

see what was up, their quick ears had caught the sound, but their dull

brain could not account for the cause.

After waiting until the guards had become again interested in the

mercantile transaction under consideration, I crawled out of my tent and

as stealthily as a panther crawled to my board again. This time I caught

it at the loose end, and with one mighty effort I wrenched it from the

remaining posts, dropped it on the ground, and again dove into my tent.

The guards were aroused, but not soon enough to see what had been done,

and I had secured a board twenty feet long by four inches wide, lumber

enough to curb our well.

Another meeting of the mess was held, the saw-knife was brought out, the

board, after great labor, was sawed up, and our well was restored to its

usefulness.

This same storm, which occurred on the 12th of August, was the cause of

a quite an episode in our otherwise dull life in prison. It was one of

those terrible rains which occur sometimes in that region, and had the

appearance of a cloud-burst. The rain fell in sheets, the ground in the

prison was completely washed, and much good was done in the way of

purifying this foul hole. The rapid rush of water down the opposing

hills, filled the little stream, which I have called Dead-run, to

overflowing, and as there was not sufficient outlet through the

stockade, for the fast accumulating water, the pressure became so great

that about twenty feet of the stockade toppled and fell over.

Thousands of prisoners were out looking at the downfall of our prison

walls and when it went over we sent up such a shout and hurrah that we

made old Andersonville ring.

But the rebel guard had witnessed the break as well as we. The guard

near the creek called out “copeler of the gyaad! post numbah fo’teen!

hurry up, the stockade is goin to h—l.” The guards, about 3,000 in

number, came hurrying to the scene and formed line of battle to prevent

a rush of prisoners, while the cannoneers in the forts sprang to their

guns. We saw them ram home the charges in their guns, then we gave

another shout, when BANG went one of the guns from the south-western

fort, and we heard a solid shot go shrieking over our heads. It began to

look as though the Johnies were going to get the most fun out of this

thing after all. Just at this time Wirz came up to the gap and shrieked,

“co pack to your quarters, you tammed Yanks, or I vill open de cuns of

de forts on you.”

I needed no second invitation after that shot went over our heads, and I

hurried to my quarters and laid low. I don’t think I am naturally more

cowardly than the average of men, but that shot made me tired. I was

sick and weak and had no courage, and knew Winder and Wirz so well that

I had perfect faith that they would be only too glad of an excuse to

carry out the threat.

But let us go back to the month of May. Soon after my arrival, there was

marched into the prison about two thousand of the finest dressed

soldiers I ever saw. Their uniforms were new and of a better quality

than we had ever seen in the western army. They wore on their heads

cocked hats, with brass and feather accompaniments. Their feet were shod

with the best boots and shoes we had seen since antebellum days, their

shirts were of the best “lady’s cloth” variety, and the chevrons on the

sleeves of the non-commissioned officers coats, were showy enough for

members of the Queen’s Guards.

Poor fellows, how I pitied them. The mingled look of surprise, horror,

disgust, and sorrow that was depicted on their faces as they marched

between crowds of prisoners who had been unwilling guests of the

Confederacy for, from four to nine months, told but too plainly how our

appearance affected them. As they passed along the mass of ragged,

ghastly, dirt begrimed prisoners, I could hear the remark, “My God! have

I got to come to this?” “I can’t live here a month,” “I had rather die,

than to live in such a place as this,” and similar expressions. I say

that I pitied them, for I knew that the sight of such specimens of

humanity as we were, had completely unnerved them, that their blood had

been chilled with horror at sight of us, and that they would never

recover from the shock; and they never did.

Yes they had to come to this; many of them did not live a month, and not

many of those two thousand fine looking men ever lived to see “God’s

Country” again.

These were the “Plymouth Pilgrims.” They were a brigade, composed of the

85th New York, the 101st and 103d Pennsylvania, 16th Connecticut, 24th

New York Battery, two companies of Massachusetts heavy artillery and a

company of the 12th New York cavalry.

They were the garrison of a fort at Plymouth, North Carolina, which had

been compelled to surrender, on account of the combined attack of land

and naval forces, on the 20th day of May, 1864.

Some of the regiments composing this band of Pilgrims had “veteranized”

and were soon going home on a veteran furlough when the attack was made,

but they came to Andersonville instead.

Their service had been most entirely in garrisons, where they had always

been well supplied with rations and clothing, and exempt from hard

marches and exposures, and as a natural sequence, were not as well

fitted to endure the hardships of prison life, as soldiers who had seen

more active service.

They were turned into the prison without shelter, and they did not seem

to think they could, in any way, provide one; without cooking utensils,

and they thought they must eat their food raw. They began to die off in

a few days after their arrival, they seemed never to have recovered from

their first shock.

Comrade McElroy tells in “Andersonville,” a pathetic story of a

Pennsylvanian who went crazy from the effects of confinement. He had a

picture of his wife and children and he used to sit hour after hour

looking at them, and sometimes imagined he was with them serving them at

the home table. He would, in his imagination, pass food to wife and

children, calling each by name, and urging them to eat more. He died in

a month after his entrance.

I observed a similar case near my quarters. One of this same band came

to our well for a drink of water which we gave him. He was well dressed,

at first, but seemed to be a simple-minded man. Day after day he came

for water, sometimes many times a day. Soon he began to talk

incoherently, then to mutter something about home and food. One day his

hat was gone; the next day his boots were missing, and so on, day after

day, until he was perfectly nude, wandering about in the hot sun, by

day, and shivering in the cold dews at night, until at last we found him

one morning lying in a ditch at the edge of the swamp,—dead.

God only knows how many of those poor fellows were chilled in heart and

brain, at their first introduction to Andersonville.

The coming of the Pilgrims into prison was the beginning of a new era in

its history. Before they came, there was no money among the prisoners,

or so little as to amount to nothing; but at the time of their surrender

they had been paid off, and those who had “veteranized” had been paid a

veteran bounty, so that they brought a large sum of money into prison.

The reader may inquire how it was that they were not searched, and their

money and valuables taken from them by Winder and Wirz? It is a natural

inquiry, as it was the only instance in the record of Andersonville, so

far as I ever heard, when such rich plunder escaped those commissioned

robbers. The reason they escaped robbery of all their money, clothing,

blankets and good boots and shoes, was, they had surrendered with the

agreement that they should be allowed to keep all their personal

belongings, and in this instance the Confederate authorities had kept

their agreement.

Thus several thousand dollars were brought into prison, and the old

prisoners were eager to get a share. All sorts of gambling devices were

used, the favorite being the old army Chuc-a-luck board. When these men

came in, the old prisoners had preempted all the vacant land adjoining

their quarters, and they sold their right to it, to these tender-feet

for large sums, for the purpose of putting up shelters on. This they had

no right to do, but the Pilgrims did not know it.

As the money began to circulate, trade began to flourish. Sutler, and

soup stands sprung up all over the prison, where vegetables and soup

were sold at rates that would seem exorbitant in any other place than

the Confederacy. The result of all this gambling and trading, together

with another cause which I will mention, was, that the Pilgrims were

soon relieved of all their money, and then began to trade their

clothing. Thus these well supplied, well dressed prisoners were soon

reduced to a level with the older prisoners; but there was a

compensation in this, as well as in nature, for what the former lost the

latter gained and they were the better off by that much.

The supplies of vegetables and food which were sold by the sutlers and

restaurateurs, were procured of the guards at the gate, they purchasing

of the “Crackers” in the vicinity, causing a lively trade to flourish,

not only in prison, but with the surrounding country.

CHAPTER IX.

THE RAIDERS.

“There must be government in all society—

Bees have their Queen, and stag herds have their leader;

Rome had her Consuls, Athens had her Archons,

And we, sir, have our Managing Committee.”

In the southern portion of the prison, bordering the swamp, there was

domiciled the worst specimens of humanity I ever knew. An acquaintance

with them would almost convince any thinking man that there was

something in Darwin’s theory of the developement of species. If that

theory is tenable, then I should argue these men had been developed from

hyenas, and not very far, or well developed either. They wore the

outward semblance of men, but retained the cowardly, blood-thirsty,

sneaking, thievish nature of the hyena. These were the Andersonville

“Raiders;” and a worse set of men never lived,—in America, at least.

These men were from the slums of New York City and Brooklyn. I never

knew what their record as soldiers was, but as prisoners they were the

terror of all decent men. They congregated together, were organized into

semi-military organization, had their officers from captains down, and

in squads made their raids upon the peaceable prisoners, who were

possessed of anything which excited their cupidity.

The Plymouth Pilgrims furnished a rich harvest for these miscreants, who

spotted them, marking their sleeping places, and in the dead hour of the

night robbed them of whatever they possessed; or if any of the Pilgrims

ventured into their haunts by day, they were knocked down and robbed by

daylight.

While the raiders were constantly at war with others, they were not

always at peace among themselves. Their favorite weapon with others was

a stick; but they settled their difficulties of a domestic character

with their fists.

Sometimes one of the small fry among these Raiders, would venture out on

his own hook, and pilfer any little article he could find in a sick

man’s tent. One day a member of my mess caught one of these fellows

stealing a tin cup from a sick man; he immediately gave chase and caught

him, then we held a drumhead court martial and sentenced him to have his

head shaved.

Now I do not suppose there was a razor among the thirty-three thousand

men that were in Andersonville at the time; notwithstanding this

drawback, the sentence of the court was carried out with a pocket knife.

It made the fellow scowl some, but the executioner managed to saw his

hair off after a fashion.

Another of these Raiders got his just punishment while trying to rob a

half-breed Indian, a member of the Massachusetts Heavy Artillery. The

raider attempted to steal the Indian’s boots from under his head, when

the descendant of King Phillip plunged a knife into the hoodlum, killing

him dead on the spot.

A number of murders had been committed by these Raiders, and robberies

innumerable, when matters were brought to a focus one day in the early

part of July, by Lieutenant Davis, then in command of the Prison vice

Wirz who was sick, declaring that no more rations would be issued until

these men were given up.

He had no need to threaten us;—we were willing to give them up;—we had

no earthly use for them. Give them up? yes; and pay boot, to get rid of

them. But it required a man of nerve to lead in the arrest of these

desperadoes. It was no child’s play, as there were between four and five

hundred of them, and to arrest the leaders meant “business.” That man

was found in the person of Sergeant Leroy L. Key, of the 16th Illinois

Cavalry, who was ably seconded by a tall, lithe, young fellow known as

“Limber Jim,” a member of the 67th Illinois.

To the efforts of these two men, the prisoners at Andersonville were

indebted, more than any other men, for the comparative peace and

security of the prison after the 11th of July.

Key was the head, and furnished the brains, of the organization known,

at first, as the “Regulators,” afterward as the “Prison Police.” Limber

Jim was second in command, and first in a fight.

These two men organized a force of men in the southwest corner of the

stockade, from the best material which could be found. It needed strong

brave men for the work in hand; for these Raiders were strong, athletic

men, and desperate characters, and the Regulators must need face the

lion in his den.

On the 3d of July Key at the head of the Regulators, armed with clubs,

made a charge on the Raiders, who had been expecting the attack and were

prepared. I was standing on the north side of the swamp, and was in good

position to see the fight.

Key, followed by Limber Jim, led the charge; for a few minutes the

spectators could tell nothing of how the Regulators were faring. The air

was filled with clubs, which were descending on men’s heads, shoulders

and arms. The fighting mass surged, and swayed, and finally the Raiders

broke and ran; and then the spectators set up such a shout as must have

cheered Key and his brave men.

That day and the next, the Regulators arrested one hundred and

twenty-five of the worst characters among the Raiders. Davis gave Key

the use of the small stockade at the north gate, as a prison in which to

hold them for trial.

He then organized a Court Martial, consisting of thirteen sergeants,

selected from among the latest arrivals, in order to guard against bias.

The trial was conducted as fairly as was possible, considering their

ignorance of law. Technicalities counted for naught, facts, well

attested, influenced that court.

The trial resulted in finding six men guilty of murder; and the sentence

was hanging.

The names of the six condemned men were, John Sarsfield, William

Collins, alias “Mosby,” Charles Curtis, Patrick Delaney, A. Muir and

Terrence Sullivan.

These men were heavily ironed, and closely guarded, while the remaining

one hundred and nineteen were returned to the prison, and compelled to

run a gauntlet of men armed with clubs and fists, who belabored them

unmercifully, as they were passed through one by one.

The sentence of the court martial was executed on these six men on the

11th of July. A gallows was erected in the street leading from the south

gate, and the culprits marched in under a Confederate guard, to a hollow

square which surrounded the scaffold, and was formed by Key’s brave

Regulators, where they were turned over to Limber Jim.

These desperadoes were terribly surprised when they found they were to

be hung. They imagined the court martial was a farce, intended to scare

them. Imagine their disappointment when they were marched to the

gallows, and turned over to the cool, but resolute and firm Key, and the

fiery Limber Jim, whose brother had been murdered by one of the number.

They found that it was no farce but real genuine tragedy, in which they

were to act an important part.

When they realized this, they began to beg for mercy, but they had shown

no mercy, and now they were to receive no mercy. They then called upon

the priest, who attended them, to speak in their behalf; but the

prisoners would have none of it, but called out “hang them.”

When they found there was no mercy in that crowd of men whom they had

maltreated and robbed, and whose comrades and friends they had murdered,

they resigned themselves to their fate; all but Curtis who broke from

the guard of Regulators and ran through the crowd, over tents, and

across Dead-run into the swamp where he was recaptured and taken back.

They were then placed upon the platform, their arms pinioned, meal sacks

were tied over their heads, the ropes adjusted around their necks, and,

at a signal given by Key, the trap was sprung and they were launched

into eternity, all but Mosby, who being a heavy man broke his rope. He

begged for his life, but it was of no avail. Limber Jim caught him

around the waist and passed him up to another man; again the noose was

adjusted and he, too, received his reward for evil doing.

The execution of these men was witnessed by all the prisoners who were

able to get out of their tents, and it is needless to add, was approved

by them, all except the Raiders. Besides the prisoners, all the rebels

who were on duty outside, found a position where they could witness the

scene. The Confederate officers, apprehensive of a stampede of the

prisoners, took the precaution to keep their men under arms, and the

guns in the forts were loaded, the fuses inserted in the vents and No. 4

stood with lanyard in hand ready to suppress an outbreak.

The hanging of these men had a very salutary effect upon the other evil

doers in the prison.

Heretofore we had had no organization; we were a mob of thirty-three

thousand men, without law, and without officers. Each mess had its own

laws and each man punished those who had offended him; that is, if he

could. But now this band of thugs was broken up and their leaders

hanged. The Regulators were turned into a police force, with the gallant

Limber Jim as chief, and henceforth order prevailed among the prisoners

at Andersonville.

The reader will readily see, from reading what I have written in this

chapter, that our sufferings did not all proceed from the rebels.

Almost twenty-five years have elapsed since those scenes were enacted,

the hot passion engendered by the cruelties of prison life, have

measurably cooled, and as I am writing this story, I am determined to

“hew to the line let the chips fall where they will,” and with a full

understanding of what I say, I affirm that many of the prisoners

suffered more cruelly, at the hands of their comrades, than they did

from the rebels themselves.

There was among the Pilgrims, a fiend by the name of McClellan, a member

of the 12th New York cavalry, who kicked, and abused, and maltreated the

poor weak prisoners who got in his way in a manner which deserved the

punishment meted out to the six Raiders. He had charge of delivering the

rations inside of the prison, and if some poor starved boy, looking for

a crumb got in his way he would lift him clear off from the ground with

the toe of his huge boot.

One day while the bread wagon was unloading, I saw a boy not more than

eighteen years old who had become so weak from starvation, and so

crippled by scurvy that he could not walk, but crawled around on his

hands and knees, trying to pick up some crumbs which had fallen from the

bread; he happened to get in McClellan’s way, when that brute drew back

his foot and gave the poor fellow a kick which sent him several feet,

and with a monstrous oath, told him to keep out of his way. This was

only one instance among thousands of his brutality, yet with all his

meanness I never heard him charged with dishonesty.

The rebels had a way of punishing negroes, which was most exquisite

torture. From my quarters in the prison I witnessed the punishment of a

negro by this method one day. He was stripped naked and then laid on the

ground face downward, his limbs extended to their full length, then his

hands and feet were tied to stakes. A burly fellow then took a paddle

board full of holes, and applied it to that part of the human anatomy in

which our mothers used to appear to be so much interested, when they

affectionately drew us across their knee, and pulled off their slipper.

The executioner was an artist in his way, and he applied that paddle

with a will born of a determination to excel, and the way that poor

darkey howled and yelled was enough to soften a heart of stone.

This mode of punishment was adopted by the prison police afterward, in

cases of petty larceny, and I do not think the patient ever needed a

second dose of that medicine, for there was a blister left to represent

every separate hole in the paddle, and the patient was obliged for

several days, like the Dutchman’s hen, to sit standing.

I would recommend this treatment to the medical fraternity, as a

substitute for cupping; as the cupping and scarifying are combined in

one operation, and I think there is no patent on it.

The battle of Atlanta was fought on the 22d day of July, and we received

the news of the victory in a few days afterward from prisoners who were

captured on that day. Our hopes began to revive from this time. We

thought we could begin to see the “beginning of the end.” Besides this

we had a hope that Sherman would send a Corps of Cavalry down to rescue

us. The rebels seem to have some such thoughts running through their

minds, as the following copy of an order, issued by General Winder,

testifies.

“Headquarters Military Prison,

Andersonville, Ga., July 27, 1864.

The officers on duty and in charge of the Battery of Florida Artillery

at the time will, upon receiving notice that the enemy has approached

within seven miles of this post, open upon the stockade with grape

shot, without reference to the situation beyond the line of defense.

JOHN H. WINDER.

Brigadier General Commanding.“

This order was issued at the time Gen. Stoneman with his cavalry was

trying to capture Macon. Winder, in his cowardice, supposed he might

attempt to rescue the prisoners at Andersonville.

This order, when interpreted, means that when the officers in the forts

which guarded the prison, should hear that any of the Federal troops

were approaching within seven miles of the prison, they were to open on

us with grape shot. A simple rumor by some scared native would have

precipitated that catastrophe.

Just think of it, twenty-four cannons loaded with grape shot opened on

sick defenseless men, not for any offense they had committed, but

because Winder would rather see us slaughtered than rescued.

Further, the order says, “without reference to the situation beyond

these lines of defense.” This simply means that they were to pay no

attention to the attacking party, but to slaughter us.

If the records of the Infernal Regions could be procured, I do not

believe a more hellish order could be found on file.

We heard of Stoneman’s raid and hoped, and yet feared, that he would

come. We knew that the foregoing order had been issued, and yet we hoped

the artillerymen would not find time to carry it out.

We would have liked, O so much, to have got hold of Winder and Wirz, and

that Georgia Militia, there would have been no need of a stockade to

hold them.

O, how weary we became of waiting. It seemed to us that home, and

friends, and the comforts, and necessities of life, were getting

further, and further away, instead of nearer, that we could not stand

this waiting, and sickness, and misery, and living death much longer.

The more we thought of these things, the more discouraged we became, and

I believe these sad discouraging thoughts helped to prostrate many a

poor fellow, and unfit him to resist the effects of his situation and

surroundings, and hastened, if it was not the immediate cause of death.

Chaplain McCabe, who was a prisoner in Libby Prison, has a lecture

entitled “The bright side of Prison life.” If there was a bright side to

Andersonville, I want some particular funny fellow, who was confined

there for five or six months, to come around and tell me where it was,

for I never found it, until I found the OUTside of it.

We heard of the fall of Atlanta, which occurred on the 2d of September,

and had we known the song then, we would have sang those cheering words

written and composed by Lieutenant S. H. M. Byers, while confined in a

rebel prison at Columbia, South Carolina.

I.

“Our camp-fire shone bright on the mountains

That frowned on the river below,

While we stood by our guns in the morning

And eagerly watched for the foe;

When a rider came out from the darkness,

That hung over mountain and tree,

And shouted “boys up and be ready,

For Sherman will march to the Sea.”

II.

Then cheer upon cheer, for bold Sherman

Went up from each valley and glen,

And the bugles re-echoed the music

That came from the lips of the men;

For we knew that the Stars on our banner

More bright in their splendor would be,

And that blessings from North-land would greet us

When Sherman marched down to the sea.

III.

Then forward, boys, forward to battle

We marched on our wearisome way,

And we stormed the wild hills of Resaca

God bless those who fell on that day:

Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory,

Frowned down on the flag of the free;

But the East and the West bore our standards,

And Sherman marched on to the sea.

IV.

Still onward we pressed, till our banner

Swept out from Atlanta’s grim walls,

And the blood of the patriot dampened

The soil where the traitor flag falls:

But we paused not to weep for the fallen,

Who slept by each river and tree,

Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurel

As Sherman marched down to the sea.

V.

Oh, proud was our army that morning,

That stood where the pine proudly towers,

When Sherman said, “boys you are weary;

This day fair Savannah is ours!”

Then sang we a song for our chieftain,

That echoed o’er river and lea,

And the stars in our banner grew brighter

When Sherman marched down to the sea.”

CHAPTER X.

CLOSE QUARTERS.

“HAMLET. I have of late lost all my mirth, foregone all custom of

exercises; and, indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition, that

this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this

most excellent canopy, the air, look you,—this brave o’er hanging

firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it

appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of

vapors.”

SHAKSPERE.

The great influx of prisoners during the month of May and early part of

June, from the armies of Sherman and Meade, increased our numbers to

more than thirty thousand prisoners. These were crowded upon the small

space of twelve acres, or more than two thousand five hundred men to the

acre. This would allow thirty-one square feet to each man, or a piece of

ground five feet by six feet, on which to build his tent and perform all

the acts and offices of life. Indeed we were crowded in so thickly that

it was impossible for the prison officials to find room for us to “fall

in” for roll call, for more than three weeks.

In the latter part of June, however, an addition of nine acres was

built, which gave us more room, but did not remove the filth and

excrements which had accrued in the older part of the prison. The

building on of an addition to the prison was a God-send in two ways, it

gave more room, and the old north line of stockade was cut down for

fuel. The new part was finished one afternoon and a gap made in the old

stockade through which the prisoners passed to their new quarters. After

dark a raid was made on the old part, and before morning every timber

was down, and men who had been compelled to eat their food, at best half

cooked, were now supplied with wood.

The old part of the prison had become so foul, as a result of the

sickness and crowded state of the prisoners, that it surpassed all

powers of description or of imagination. The whole swamp bordering upon

Dead-run, was covered to a depth of several inches with human

excrements, and this was so filled with maggots that it seemed a living

moving mass of putrifying filth. The stench was loathsome and sickening

to a degree that surpasses description. With the crowded state of the

prison, the filthy surroundings, and the terrible atmosphere which

covered the prison like a cloud, it is no wonder that men sickened and

died by the thousands every month.

These terrible surroundings made the prisoners depressed and gloomy in

spirits, and made them more susceptible to the attacks of disease.

The bodies of those who died were carried to the south gate, with their

name, company, and regiment written on a slip of paper and pinned to

their breast. Here they were laid in the Dead-house, outside of the

Stockade. From the Dead-house they were carted in wagons to the

Cemetery, and buried in trenches four feet in depth. They were thrown

into the wagons, like dead dogs, covered with filth and lice. After the

wagons had hauled away all the dead bodies, they were loaded with food

for the prisoners in the Stockade. This was done without any attempt at,

or pretense of cleaning in any way. I shall leave the reader to imagine

how palatable that food was after such treatment.

The monotony of prison life was sometimes relieved by finding among the

prisoners an old acquaintance of boyhood days. Many of the western men

were born and educated in the East, and it was no uncommon thing for

them to find an old chum among the eastern soldiers.

One day as I was cooking my rations some one slapped me on the shoulder

and exclaimed, “Hello Bill!” Looking up I saw standing before me, an old

schoolmate from Jamestown, New York, by the name of Joe Hall. It was a

sad re-union; we had both been in prison more than nine months, he on

Belle Isle, and I in Danville. We had both been vaccinated and had great

scorbutic ulcers in our arms, but he, poor fellow, had gangrene which

soon ate away his life. A few weeks afterwards he went out to the prison

hospital, where he died in a few days, and now a marble slab in the

Cemetery at Andersonville with this inscription.

Joseph Hall, Company E. 9th N. Y. Cav.

marks the last resting place of one of my boyhood friends. Poor Joe.

A few days after Joe’s visit to me, he introduced me to another

Jamestown boy, a member of the 49th New York Infantry, by the name of

Orlando Hoover, or “Tip” as he was called. He had re-inlisted during the

winter previous and had been home on a veterans furlough, where he had

visited some of my old friends. He told me how some of the old gray

haired men had declared they would enlist for the purpose of releasing

the prisoners, that there was great indignation expressed by many loyal

northern men, because our government did not take some measures to

release us from our long confinement.

“Tip” had good health in Andersonville, as he did not stay there more

than two months, but when we arrived at Florence I went to his

detachment to see him, and his “pard” told me that he had jumped from

the cars, and that the guards had shot him, while on their way up from

Charleston. A little more than two months afterward, I carried the news

to his widowed mother, and sisters.

One of my comrades, Nelson Herrick, of Company B, 10th Wisconsin, had

scratched his leg slightly with his finger nail, this had grown into a

scorbutic ulcer, at last gangrene supervened upon it, and one of the

best men in the 10th Wisconsin was carried to the cemetery.

All the terrible surroundings made me sad and gloomy, but did not take

from me my determination to live. I knew that if I lost hope, I would

lose life, and I was determined that I would not die on rebel soil—not

if pure grit would prevent it. But one day in August I ate a small piece

of raw onion which gave me a very severe attack of cholera morbus, which

lasted me two days. I began to think that it was all up with me, but

thanks to the kindness of my “pards”, Rouse and Ole, I pulled through

and from that day began to get better of dysentery and scurvy with which

I was afflicted. I was so diseased with scurvy, that my nether limbs

were so contracted that I was obliged to walk on my tiptoes, with the

aid of a long cane held in both hands. My limbs were swollen and of a

purple color. My gums were swollen and purple and my teeth loose and

taken altogether I looked like a man who had got his ticket to the

cemetery. None of my comrades believed I could live, so they told me

afterward, but I never had a doubt of my final restoration to home and

friends, except in those two days in which I suffered with cholera

morbus.

Of the comrades of my regiment with whom I had been associated in

prison, Nelson Herrick, Joseph Parrott, Ramey Yoht, and Wallace Darrow

of company B, had died from the effects of diarrhea and scurvy, and

Corporal John Doughty of my company had died from the effects of a

gunshot wound, received from a guard at Danville, while looking out of a

window.

Of those names I remember at this date, who were in Andersonville, Joe

Eaton of Company A, stood the prison life very well, he being one of the

few who kept up his courage and observed, as well as possible, the laws

of health.

John Burk of my company, seemed to wear well in this terrible place, on

account of a strong constitution and his unflinching grit, which was of

a quality like a Quinebaug whetstone. Corporal J. E. Webster, and E. T.

Best, Sergeant Ole Gilbert, G. W. Rouse, and myself of my company, and

Sergeant Roselle Hull of Company B, were alike afflicted with dysentery

and scurvy, and each had a large scorbutic ulcer on his arm. Friend

Cowles of Company B. had also succumbed to the terrible treatment of the

rebels, and had been laid to rest.

To add to our suffering we were exposed to the terrible heat of that

semi-tropical climate. There was not a tree left on the ground, not a

bush, nothing for shade, but our little tents and huts. The sun at noon

was almost vertical, and he poured down his rays with relentless fury on

our unprotected heads. The flies swarmed about and on us by day and the

mosquitoes tormented us by night. There was no rest, no comfort, no

enjoyment, and only a tiny ray of hope for us.

Amid all this terrible misery and suffering, there were a few who kept

their faith in God, and did not curse the authors of their misery.

Conspicuous among these was a band of Union Tennesseans who were

quartered near me. They held their prayer meetings regularly, and

occasionally one of their number would deliver an exhortation. The faith

of those men was of the abiding kind. They were modern Pauls and Silases

praying for their jailors. I too had a faith, but not of the same

quality as theirs. My faith was in a climate where overcoats would not

be needed, and that our tormentors would eventually find it.

We had no intercourse with the guards, and could get no newspapers,

hence all the news we got was from the “tenderfeet” when they arrived.

But the news we did get after Sherman and Grant began the advance, was

of a cheering kind, and we had strong hopes of the ultimate success of

the Union cause. I cannot imagine what the result, so far as we were

concerned, would have been, had Sherman and Grant failed in their great

undertakings. Without any hope to cheer us, we must have all been

sacrificed in the arms of the Moloch of despair.

One day in August a squad of Union Tennessee Cavalry was brought in. We

tried in vain to find out what Sherman was doing, and how large an army

he had. They only knew that they had been captured while on picket duty,

and that Sherman had a “powathful lahge ahmy.”

Your ordinary Southerner of those days, had a profound and an abiding

ignorance of numbers. They were to him what pork is to a Jew, an unclean

thing. He had no use for them, and would at a venture accept ten

thousand dollars, as a greater sum than a million, for the reason that

it took more words to express the former, than the latter sum.

In the winter of 1862, while Mitchell’s Division was camped at Bacon

Creek, Ky., we had a picket post on a plantation owned by a man named

Buckner, a cousin of the rebel General S. B. Buckner, he was, or

professed to be, a Union man. He went down to Green River on one

occasion to visit Buell’s army. On his return I asked him how many

soldiers General Buell had? “I can’t just say,” he replied, “but theys a

powahful lot of em.” “Yes but how many thousand?” said I. “Well I wont

be right suah, but theys a heap moah than a right smart chance of em,”

was as near an approach to numbers as I could induce him to express.

Geography is on the same catalogue with Arithmetic. While marching from

Shepardsville to Elizabethtown, in 1861 we camped for the night on

Muldraugh’s Hill, near the spot where President Lincoln was born. After

we had “broke ranks” I went with others to a farm house not far away to

procure water. A middle aged man met us, and after granting us

permission to get water from his well, he asked me, “what regiment is

that?” I told him it was the 10th Wisconsin. “Westconstant,

Westconstant, let me see is Westconstant in Michigan?” inquired he.

After the battle of Chickamauga, while we were at McLaw’s Division

Hospital, our Surgeon took charge of a rebel soldier lad not more than

sixteen years of age, who in addition to a severe wound, was suffering

from an attack of fever. One morning the surgeon went to him and asked,

“how are you this morning my boy?” “Well I feel a heap bettah, but I’m

powahful weak yet, doctah,” was his reply.

Notwithstanding these people know nothing of numbers, or of Geography,

or of Orthography and not much of any ology, or ism, yet they are good

riders, good marksmen, good card players, good whiskey drinkers, and

barring the troubles which grew out of the “late unpleasantness” and

“moonshining” they are in the main kind-hearted people to the whites.

These remarks apply to the poorer class of whites in the time of the

war. I understand there has been much improvement since that time, in

some respects, there was certainly room for it.

But the trusty unfailing friend of the Union soldier, the caterer and

guide of the escaped prisoner, the one on whom he could depend under

any, and all circumstances was the negro. The poor black man knew that

“Massy Lincum’s sogers” were solving a problem for them which had

remained unsolved for more than two hundred years. They knew that the

success of the Union arms meant the freedom of the slaves, and they

always worshipped a Federal soldier. Any prisoner who escaped from rebel

prisons, and succeeded in reaching the Union lines, owes his success to

the negroes for without their friendly aid in the way of furnishing

food, and pointing out the way, and in most instances acting as guide,

they could never have succeeded. He was never so poor but that he would

furnish food for a fugitive prisoner and the night was never so dark but

that he would guide him on his way, usually turning him over to a friend

who would run him to the next station on the “underground railroad.”

The negro was, on his part, the innocent cause of much trouble, for

speculate and explain as much as you will, he was the cause of the war.

On his account the exchange of prisoners was suspended and he was, at

once, the cause of nearly all our trouble, and our only friend. I said

our only friend, I mean in a general sense, for there was a class of

men, though small in numbers, who never forgot the men of their own

faith. There was never a prison so dark and filthy but that a Catholic

priest would enter it, and there was never a dying prisoner so lousy and

besmeared, but that he would administer the consolations of the church

to him in the hour of his extremity.

In fact Catholic priests were the only ministers, I ever heard of, who

entered the prison at Andersonville to give the consolations of their

religion to dying men. I do not wish to be understood as finding fault

because this was so, for Rebel ministers would not and Union ministers

could not, enter that prison. And, indeed, we did not want the

ministrations of those Rebel preachers. What little experience we had

had with them had convinced us that they would take advantage of their

position to insult us on account of our loyalty to our flag. Not so with

the Catholic priest. He knew nothing of race, color, or politics when

dying men were considered. In his zeal for his church Rebel and Union

were alike to him, and in any place where a Catholic was to be found,

there a Catholic priest would find his way, and offer the sacraments of

his church to the dying. I can honor them for their zeal and courage,

although I cannot accept the dogmas of their church.

Dr. Jones, in his report, speaks of the inhuman treatment of the nurses

to the sick. This may have been true of the nurses in the hospital. They

were detailed from among the prisoners in the stockade, not on account

of any fitness for the duty, but because of favor. They cared nothing

for the sick. They were after the extra rations which were allowed to

men who were working outside the stockade, and for the clothing which

fell into their hands in one way and another.

Inside of the stockade there were no nurses for the sick, except such

voluntary care as one comrade bestowed upon another. In cases where men

of the same company or regiment were associated together the sick man so

far as I observed, was cared for as well as the circumstances would

admit of. But what could these men do for each other? There was no

medicine to be had for love or money. The surgeons prescribed sumac

berries for scurvy, and black-berry root for diarrhea and dysentery.

Little luxuries, such as fruits, jellies, and farinaceous compounds were

unknown in that place. A comrade could only cook the corn meal, and

bring a dish of water, and assist his friend to stool and when he died

pin a little slip of paper on his breast with his name, company and

regiment written on it, and assist in carrying him to the Dead-house,

and then hope that some one would do as well by him.

Ye who growl, and snarl, and find fault with everything and everybody,

when you do not feel well, will do well to stop and think how those poor

men suffered and then thank God, and your friends, that your condition

is so much better than theirs was.

CHAPTER XI.

MORTALITY AT ANDERSONVILLE.

“Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;

Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes

Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.

Let’s choose executors, and talk of wills:

And yet not so,—for what can we bequeath,

Save our deposed bodies to the ground?”

KING RICHARD II.

The number of prisoners confined in the Andersonville prison, all told,

was forty-five thousand six hundred and thirteen. Of these twelve

thousand nine hundred and twelve died there, or in other words two men

out of every seven who were confined in that prison died there, and the

average length of time of imprisonment was only four months.

That this was largely due to causes within the control of the

Confederate authorities I propose to show by the sworn testimony of one

of their own men who was in a position to know, and speak

authoritatively.

On the 6th day of August 1864 Surgeon Joseph Jones, of the Confederate

army, was detailed by the Surgeon General to proceed to Andersonville,

and investigate and report, upon the phenomena of the diseases

prevailing there. His visit was not for the benefit of the prisoners,

but for purely scientific purposes. His report, from which I quote,

tells a story of such as no prisoner could tell, for, if any were

qualified to make such investigation and report, they had no opportunity

to do so.

These extracts from the above mentioned report are taken from

“Andersonville,” a book which I wish every civilized person in the world

could read. This report was part of the testimony offered and accepted

at the trial of Wirz, and is now on file in the office of the Judge

Advocate General of the United States, at Washington.

“MEDICAL TESTIMONY.”

(Transcript from the printed testimony at Wirz Trial, pages 618 to 639,

inclusive).

“Dr. Joseph Jones for the prosecution.

By the Judge Advocate:

Question. Where do you reside?

Answer. In Augusta, Georgia.

Ques. Are you a graduate of any medical college?

Ans. Of the University of Pennsylvania.

Ques. How long have you been engaged in the practice of medicine?

Ans. Eight years.

Ques. Has your experience been as a practitioner, or rather as an

investigator of medicine as a science?

Ans. Both.

Ques. What position do you hold now?

Ans. That of Medical Chemist in the Medical College of Georgia, at

Augusta.

Ques. How long have you held your position in that college?

Ans. Since 1858.

Ques. How were you employed during the Rebellion?

Ans. I served six months in the early part of it as a private in the

ranks, and the rest of the time in the medical department.

Ques. Under the direction of whom?

Ans. Under the direction of Dr. Moore, Surgeon General.

Ques. Did you, while acting under his direction, visit Andersonville,

professionally?

Ans. Yes Sir.

Ques. For the purpose of making investigations there?

Ans. For the purpose of prosecuting investigations ordered by the

Surgeon General.

Ques. You went there in obedience to a letter of instructions?

Ans. In obedience to orders which I received.

Ques. Did you reduce the results of your investigations to the shape

of a report?

Ans. I was engaged at that work when General Johnston surrendered his

army.

(_A document being handed to witness._)

Ques. Have you examined this extract from your report and compared it

with the original?

Ans. Yes sir, I have.

Ques. Is it accurate?

Ans. So far as my examination extended, it is accurate.

The document just examined by witness was offered in evidence, and is

as follows:

_Observations upon the diseases of the Federal prisoners, confined

in Camp Sumter, Andersonville, in Sumter county, Georgia, instituted

with a view to illustrate chiefly the origin and causes of hospital

gangrene, the relations of continued and malarial fevers, and the

pathology of camp diarrhea and dysentery, by Joseph Jones Surgeon P.

A. C. S. Professor of Medical Chemistry in the Medical College of

Georgia, at Augusta, Georgia._

Hearing of the unusual mortality among the Federal prisoners

confined at Andersonville, Georgia, in the month of August, 1864,

during a visit to Richmond, Va., I expressed to the Surgeon General,

S. P. Moore, Confederate States of America, a desire to visit Camp

Sumter, with the design of instituting a series of inquiries upon

the nature and causes of the prevailing diseases. Small pox had

appeared among the prisoners, and I believed that this would prove

an admirable field for the establishment of its characteristic

lesions. The condition of Peyer’s glands in this disease was

considered as worthy of minute investigation. It was believed that a

large body of men from the northern portion of the United States,

suddenly transported to a warm Southern climate, and confined upon a

small portion of land, would furnish an excellent field for the

investigation of the relations of typhus, typhoid and malarial

fevers.”

Then follows a letter of introduction to the Surgeon in charge at

Andersonville, and a letter to Gen. Winder asking permission to visit

the Inner Prison, and an order of Winder granting permission. The

report then proceeds.

“_Description of the Confederate States Military Prison Hospital at

Andersonville, Number of prisoners, physical condition, food,

clothing, habits, moral condition, diseases._

The Confederate Military Prison at Andersonville, Ga., consists of a

strong Stockade, twenty feet in height, enclosing twenty-seven

acres. The Stockade is formed of strong pine logs, firmly planted in

the ground. The main Stockade is surrounded by two other similar

rows of pine logs, the middle stockade being sixteen feet high, and

the outer twelve feet. These are intended for offense and defense.

If the inner stockade should at any time be forced by the prisoners,

the second forms another line of defense; while in case of an

attempt to deliver the prisoners by a force operating upon the

exterior, the outer line forms an admirable protection to the

Confederate troops, and a most formidable obstacle to cavalry or

infantry.

The four angles of the outer line are strengthened by earth-works

upon commanding eminences, from which the cannon, in case of an

outbreak among the prisoners, may sweep the entire enclosure; and it

was designed to connect these works by a line of rifle pits, running

zigzag, around the outer stockade; those rifle pits have never been

completed. The ground enclosed by the innermost stockade lies in the

form of a parallelogram the larger diameter running almost due north

and south. This space includes the northern and southern opposing

sides of two hills, between which a stream of water runs from west

to east. The surface soil of these hills is composed chiefly of sand

with varying admixtures of clay and oxide of iron. The clay is

sufficiently tenacious to give a considerable degree of consistency

to the soil. The internal structure of the hills, as revealed by the

deep wells, is similar to that already described. The alternate

layers of clay and sand, as well as oxide of iron, which form, in

its various combinations a cement to the sand, allow of extensive

tunneling. The prisoners not only constructed numerous dirt huts

with balls of clay and sand, taken from the wells which they have

excavated all over those hills, but they have also, in some cases,

tunneled extensively from these wells. The lower portion of these

hills, bordering on the stream, are wet and boggy from the constant

oozing of water. The stockade was built originally to accommodate

only ten thousand prisoners, and included at first seventeen acres.

Near the close of the month of June the area was enlarged by the

addition of ten acres. The ground added was on the northern slope of

the largest hill.

Within the circumscribed area of the stockade the Federal prisoners

were compelled to perform all the offices of life—cooking, washing,

the calls of nature, exercise and sleeping.

During the month of March the prison was less crowded than at any

subsequent time, and the average space of ground to each prisoner

was only 98.7 feet, or less than seven square yards. The Federal

prisoners were gathered from all parts of the Confederate States

east of the Mississippi, and crowded into the confined space, until

in the month of June, the average number of square feet of ground to

each prisoner was only 33.2 or less than four square yards. These

figures represent the condition of the stockade in a better light

even than it really was; for a considerable breadth of land along

the stream, flowing from west to east between the hills, was low and

boggy, and was covered with the excrement of the men, and thus

rendered wholly uninhabitable, and in fact useless for every purpose

except that of defecation.

The pines and other small trees and shrubs, which originally were

scattered sparsely over these hills, were, in a short time, cut down

and consumed by the prisoners for firewood, and no shade tree was

left in the entire enclosure of the stockade. With their

characteristic industry and ingenuity, the Federals constructed for

themselves small huts and caves, and attempted to shield themselves

from the rain and sun and night damps and dew. But few tents were

distributed to the prisoners, and those were in most cases torn and

rotten. In the location and arrangement of these tents and huts no

order appears to have been followed; in fact, regular streets appear

to be out of the question in so crowded an area; especially too, as

large bodies of prisoners were from time to time added suddenly

without any previous preparations. The irregular arrangement of the

huts and imperfect shelters were very unfavorable for the

maintenance of a proper system of police.

The police and internal economy of the prison was left almost

entirely in the hands of the prisoners themselves; the duties of the

Confederate soldiers acting as guards being limited to the

occupation of boxes or lookouts ranged around the stockade at

regular intervals, and to the manning of the batteries at the angles

of the prison. Even judicial matters pertaining to themselves, as

the detection and punishment of such crimes as theft and murder

appear to have been, in a great measure, abandoned to the prisoners.

A striking instance of this occurred in the month of July, when the

Federal prisoners within the stockade tried, condemned, and hanged

six (6) of their own number, who had been convicted of stealing, and

of robbing and murdering their fellow prisoners. They were all hung

upon the same day, and thousands of the prisoners gathered around to

witness the execution. The Confederate authorities are said not to

have interfered with these proceedings. In this collection of men

from all parts of the world, every phase of human character was

represented; the stronger preyed upon the weaker, and even the sick

who were unable to defend themselves were robbed of their scanty

supplies of food and clothing. Dark stories were afloat, of men,

both sick and well, who were murdered at night, strangled to death

by comrades for scant supplies of clothing or money.

I heard a sick and wounded Federal prisoner accuse his nurse, a

fellow prisoner of the United States army, of having stealthily,

during his sleep, inoculated his wounded arm with gangrene, that he

might destroy his life and fall heir to his clothing.

* * * * *

The large number of men confined in the stockade soon, under a

defective system of police, and with imperfect arrangements, covered

the surface of the low grounds with excrements. The sinks over the

lower portions of the stream were imperfect in their plan and

structure, and the excrements were, in large measure, deposited so

near the border of the stream as not to be washed away, or else

accumulated upon the low boggy ground. The volume of water was not

sufficient to wash away the feces, and they accumulated in such

quantities in the lower portion of the stream as to form a mass of

liquid excrement. Heavy rains caused the water of the stream to

rise, and as the arrangements for passage of the increased amounts

of water out of the stockade were insufficient, the liquid feces

overflowed the low grounds and covered them several inches, after

subsidence of the waters. The action of the sun upon this putrefying

mass of excrements and fragments of bread and meat and bones excited

most rapid fermentation and developed a horrible stench.

Improvements were projected for the removal of the filth and for the

prevention of its accumulation, but they were only partially and

imperfectly carried out. As the forces of the prisoners were reduced

by confinement, want of exercise, improper diet, and by scurvy,

diarrhea, and dysentery, they were unable to evacuate their bowels

within the stream or along its banks, and the excrements were

deposited at the very doors of their tents. The vast majority

appeared to lose all repulsion to filth, and both sick and well

disregarded all the laws of hygiene and personal cleanliness. The

accommodations for the sick were imperfect and insufficient.

From the organization of the prison, February 24th, 1864, to May

22d, the sick were treated within the stockade. In the crowded

condition of the stockade, and with the tents and huts clustered

thickly around the hospital, it was impossible to secure proper

ventilation or to maintain the necessary police. The Federal

prisoners also made frequent forays upon the hospital stores and

carried off the food and clothing of the sick. The hospital was on

the 22d of May removed to its present site without the stockade, and

five acres of ground covered with oaks and pines appropriated to the

use of the sick.

The supply of medical officers has been insufficient from the

foundation of the prison.

The nurses and attendants upon the sick have been most generally

Federal prisoners, who in too many cases appear to have been devoid

of moral principle, and who not only neglected their duties, but

were also engaged in extensive robbing of the sick.

From the want of proper police and hygienic regulations alone it is

not wonderful that from February 24th to September 21st, 1864, nine

thousand four hundred and seventy-nine deaths nearly one third of

the entire number of prisoners, should have been recorded. I found

the stockade and hospital in the following condition during my

pathological investigations, instituted in the month of September,

1864:

Stockade, Confederate States Military Prison.

At the time of my visit to Andersonville a large number of Federal

prisoners had been removed to Millen, Savannah, Charleston and other

parts of the Confederacy, in anticipation of an advance of General

Sherman’s forces from Atlanta, with the design of liberating their

captive brethren: however, about fifteen thousand prisoners remained

confined within the limits of the stockade and Confederate States

Military Prison Hospital.

In the stockade, with the exception of the damp low lands bordering

the small stream, the surface was covered with huts, and small

ragged tents and parts of blankets and fragments of oil-cloth,

coats, and blankets stretched upon sticks. The tents and huts were

not arranged according to any order, and there was in most parts of

the enclosure scarcely room for two men to walk abreast between the

tents and huts.

* * * * *

Each day the dead from the stockade were carried out by their fellow

prisoners and deposited upon the ground under a bush arbor just

outside the southwestern gate. From thence they were carried in

carts to the burying ground, one quarter of a mile northwest of the

prison. The dead were buried without coffins, side by side, in

trenches four feet deep.

The low grounds bordering the stream were covered with human

excrements and filth of all kinds, which in many places appeared to

be alive with working maggots. An indescribable sickening stench

arose from these fermenting masses of human filth.

There were near five thousand seriously ill Federals in the stockade

and Confederate States Military Prison Hospital, and the deaths

exceeded one hundred per day, and large numbers of the prisoners who

were walking about, and who had not been entered upon the sick

reports, were suffering from severe and incurable diarrhea,

dysentery and scurvy. The sick were attended almost entirely by

their fellow prisoners, appointed as nurses, and as they received

but little attention, they were compelled to exert themselves at all

times to attend to the calls of nature, and hence, they retained the

power of moving about to within a comparatively short period of the

close of life. Owing to the slow progress of the diseases most

prevalent, diarrhea and chronic dysentery, the corpses were as a

general rule emaciated.

I visited two thousand sick within the stockade, lying under some

long sheds which had been built at the northern portion for

themselves. At this time only one medical officer was in attendance,

whereas at least twenty medical officers should have been employed.

* * * * *

Scurvy, diarrhea, dysentery, and hospital gangrene were the

prevailing diseases. I was surprised to find but few cases of

malarial fever, and no well marked cases either of typhus or typhoid

fever. The absence of the different forms of malarial fever may be

accounted for on the supposition that the artificial atmosphere of

the stockade, crowded densely with human beings and loaded with

animal exhalations, was unfavorable to the existence and action of

malarial poison. The absence of typhoid and typhus fevers amongst

all the causes which are supposed to generate these diseases,

appeared to be due to the fact that the great majority of these

prisoners had been in captivity in Virginia, at Belle Island, and in

other parts of the Confederacy for months, and even as long as two

years, and during this time they had been subjected to the same bad

influences, and those who had not had these fevers before either had

them during their confinement in Confederate prisons or else their

systems, from long exposure were proof against their action.

The effects of scurvy were manifested on every hand, and in all its

various stages, from the muddy pale complexion, pale gums, feeble,

languid muscular motions, lowness of spirits, and fetid breath, to

the dusky, dirty leaden complexion, swollen features, spongy purple,

livid, fungoid, bleeding gums, loose teeth, œdematous limbs, covered

with livid vibices and petechiae, spasmodically flexed, painful and

hardened extremities, spontaneous hemorrhages from mucous canals,

and large, ill conditioned, spreading ulcers covered with a dark

purplish fungus growth. I observed that in some cases of scurvy the

parotid glands were greatly swollen, and in some instances to such

an extent as to preclude entirely the power to articulate. In

several cases of dropsy of the abdomen and lower extremities

supervening upon scurvy, the patients affirmed that previously to

the appearance of the dropsy they had suffered with profuse and

obstinate diarrhea, and that when this was checked by a change of

diet, from Indian corn bread baked with the husk, to boiled rice,

the dropsy appeared. The severe pains and livid patches were

frequently associated with swellings in various parts, and

especially in the lower extremities, accompanied with stiffness and

contractions of the knee joints and ankles, and often with a burning

feel of the parts, as if lymph had been effused between the

integuments and apeneuroses, preventing the motion of the skin over

the swollen parts. Many of the prisoners believed that the scurvy

was contagious, and I saw men guarding their wells and springs,

fearing lest some man suffering with scurvy might use the water and

thus poison them. I observed also numerous cases of hospital

gangrene and of spreading scorbutic ulcers, which had supervened

upon slight injuries. The scorbutic ulcers presented a dark purple

fungoid, elevated surface, with livid swollen edges, exuded a thin,

fetid sanious fluid, instead of pus. Many ulcers which originated

from the sorbutic condition of the system appeared to become truly

gangrenous, assuming all the characteristics of hospital gangrene.

From the crowded condition, filthy habits, bad diet, and dejected

depressed condition of the prisoners, their systems had become so

disordered that the smallest abrasion of the skin from the rubbing

of a shoe, or from the effects of the sun, or from the prick of a

splinter, or from scratching or a mosquito bite, in some cases took

on rapid and frightful ulceration and gangrene. The long use of salt

meat, ofttimes imperfectly cured, as well as the most total

deprivation of vegetables and fruit, appeared to be the chief cause

of scurvy. I carefully examined the bakery and the bread furnished

the prisoners, and found that they were supplied almost entirely

with corn bread from which the husk had not been separated. This

husk acted as an irritant to the alimentary canal, without adding

any nutriment to the bread. As far as my examination extended no

fault could be found with the mode in which the bread was baked; the

difficulty lay in the failure to separate the husk from the corn

meal. I strongly urged the preparation of large quantities of soup

made from the cow and calves heads with the brains and tongues to

which a liberal supply of sweet potatoes and vegetables might have

been advantageously added. The material existed in abundance for the

preparation of such soup in large quantities with but little

additional expense. Such aliment would have been not only highly

nutritious, but it would also have acted as an efficient remedial

agent for the removal of the scorbutic condition. The sick within

the stockade lay under several long sheds which were originally

built for barracks. These sheds covered two floors which were open

on all sides. The sick lay upon the bare boards, or upon such ragged

blankets as they possessed, without, as far as I observed, any

bedding or even straw.

* * * * *

The haggard, distressed countenances of these miserable, complaining

dejected, living skeletons, crying for medical aid and food, and

cursing their Government for its refusal to exchange prisoners, and

the ghastly corpses with their glazed eyeballs staring up into

vacant space, with the flies swarming down their open grinning

mouths, and over their ragged clothes infested with numerous lice,

as they lay amongst the sick and dying formed a picture of helpless,

hopeless misery which it would be impossible to portray by words or

by the brush. A feeling of disappointment and even resentment on

account of the action of the United States Government upon the

subject of exchange of prisoners, appeared to be widespread, and the

apparent hopeless, nature of the negotiations for some general

exchange of prisoners appeared to be a cause of universal regret and

deep and injurious despondency. I heard some of the prisoners go so

far as to exonerate the Confederate Government from any charge of

intentionally subjecting them to a protracted confinement, with its

necessary and unavoidable sufferings in a country cut off from all

intercourse with foreign nations, and sorely pressed on all sides,

whilst on the other hand they charged their prolonged captivity upon

their own Government, which was attempting to make the negro equal

to the white man. Some hundreds or more of the prisoners had been

released from confinement in the stockade on parole, and filled

various offices as clerks, druggists, carpenters, etc., in the

various departments. These men were well clothed and presented a

stout and healthy appearance, and as a general rule, they presented

a much more robust and healthy appearance than the Confederate

troops guarding the prisoners.

* * * * *

The entire grounds are surrounded by a frail board fence, and are

strictly guarded by Confederate soldiers, and no prisoner, except

the paroled attendants, is allowed to leave the grounds except by a

special permit from the commandant of the interior of the prison.

The patients and attendants, near two thousand in number, are

crowded into this confined space and are but poorly supplied with

old and ragged tents. Large numbers of them were without any bunks

in the tents, and lay upon the ground, ofttimes without even a

blanket. No beds or straw appeared to have been furnished. The tents

extend to within a few yards of the small stream, the eastern

portion of which, as we have before said, is used as a privy and is

loaded with excrements; and I observed a large pile of corn bread,

bones, and filth of all kinds, thirty feet in diameter and several

feet in height, swarming with myriads of flies, in a vacant space

near the pots used for cooking. Millions of flies swarmed over

everything and covered the faces of the sleeping patients, and

crawled down their open mouths and deposited their maggots in the

gangrenous wounds of the living and in the mouths of the dead.

Mosquitoes in great numbers also infested the tents, and many of the

patients were so stung by these pestiferous insects, that they

resembled those suffering from a slight attack of the measles.

The police and hygiene of the hospital were defective in the

extreme; the attendants, who appeared in almost every instance to

have been selected from the prisoners, seemed to have, in many

cases, but little interest in the welfare of their fellow captives.

The accusation was made that the nurses, in many cases, robbed the

sick of their clothing, money, and rations, and carried on a

clandestine trade with the paroled prisoners and confederate guards

without the hospital enclosure, in the clothing, effects of the

sick, dying, and dead Federals. They certainly appeared to neglect

the comfort and cleanliness of the sick intrusted to their care in a

most shameful manner, even after making due allowances for the

difficulties of the situation. Many of the sick were literally

encrusted with dirt and filth and covered with vermin.