My Second Entrance into Belle Island Prison Pen, Feb. 13, 1864.
The day that I entered the island the second time, Feb. 13, a
Confederate preacher delivered a very long sermon to us, and tried to
convert us to the Southern Confederacy cause, but with poor success.
We could not be converted to an institution that tried to freeze us
and starve us. He was listened to attentively for a long time when he
remarked before closing that he didn’t know as he was doing any good
talking to us, it was like casting pearls before swine, and he would
close his remarks. One of our boys told him that he might have stopped
long ago if he had wanted to, as we would have had no objections
whatever.
On entering the prison pen on the island, for the second time, my
spirits sank to zero, for the prospect before me was certainly a
gloomy one. This was a low and barren island, over which the cold
February winds swept from up and down the James River, making it very
uncomfortable for us, exposed as we were to the elements of the
weather. I could now see a great change in the appearance of the
prisoners since my short stay of six days here, in October, 1863, and
not for the better, but very much worse. Many were nearly destitute of
clothing, and had been so starved and exposed to the severe weather
that they were mere skeletons, slowly moving about. Some of them were
being fairly eaten alive by graybacks. From lack of proper means of
keeping clean, and only the icy river water in which to wash, many
were nearly as black as negroes. Some indeed were too weak to keep
themselves clean, and too discouraged to care. I was informed that
there were about 8,000 of us on the island at this time, and a large
number, perhaps several thousand, including Herrick and myself, were
without shelter of any kind, although we were more fortunate than some
of them. During our stay here we received no fuel for fires. I saw a
few sticks of wood, which were being whittled into splinters and small
fires made with them, around which hovered the poor, shivering, almost
lifeless human forms, sitting upon the frozen ground. This wood being
pitch pine, produced very black smoke, which blackened the faces of
the poor fellows who tried to warm over the little fires and caused
them to appear still more hideous. Those of the prisoners who were
without shelter contrived different ways to keep from freezing at
night, while trying to sleep. I slept in a shallow rounding ditch in
the ground, in which I lay also in the daytime, when becoming tired of
walking about, standing or sitting on the frozen ground. This
protected me to some extent from the cold, piercing winds which blew
over the island, but it was very uncomfortable during a rainstorm, of
which we experienced several during our confinement there. During a
rainstorm the sand and ground about me would become saturated with
water, and keep my clothing wet for days, and I would become so
chilled and numbed that I would be scarcely able to get up. One cold
night, while trying to sleep, my toes were frozen so that the skin
peeled off sometime after. While we were here in this condition the
water in the river froze over nearly the whole of its surface. I saw
ice over three inches in thickness.
A day seemed to me as long as a month. Rations were very small,
consisting almost entirely of unsifted cornmeal, stirred up with
water, and often without salt, as salt was a scarce article with the
Confederacy. This was baked in cakes about the size of a brick, only
about one and one-half inches thick. One-half a cake of this size was
given each man for a day’s ration, and nothing else with it, with the
exception that two or three times while on the island we received
beans or meat. This was generally entirely devoured at once, leaving
nothing for the other two meals, and yet we remained nearly as hungry
as before eating. Our drink consisted of icy river water, which did
not warm a person very much, thoroughly chilled as we were.
Days and weeks passed slowly on, with nothing to cheer us, but
everything to depress our spirits. Cold, hungry, and discouraged with
the sight of so much misery all about us, little wonder that some lost
their reason. Our main topic of conversation was the comforts of home,
and the subject of something to eat, especially as this was most
forcibly impressed upon our minds. I well remember receiving as a part
of one day’s rations some small beans (called here cow beans). Some
were red and others black. I placed them in my left hand and counted
them, and found that there were just fifteen. These were all the beans
that I received while on the island, and as I had no means of cooking
them I ate them raw.
At another time I received a piece of boiled beef, about the size of a
black walnut, which was all the meat I had to eat while on the island.
After a short stay in this place I began to fail rapidly. On arising
in the morning I would ache all over, and could scarcely straighten
up, and it appeared to me that even the marrow in my bones was
chilled. Occasionally I would take a walk down to the water’s edge, in
order to start circulation and get a little warmth into my shivering
body, in which I generally failed. In order to get to the water we
were obliged to pass down through a narrow lane, fenced on each side
with a tight high board fence, and plenty of guards on all sides.
Through this we passed to procure water, and to wash our hands and
faces if we washed at all. We were not supplied with washbasins, and
therefore when washing would use the river as a basin, which did not
improve the water for drinking purposes, where several thousand men
washed within a space of 30 or 40 feet in length. The closet was also
located very near where we obtained our drinking water. This was at
the lower end of the island where there was no current to carry away
the filthy water.
Our clothes could not be washed because the weather was too cold. We
were in the same predicament as the man who possessed only one suit
and was obliged to go to bed while his garments were being washed. But
we were not so fortunate as he because we had no beds to go to and not
even what a person would call a suit.
During some of these walks I saw most horrid sights as I walked
through the camp. I remember one day of seeing several boys or young
men who had become so weakened and emaciated by their treatment here
that they were unable to stand erect while walking but were obliged to
bend over like old men of eighty. Their clothing on the outside, under
their arms, was white with graybacks and nits, and as I stood looking
at the poor boys I wondered what must be the condition on the inside
of their garments. But I was helpless as far as giving them relief.
They were only a sample of hundreds of similar cases. As I stated in a
previous chapter, we who were able would take off our shirts, turn
them inside out, and kill (between our only weapons of defense our
thumb-nails) all the graybacks we could find. During this operation we
would keep our coats (when we possessed any) closely buttoned around
our shivering bodies. But many poor fellows had become unable to do
even this much toward their own comfort, and there were hundreds and
thousands in the same wretched condition. At other times, when passing
through the prison, I saw squads of prisoners who were such objects of
pity that I am utterly incapable of describing them. The memory of
them will remain fresh in my mind as long as I live. Some were mere
skeletons, scarcely able to move, barefooted, pants worn off halfway
to their knees, shirt or coat sleeves worn off nearly to the elbow,
their long matted hair and whiskers which had not been cut for months
hanging over their dirty, emaciated faces. Add to this, in many
instances, perhaps sore and frozen feet. They were objects calculated
to enkindle pity in the heart of a tyrant. Again, I saw some who were
unable to walk, lying on the ground with no better clothing than those
I have just described, and no other protection from the bitter cold.
To these death soon came as a welcome relief. Nearly every morning a
number of dead were carried out to some burial place. All these scenes
did not have an inspiring effect on us. The craving for meat had
become so intense that one day as Lieut. Boisseux, commander of the
guards, came strolling through the prison pen with his pet dog
following him, the dog was enticed into a tent by some of the
prisoners. They caught him, cut his throat, dressed him and prepared
the meat for cooking, which was soon done, and he was devoured by the
hungry men. I did not see any of this transaction, but learned of it
through other prisoners. One day I met one of the prisoners who
possessed a small brass kettle. He showed it to me and said, “This is
the kettle in which we cooked the dog.” I wondered where they could
procure fuel enough to cook a dog, as it was a very scarce article on
the island. The dog was probably cooked a few days before my arrival
on the island.
As the days passed on, the suffering from cold and hunger increased at
a rapid rate. I could notice that I was failing and growing weaker
every day, and would sometimes almost despair of ever getting out of
that place of torment alive, but did not give up the struggle for dear
life. One day as I was strolling through the prison, to my great
surprise and delight I met two members of my own company, Alonzo Fish
and John Stevenson, who were captured and brought to Belle Island
during my confinement in the Richmond prisons. Of course we were
greatly rejoiced, but sorry to meet under such conditions.
The death rate among the prisoners was becoming more alarming, as it
seemed the strongest of them were succumbing to the rigors of the
weather and starvation. The time was now near spring and the cold was
abating somewhat, but yet the suffering was intense, from different
causes. I never have read of such an amount of intense suffering at
any place (except at Andersonville, Ga.) as I experienced and saw here
in this dreadful place. The only hope I had was that the weather would
become more mild, and the suffering in that respect might abate.
It was now about March 10, and they were and had been transferring
prisoners from the island to Andersonville, Ga. Every alternate day
they called for 600 prisoners, marched them out through the gate and
across the bridge near the iron works to the south bank of the river,
and generally across the long bridge to the city, where they were
loaded into cars and sent south. We could see the trains passing over
the long railroad bridge below the island. One day when they called as
usual for 600, my chum, William Herrick, who had escaped with me from
the Danville prison, went out with them, and the last time that I saw
him was when they marched along just outside the dead line, on their
way to Andersonville. The poor man ended his life there, as I
afterwards learned.
The majority of us who were confined here were men who had seen
several years’ service in the front of the army, and had often slept
on the cold ground in our rain-soaked clothes, but this place was many
degrees worse. We were helpless to assist our poor sick and dying
comrades, because we could get nothing to help them with. We could not
get as much as a few leaves or weeds to place between their emaciated
bodies and the cold ground, in their dying hour. The surface of our
prison pen was as bare as though it had been swept. Not a leaf, straw
or anything of the kind could be found, that might be used in making
some sort of a bed.
Being starved down, by receiving less than one meal per day, and that
of poor quality, with not a spark of fire by which to warm our chilled
bodies, scarcely able to straighten up, our garments on the inside
infested with vermin, dirty in the extreme, no change of clothing and
with long matted hair; all this made us feel indescribably miserable,
and made the place a hell upon earth. Our farmers would build a roof
over their hogpens to shelter their swine from the rain and snow, and
give them straw for a bed and enough to eat, but we possessed none of
these comforts. If a farmer would treat his stock as we were treated
he would not expect them to live many months. One day while standing
in the midst of the prison, looking over the mass of thousands of
human beings—most of them in a deplorable condition—I saw some of them
aimlessly moving about, seemingly not knowing where they were going.
Of course we were all in suspense with regard to our future treatment,
not knowing how long our misery would continue to increase or how or
where it would end.
What a contrast between these men in prison and when they left their
homes! There they were patriotic and industrious boys and young
men—youths in their first flush of manhood and a life of honor to
themselves and usefulness to the community. Boys precious in the
affections of home, of fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers and
sweethearts, their minds aglow with high aspirations of a bright
future were sent into this hell, to be sacrificed here for their
country. Is it any wonder that we dreamed every night of our homes and
friends? Scarcely a night passed that I did not dream of being at home
and getting something to eat. Then on awakening from such happy dreams
what a disappointment it seemed!
[Illustration: “HE KNOWS ME, THE CHERUB.” Dream of Home and Wife.]
Dear reader, think of it, what it cost to save this great government
from destruction. Many a patriotic young man could have saved his life
and health by going out of prison on parole, and working for the
Confederate government, as they offered us an opportunity to do. But
the boys refused to do this. They told them they would rather rot in
prison than work for them. This was genuine patriotism, when death was
staring them in the face. They refused to do anything to save their
own lives which would in the least reflect upon our flag.
Thus many brave and good boys passed from this life while in these
prisons, in a most wretched condition. I am at a loss to decide what
words to use, in order to express to the reader in a mild form the sad
scenes witnessed in some of our comrades’ dying hours, in the prisons,
during the winter of 1863 and 1864. The condition of our sick and
helpless comrades I partly described in former pages, and here I will
merely describe a scene in my unvarnished language, which will
probably cover hundreds of cases. One day while I was walking through
a crowded part of the prison pen I saw a fellow-prisoner—apparently a
young man—lying on the ground. He appeared to me as if he were in a
helpless condition. His face was pale where it was not black from
prison filth, hair long and matted, clothing thin and torn, arms bare
nearly to the elbows, and other parts of the body exposed, caused by
worn-out clothing. He looked more like a skeleton than a living man.
He was lying upon the bare ground, which was perhaps slightly frozen.
As I stated before, the prison pen was entirely destitute of anything
which could be placed between his poor, chilled body and the ground.
We were all helpless, as far as making him comfortable. This boy was
undoubtedly of the class mentioned in former lines, honest, patriotic,
and loved by his home relatives and friends. He was now in a destitute
and dying condition, with no mother, father, sister or brother to
comfort him, to soothe his fevered brow, and to whom he could
communicate his last dying words. In some instances similar to this
case the last feeble words of the dying man to a comrade would be:
“Tell my folks that I died for my country”; and in a feeble voice give
the last good-bye.
Who was responsible for the intense sufferings and destruction of
Union soldiers confined in southern military prisons during the War of
the Rebellion from 1861 to 1865? is a question sometimes asked. I am
not able to answer that question fully, but can give only my opinion
in some respects, and certify to what I saw and know in regard to it.
I believe that a large majority of the people of the South would not
have permitted the cruel treatment of our soldiers in their prisons,
if they could have prevented it, but they were powerless. The men in
authority in the Confederacy were many of them responsible for our
cruel treatment.
Of course the South was nearly destitute of some things for which we
suffered during our confinement in their prisons. But they possessed
plenty of fresh air, fuel (in coal and wood), good clean water, and
material with which we could have built shelters for ourselves. If
they would have supplied us with the above mentioned four articles,
our sufferings would not have been one-half as great as they were.
Some people censured the United States government for leaving us in
prison so long a time, claiming that the government would not consent
to an exchange of prisoners, because the Confederates in our prisons
in the North, if exchanged, would have been able to enter their army
as soon as exchanged. But our men from southern prisons would not, on
account of being disabled for service. I know we were disabled nearly
all of us for a lifetime.
Our faithful endurance in southern prisons was a very large factor in
bringing the war to a successful close, but it was a barbarous and
cruel manner to use soldiers. If it is true that the United States
government would not exchange, it does not excuse the men in authority
in the Confederacy, who were responsible for the most of our
sufferings while we were confined in southern military prisons.
The truth of our cruel treatment was corroborated by many southern
people at the time of our confinement in their prisons, and they
petitioned the Confederate authorities, praying for the betterment of
our treatment. But the Confederate authorities turned a deaf ear, and
would do nothing to relieve our sufferings.
It was now near the middle of the month of March. The weather was
beginning to grow mild. The frost seemingly was nearly all out of the
ground, and there were small patches of green grass springing up
outside the dead-line. One day while going down to the river after a
drink I espied a small patch of green grass outside the line. I stood
and looked at it, and longed to have some of it to eat, as my appetite
seemed to crave some vegetable or something green.
The transfer of prisoners from the island to Andersonville still
continued. Every alternate day they called for 600, who were taken to
the city, put on board the cars, and shipped south. By this time the
crowd on the island had been considerably reduced. On Saturday, March
12, the usual call was made for 600. Sunday morning, March 13, broke
over us with a bright and beautiful sky. Soon after sunrise the
officers in command of the prison called for 400 men, to go out and
over to the city of Richmond. As this was a different number from
their previous calls, and made on an odd day (as the former calls were
made every alternate day), this caused me to believe that they were
going to a different place than Andersonville. I was standing by a
comrade of my company, Alonzo Fish, and we were looking out over the
dead-line toward the cookhouse, which was located just a few rods from
the dead-line. We saw some of our boys who were doing the baking of
the corn-bread, and who had blankets, were rolling them up and seemed
to be preparing to leave. I said to Fish, “Let us try and go out with
this squad, I believe they are going to our lines, as the indications
appear that way to me.” The gate soon opened, and the commander of the
prison stood beside it and counted the men as they passed through.
Fish and myself were soon ready, as all we had to do was take our
places in line, and we marched out with the 400. As soon as the count
was finished the gate was closed, and we were now really outside the
prison pen, but yet under guard. As a consequence we were considerably
excited over the prospect before us. We marched to the bridge leading
from the island to the south bank of the James, and across it, and
then down to the big bridge spanning the river and leading to the
city.
We were soon across the river, and marched down the street past old
Libby Prison and into a large brick building. All this time I felt a
little nervous on account of the uncertainty of our destination, as I
thought our lives depended on whether we were exchanged or sent to
some other prison.
We were now inside the large building, discussing the prospects before
us. Some time during the day some Confederates came in with paper, ink
and pen, and told us we were going to be paroled, and asked us to sign
our names on a large sheet of paper, telling us that it was a parole.
This caused an intense anxiety among our men. We all signed it without
any urging, and you may believe there was a great change in our
spirits. Oh, what a happy hour was that, to think that we would once
more see the glorious Stars and Stripes.
“The hollow eyes grew bright,
And the poor heart almost gay,
As we thought of seeing home
And friends once more.”
But yet it was almost too good to believe, as we had on several
occasions been told by the Confederates that we would be paroled and
sent to our lines, but were merely transferred from one prison to
another, and sadly disappointed. Thus far we had signed a parole but
were yet uncertain as to our fate.
We spent the night of March 13 in the building mentioned, and I well
remember that many of us were so elated that we slept but little
during the night, but spent the time in talking about what we would do
when reaching our lines, and if we finally got home. The morning of
March 14 came at last. There was no change in the news about going to
our homes. During the day we heard that there was a Confederate
steamer coming up the river, to take us to a place where the United
States flag of truce boat would meet us. From the windows of our
prison we could see down to the boat-landing on the river, the
distance being fifteen or twenty rods. We could see that the boat had
not yet arrived, but were anxiously watching all day for its arrival.
About the middle of the afternoon the little steamer hove in sight,
and soon made a landing at the wharf, and you can imagine the
excitement ran high.
We immediately marched out and down to the landing, and were soon on
board the boat. In a short time it pulled out and steamed down the
river in a southeasterly direction. We were yet uneasy as to our
destination. The boat steamed slowly down the James, and somehow news
was received that we were destined for a place called City Point,
where we would meet a United States steamship to receive us, but were
yet unbelievers, like doubting Thomas. We said, “Until Old Glory is
seen floating above our heads we will not believe.”
As we floated down the river nothing of great interest was seen as we
passed along. Our conversation was mostly on the subject of our
exchange. Night was coming on, many of us were lying on the upper deck
of the steamer, and after dark I think the majority of us fell asleep,
at least I did. Some time during the night the boat reached City
Point, and ran in beside the United States steamship. I was asleep at
the time, and of course was not aware that the boat had stopped, and
was in the presence of the United States boat. I awoke during the
latter part of the night and discovered that the boat was lying quiet.
I investigated the surroundings, and saw something beside our boat. On
close examination I found it to be a steamship, with tall masts
reaching to quite a height above the boat. Everything was quiet, no
one seemed to be moving, and it being yet dark I lay down and went to
sleep. Ere long daylight began to appear, and as soon as we could see
plainly enough to distinguish the old flag, it seemed nearly all the
prisoners awoke like magic, and all that could began cheering for “Old
Glory,” which was floating from the head of the United States ship;
and, dear reader, you can imagine what the sight of the old flag
brought forth. Continuous cheering came from all those who were able,
but some, alas, were not, having been carried on board the boat by
their comrades, and these could express their intense love for the
Stars and Stripes only by extending their naked bony arms in its
direction, and many were so overjoyed that they shed tears.
One of our number died on the way down the river. I never had been so
elated in my life before as now, by the knowledge that we were
released from a death sentence. We found ourselves under the
protection of the old flag at last, and it appeared to me better, ten
times more beautiful, with brighter colors and stars than it had ever
appeared before, and I was overcome by an inspiring sensation which
made me feel like singing the good old song: “Oh, wrap the flag around
me boys.”
I suppose many of the boys felt as I did and wanted to sing, but did
not have vitality enough to sing a song. We were then believers,
because we saw “Old Glory” floating above us.
[Illustration: In God’s Country at Last.]
Our release from prison may well be compared to the release of a
person from a death sentence. Many of our number wept like children.
The next thing we saw was some Confederates on board the United States
ship. I walked up near enough to enter into conversation with one of
them, and asked him how they had been treated in the North. He
replied, “Very well.” I said, “Did you receive enough to eat?”(This
thought appeared to be uppermost in our minds.) He said they did, and
I was satisfied from their appearance that they had received good
usage while they were held as prisoners of war in Uncle Sam’s hands.
They appeared healthy, and some of them had received new clothing
during their imprisonment, and as far as I could see were well
clothed. But yet they had undoubtedly suffered great hardships, as
that is a consequence in military prison life, which is torture at its
best. Some of the Confederates who were confined in northern prisons
complained of hardships, and I have no doubt but that it was hard to
endure, but it was no comparison to our sufferings in southern
prisons.