PRISON LIFE IN 1862—IN THE MUD—BIVOUAC AT NEW MADRID—A
FRIENDLY IRISHMAN—AT CAMP BUTLER—SCANT WATER SUPPLY—ESCAPE
OF PRISONERS—AN ASTONISHED SENTINEL—PLAYING GUARD—LOST ON
THE PRAIRIE—A PRISONER SHOT—HEALTH OF THE CAMP—MORTALITY
STATISTICS—CURIOUS PHENOMENA—DEATH VISITS THE COMPANY—COL.
FUNDY IN COMMAND—PRACTICAL JOKES—TRINKET MAKING—NEWS FROM
COMRADES—HOMEWARD BOUND—ARRIVAL IN DIXIE.
At daybreak on Tuesday, April 8th, the retreating garrison were quietly
aroused from their leafy, but not otherwise romantic, couches in the
woods below Tiptonville. It was a cold, cloudy morning, and the men, who
had been without food or fire for twenty-four hours, stood impatiently in
line of battle eager for something to be done that would warm up their
chilled limbs and bodies. To continue the retreat, or to fight either
would have been a welcome change, but the order that was passed down the
lines was received almost in a spirit of mutiny by both officers and
men. All knew that “Do not fire on the enemy” could mean nothing but
surrender. Rations were served out, cooking utensils distributed, and
fires built; but while busy cooking the men were ordered to “fall in,”
“stack arms” and “march,” and breakfast was abandoned or eaten half raw.
Upon arriving at Tiptonville the surrendered army was formed in close
column, in an open field, and surrounded by guards. The field had been
cultivated in corn, the previous year, and though the hollows between
the rows might in dry weather, have offered rather tempting couches,
they were treacherous ones in a wet season, while the black swamp mud
was not conducive to cleanliness. During the day flour and bacon were
served out, and the men had plenty of time to cook and eat. With night
came on a storm, and the prisoners made such shelters as they could with
fence rails and blankets. The only fuel was that offered by fences,
with the stumps of the newly cleared land for _pieces de resistance_.
Those who essayed the blanket shelters were roused by trickling streams
of water from above, to find themselves lying in ponds of water one or
two inches deep. Sounder sleepers would not awake till some rascal had
filched their blankets, and the fire-builders had stolen their rails. By
midnight the majority of the twenty-five hundred prisoners were packed,
in circular groups, six or seven deep, around the fires, which dotted
the field, or were wandering disconsolately from fire to fire hoping to
find some place where a gleam of the flames could be seen. The anathemas
of the men were bestowed quite impartially upon the weather, the Yankees
and Gen. Mackall the Confederate Commander. Words and invective were
exhausted in showering curses upon the last. Had they not been prisoners
the discomforts of the night would have been of little moment, but
under the existing circumstances it was dismal beyond description. Day
at last dawned, and the men were almost ready to welcome with a cheer
the arrival of the transports, which were to take them away from such a
mud-hole, even though it was to a military prison. The boats were small
stern-wheelers and conveyed the men only to New Madrid, Mo., where they
were landed in the mud. New Madrid mud is red, contrasting well with
the Tiptonville black, and, as there was no opportunity for ablutions,
mud and smoke soon rendered the Confederates as varied in hue as Indian
braves. Abundant rations of hard tack, bacon and coffee were served
out, and, although the storm had not ended, the situation was much more
comfortable than during the preceding twenty-four hours. The officers
were now separated from the enlisted men—something akin in pain to
parting parents from children.
Thursday afternoon the prisoners were again embarked, and, under convoy,
the boats steamed up the river. At dusk the fleet passed Island 10,
stopping for a short time; the next morning Columbus was left behind,
and by 10.30 A. M. a landing was made at Cairo. The prisoners were here
transferred to close box-cars, which to sight and smell, bore evidence
of having, very recently, been used to transport cattle. A bale of
hay was rolled into each car, to serve—when spread over the floor—as
seats and bedding. To secure the safety and welfare of the passengers
one guard was placed in each car, and was not relieved till the train
reached its destination. The sentinel in our car was an Irishman, a
social, friendly fellow, considerate of the prisoners’ feelings and
reposing great confidence in their honor, which confidence was not
abused. Probably his superiors would have been somewhat astonished at
his ideas about guard duty, which were not those laid down in army
regulations. Whenever the train stopped, even after nightfall, he would
either allow some of the prisoners to jump out and fill their canteens,
or go himself. During the night he handed his musket to one of the
Confederates, laid down in the hay and went to sleep. His brother, the
guard in the next car got uproariously drunk, and about midnight came
stumbling into our car. He was so quarrelsome that we put him out, in a
few minutes he was back, this time bringing his musket and threatening
vengeance, but our slumbering guardian being aroused quieted him with a
few words, more forcible than elegant, and sent him back to his post.
Placed under a _quasi_ parole of honor by the kindness of our Irish
friend, not a prisoner attempted to escape from his car though there
was abundant opportunity. In one village through which we passed in
the night citizen’s dress was offered to some of the men to enable
them to escape if they so desired. The train reached Camp Butler, four
miles from Springfield, Ill., Saturday afternoon, April 12th. In the
surrounding fields patches of snow were still visible, but the camp
itself was a mud-puddle. When we left Alabama, a month previous, the
fruit trees were in blossom, planters were busy ploughing, and the air
was mild and balmy; on our arrival at Island 10 it was cold and the
trees were bare, the first signs of Spring appearing as we left; now,
for the third time, we were to have wintry weather. There were at Camp
Butler fifteen or eighteen hundred prisoners taken at Fort Donelson,
these occupied eighteen out of the twenty barracks within the prison
lines, two being used as hospitals. The new arrivals were ordered from
the cars and marched to the parade ground for inspection; blankets
were unrolled, knapsacks unstrapped and the persons of the prisoners
searched for concealed weapons, but no money or valuables were taken.
Some three hundred of the prisoners were then sent to the barracks, and
to the remaining six or seven hundred were allotted tents, one to every
six or eight men, boards were distributed for floors and before night
the men were comfortably sheltered. The barracks were about sixty feet
long by twenty wide, standing twenty feet apart, and were intended to
accommodate one hundred men each. In front of the barracks—a street fifty
feet wide intervening—the tents were pitched. Immediately to the rear
of the line of tents was the guard and dead line; the dead line at the
ends was within a few feet of the lines of barracks and tents and about
two hundred feet to the rear of the barracks, thus enclosing in round
numbers a parallelogram 800 feet long by 300 or 350 feet wide. As the
warm weather came on, a second line of tents was pitched in the rear
of the first and the crowded barracks relieved. The supply of water on
our arrival was drawn from five or six wells within the enclosure; each
barrack was supplied with a rope, and each mess used its own camp-kettle
for a bucket, attaching it to the rope and drawing it up hand over hand.
The scene around the wells was a lively one, especially just before the
time for preparing meals. During the rainy season the supply of water
in the wells was tolerably plentiful, though it would occasionally give
out. By the first of May, however, the wells began to fail, and on May
7th it is recorded in the writer’s diary: “Water is getting to be a
luxury, the wells are exhausted before sunrise.” After that time water
was hauled from Sangamon river—about a mile distant—details of prisoners
going with the wagons to fill up the hogsheads and barrels. It was
esteemed a great privilege to go with the wagons as it gave opportunity
to bathe and to gather mussels in the river. The fresh country air too
was a wonderful contrast to the stifled atmosphere of the prison camp
on a hot day. Outside the guard lines was another prison hospital,
set apart for erysipelas cases, of which there were many among the
prisoners. Its occupants burned in stripes with lunar caustic and painted
with iodine, were a horribly grotesque crowd. Side by side with this
hospital was the dead house, always tenanted with bodies waiting burial.
At the head of the street, which separated the barracks and tents, was
the “headquarters” of the Commandant of the post; at the other end of
the street was the guard house with its dreaded “black hole,” a cell
without light or ventilation. In an addition to these buildings were the
Commissary’s, Quartermaster’s and Sutler’s stores, and the barracks for
the guard.
When the Island No. 10 prisoners arrived the camp was not enclosed, and
there had been in consequence many escapes. It was quite common to hear
in the morning the announcement, “A squad of prisoners left for home last
night.” As calling the roll was entrusted to non-commissioned officers
among the prisoners—there were no commissioned officers prisoners at
Camp Butler—and as their reports were verified not oftener than once
a week, several days were usually allowed to elapse before absentees
were reported, thus giving them a fair start in the race for the Ohio
or Mississippi Rivers. As many as nine broke through the guard lines in
a single night; nor were escapes confined to the darkness, sometimes a
break would be made in the broad daylight, and as the cavalry patrolled
the lines during the day with sabres, the only risk was that of
recapture. In one case, as the astonished sentinel saw prisoner after
prisoner flitting by, he cried out, in accents of despair, “Corporal of
the guard! corporal of the guard! run here quick, all the rebels are
getting away!” These frequent escapes of prisoners soon led to more
rigorous measures. Those recaptured were incarcerated in the black hole
for a week or ten days; all prisoners were required to remain in their
barracks from dusk until reveille, under penalty of being shot, and a
board fence ten feet high was built around the camp. The fence, made
chiefly by volunteers from among the prisoners, small wages being paid
them, was completed early in May, and served to check the flight of
the prisoners, though it did not prove an effectual barrier. Not many
nights after its completion, during a storm, a party of four scaled it
by aid of a short ladder they had constructed; a flash of lightning
revealed them to the guard, who fired, but without effect. Some of the
prisoners who worked on the fence, broke short the nails with which
certain marked boards were fastened; making a dash for the fence one day
they pulled off one of these planks, and three got through before the
sentinel could fire. Two of the three were recaptured while running the
gauntlet of a militia camp, just outside the enclosure and did penance
in the “black hole,” the third escaped. An attempt was made to tunnel
out, but it was betrayed to Maj. Fundy, and stopped when the tunnel had
nearly reached the fence; it was started from a freshly dug sink. Those
engaged in it escaped punishment by pledging their word not to renew the
work. The cavalry regiment guarding the camp having been relieved by
ununiformed militia, a novel plan of escape was successfully tried. A
lot of rusty muskets had been found in one of the barracks by the Fort
Donelson prisoners on their arrival, these had been carefully concealed
with a view that they might sometime be useful. After the wells began
to fail, and before the hauling of water in wagons had been begun,
squads of prisoners were allowed to go out with guards to neighborhood
wells and fill buckets and canteens. Procuring or fixing up costumes
sufficiently like those worn by the militia to be mistaken for them,
and brightening up the old muskets so as to pass muster, some of the
prisoners played the part of guards and escorted out several squads who
did not return. Another scheme was successfully played on the militia,
who were very ignorant, many being unable to read. Hospital attendants
were given passes to cross and recross the guard lines, they giving their
paroles not to escape; noting carefully those of the guards who read
these passes equally well bottom or right side up, bogus passes were
prepared, no attempt being made to imitate the writing of the Federal
officials, and the guards passed the holders out. No less than thirty
left in this manner before the imposture was detected. None of those
under parole violated their pledges, nor were they in any way connected
with the writing of the spurious passes, but they suffered, as all
passes were revoked. The regulations were henceforth so stringent that
but few were able to elude the vigilance of the guards. During the six
months that elapsed from the arrival of the prisoners to their departure
for exchange, 225 escaped from Camp Butler. Not all of these, however,
got back to Dixie, quite a number being recaptured and sent to other
prisons. Among those who escaped by bogus passes was John Frank, Jr.;
starting for the Mississippi River, he, and one or two companions, lost
themselves on the prairies and, after wandering around for several days,
made their way to a farm-house, where they procured something to eat,
though they were suspected of being rebels. They next, unfortunately,
wandered into Alton, where, finding themselves objects of suspicion,
they surrendered. Frank rejoined us only when on our way to be exchanged.
The first tragedy under the regulation requiring the prisoners to go into
the barracks or tents at dusk, occurred on the evening of May 2d. One of
the prisoners was seated on the steps of his barrack washing his feet,
when “retreat” sounded; a guard, standing almost beside him, ordered
him in, but the man was a little slow in complying, as he had his feet
in the water; the guard repeated the order twice, and then fired on the
prisoner, inflicting a wound from which he died in about three weeks. The
sentinel’s conduct was approved, and he was promoted to be a corporal,
but the precaution was taken not to place him on guard over the prisoners
again, for fear of his meeting with an “accident.”
On our arrival at Camp Butler the commander of the post was Col.
Morrison, a superannuated officer of the regular army, kind hearted but
very irascible. In his conduct towards the prisoners he was generally
very lenient; soon after their arrival he had clothing and blankets
issued to those who were insufficiently clad, and did them other favors.
Towards his own men he was a martinet. On one occasion the colonel
crossed the guard line and the sentinel failed to salute him; crossing
a second time to make sure the sentinel saw him, he halted in front of
the negligent guard, and in thundering voice demanded: “Do you know who
I am, sir?” “Yes, sir,” was the quavering response. “Why did you not
salute me?” and without waiting for a reply, he seized the volunteer by
the collar and administered to him a sound kicking. To the prisoners,
accustomed to a perfect equality between officers and men, this was a
novel sight and excited various comments. To the commissary officer
of the post, a Virginian, and, it was said, a Southern sympathizer,
the prisoners were greatly indebted for full rations and the privilege
of trading any surplus for luxuries and merchandise at very reasonable
rates. He had the reputation of being “square” in all his dealings, and
was consequently much liked.
On our arrival, and for sometime after, the mortality at Camp Butler was
great; up to the 25th of May there had been 318 deaths, a rate equivalent
to 56 out of every 100 per year. During the month of May Maj. Fundy, of
the Twelfth Illinois Cavalry, was given supervision of the Camp, and,
by stricter sanitary regulations, the death rate was diminished, there
being but 162 deaths from May 25th to September 6th, a rate of about
22½ out of every 100 per year. If it be taken into consideration that
several hundred prisoners had escaped, the percentage of deaths will be
somewhat greater than stated. Up to September 6th, the date of exchange,
225 had escaped, leaving 2,613; the average time of imprisonment was
nearly twenty-six weeks—that is 1800 men 200 days and 1000 men, 146 days;
the total number of deaths was 480, or 18⅓ out of every 100 for the six
months, or 36⅔ per 100 a year. In this connection it is but fair to state
that the provision made for the sick was ample; a good assortment of
medicines was kept in the hospital drugstore, which, after our arrival,
was placed in the charge of Joseph Hurd, of Co. K, a competent druggist.
Among the prisoners were several surgeons, and in addition to these,
Dr. J. Cooper McKee, U. S. A., was surgeon of the post. While he was in
charge he ordered large additional supplies of medicine, and a room was
fitted up exclusively as a drug store. When he was relieved, the latter
part of July, a Springfield physician was placed in charge. The nurses
were volunteers from the prisoners, among them N. K. Adams and Wm. H.
Fay, of Co. K; D. P. Smith was Mr. Hurd’s assistant.
To resume the company diary: On the Sunday following our arrival it set
in to storm, and on Monday there was a heavy fall of snow, a novelty
to many who witnessed it. Spring now rapidly advanced, and by May 1st
the trees were beginning to leaf, the grass was green and violets were
in bloom. On the 23d of April there was seen the curious phenomenon of
four mock suns, the real sun being in the centre. There was a brilliant
electrical display on May 30th; for nearly an hour the flashes of
lightning were almost incessant, but a few seconds intervening, while at
times, for several minutes together, the play of electrical light would
be absolutely without intermission. Occasionally great nebulous balls
of fire would roll up from the horizon to the zenith, then would follow
flashes of chain and forked lightning, diverging to every point of the
heavens. No rain accompanied the electrical storm, but during its entire
continuance there could be heard the distant low roll of thunder.
May 3d the camp was shocked by a tragedy in one of the barracks occupied
by Mississippians: one of the prisoners, in a quarrel with a companion,
seized a billet of wood and struck a fatal blow. The murderer was taken
to Springfield and put in jail, but was not brought to trial, and when
the prisoners were exchanged he was sent with the others.
May 9th, Thomas G. Roe (private, Co. K) died of measles. This was the
first death in our company, and caused sincere sorrow. On the following
day he was buried in the prisoners’ graveyard, near the camp. Col.
Morrison kindly permitted the company to accompany the body to the grave.
William H. Fay read a chapter in the Bible and made a prayer. The grave
was marked with a headboard inscribed with the name, company and regiment
of the deceased.
Early on the morning of May 14th, A. J. Merritt (sergeant, Co. K) died of
measles. Both he and Mr. Roe were sick from the time of our arrival. Mr.
Merritt refused to give up, and remained in his tent till within a day
or two of his death, when he became so weak as to be forced to go to the
hospital. He was much depressed from leaving home and family, but both he
and Mr. Roe died very peacefully.
On the morning of July 7th, John N. Cook (private, Co. K) died, and was
buried the same day, the company receiving permission to attend. This was
the last death in Co. K at Camp Butler.
On the 22d of June, Col. Fundy succeeded Col. Morrison as commander of
the post. He was much less of a martinet, and was also popular with the
prisoners in consequence of his showing them some favors. Occasionally
through the summer he allowed the prisoners—several hundred at a
time—to go to the river to bathe, under guard and an implied parole
not to escape. The prisoners never, to the writer’s knowledge, abused
his confidence. He would listen to complaints, and, if well founded,
would remedy the evil. At one time the militia—or, more properly, the
recruits in an adjoining camp of instruction—made a practice of firing
their muskets, loaded with ball, in such a direction that the balls fell
in the prison enclosure. The whizzing of lead became a sound of daily
occurrence, but the prisoners stood it very patiently till one of their
number was struck and seriously wounded. A committee was then sent to
Col. Fundy, to remonstrate and to plainly intimate that if the nuisance
was not abated, the prisoners would themselves go out and stop it. He
gave them patient audience, and promised them there should be no more
trouble. About the middle of July he attempted an exercise of authority
that cost him much of his popularity. For some time it had been customary
to make details of the prisoners to do work outside the camp, they not
being averse, as it gave them a slight relief from the monotony of prison
life. On the 14th of July a detail was made as usual, but when they found
that the duty was to bring in a Federal flagstaff and assist in raising
it, they promptly refused to work. An attempt was made at coercion,
but Col. Fundy, seeing that they would rather be shot down than obey,
sent them back to quarters. Finding that none of the prisoners would
volunteer, as a punishment, he cut down their rations, which, prior to
this time, had been according to army regulations. Nothing more was done
in regard to the flagstaff for a week, when a detail of Federal soldiers
brought in the spar, and on the 29th attempted to raise it in front of
headquarters—a large crowd of prisoners watching the operation, and
greeting with a yell each failure. Finally, the blue-coats accomplished
the feat, and, their hands relieved, they gave vent to their wrath by
hurling a volley of sticks and brickbats at the jeering “rebs.” The
latter were not slow to send the missiles flying back, and the Federals,
finding that in this game they were getting worsted, started for their
muskets. Of course the Confederates at once dispersed, but a battery of
artillery was brought out, so as to rake the street, and the guards were
in a state of chronic scare for a day or two. The feeling between the
prisoners and guards was not very friendly, and the former delighted in
keeping the latter in fear of an outbreak. When there was a prospect of
stormy weather, the prisoners in the tents would listen for the tramp of
the sentinel, and when he approached within earshot, they would discuss
the question of an outbreak, intimating that there was a plot to escape
on the first stormy night. On several occasions the ruse succeeded so
well that the garrison was kept under arms in the rain nearly all night.
Practical jokes were common among the prisoners, and served to relieve
the monotony of their durance. A jovial Irishman in Co. E, on one
occasion, went to the quarters of Co. K, and informed a number of his
acquaintances that his mess had a pot of soup that they did not want,
and invited them to bring their cups down and get some. The guests, with
tin-cups and spoons in hand, followed their host to his tent, to find
that the soup-kettle had been accidentally upset and its contents spread
over the ground. Watching their opportunity, the disappointed soup-eaters
invited their joking Irish friend, as he passed by, to sit down to a
plate of fritters. He accepted, only to get a mouthful of cotton covered
with batter and browned in the frying-pan. Sometimes the jokes were of a
rougher character, as when a member of Co. C, who had eaten a very hearty
dinner, was given a drink of sherry, wine of ipecac, surreptitiously
obtained from the hospital.
Of books and other reading-matter there was a dearth, and, as at
other prisons, the men resorted to trinket-making as a pastime. Rings,
breastpins, crosses and similar articles were turned off in great
quantities, every barrack and every tent being a manufactory. Bone,
vulcanized rubber, cocoanut-shell, mussel-shells, gold and silver
were the materials; old case-knives made into saws, files, camp-made
bow-drills, pocket-knives and sand-paper the tools. From the rations
of beef was obtained the bone; mussel-shells were gathered in Sangamon
River by the water-details, the scanty pocket-money furnished the gold
and silver, while the files, sand-paper and rubber in the form of
buttons and rulers were procured by trading rations with the commissary.
The delicately-shaded pink and white shells answered admirably for
mother-of-pearl for inlaying. No little taste and ingenuity were
displayed in the making of these articles.
The reception of the mail was an occasion of daily excitement, and the
postmaster was surrounded by an eager crowd while the names of the lucky
few were called. Correspondence was limited to one page to a letter, but
the number of letters was limited only by the prisoner’s ability to pay
postage. But few letters came through from the South, and the bulk of
the mail was for the Tennessee troops and those having friends in the
North. On June 28th a letter dated Camp Douglas, Chicago, was received by
Eli Sears from J. Hearndon, giving us the first intelligence of those of
the company who were left at Island 10, sick. As previously mentioned,
these—nine in number—were sent to Madison, Wis., where J. F. Smith died,
May 15th, and C. J. Moncrief on June 6th. Subsequently, we learned that
E. F. Brown died September 4th, at Camp Douglas, to which camp they were
transferred in June. The treatment of the prisoners at these two camps
was very different from that at Camp Butler. No privileges were allowed;
the rations were insufficient to satisfy the cravings of hunger, and as
they were served to the prisoners cooked, there was not the variety which
tends to keep men in health.
About the middle of August the prisoners were enlivened by the hope
of exchange, and on the 1st of September the work of making out the
exchange-rolls began. N. K. Adams, of Co. K, assisted, and from him were
obtained the following figures:—
Prisoners arriving at Camp Butler, 2,838
Deaths, 480
Escaped, 225
Took the oath of allegiance, 270
---
Total casualties, 975
-----
Remaining for exchange, 1,863
_First Alabama Regiment._
Arriving at Camp Butler, 326
Deaths, 30
Escaped, 27
---
Total casualties, 57
-----
Remaining for exchange, 269
On September 2d, those who took the oath of allegiance—mostly from
Tennessee—left for their homes. On the 6th, one-half of those to be
exchanged took the cars for Alton, there to embark for Vicksburg; and
on the following day the remainder started, excepting a few sick. The
First Alabama prisoners were among the second detachment. Many of the
cars were open platforms, and the trip in the hot sun to Alton was quite
trying to those who had been so long imprisoned. At Alton the prisoners
were transferred to transports, which left on the 8th and arrived at
Cairo on the 9th. There the remainder of the Fort Donelson and Island 10
prisoners joined us, and, on Thursday, September 11th, the fleet steamed
down the river. Several gunboats accompanied the fleet, which proceeded
only during the day, anchoring or tying up to the bank at night. On the
12th, the fleet passed Island No. 10, whose deserted earthworks were
fast caving into the river. At Memphis the fleet remained two nights
and a day. While there Jerry Stuart, of Co. C, First Alabama, died
and was buried. There were some twenty-one or twenty-two deaths among
the prisoners while on the way down the river; and nearly every night
or morning there was one or more rude graves dug on the bank wherever
the fleet was lying, and the uncoffined dead left behind. On the 18th
we passed a fleet of transports returning from Vicksburg with Federal
prisoners. Sunday morning, September 21st, the fleet anchored above
Vicksburg, at the appointed place of exchange; and on Monday morning
the prisoners were disembarked and marched across the bend to the ferry
opposite Vicksburg, where they crossed over. The sick on the hospital
boat were transferred to a flag-of-truce boat from Vicksburg. The
citizens had prepared a bountiful barbecue, and did everything for the
prisoners’ comfort that their limited means permitted. Lieuts. Hall and
Tuttle met Co. K at Vicksburg—Capt. Whitfield going on to Montgomery,
Ala., on a brief leave of absence.