While operating in Randolph County, N. C., in September, 1864, we wounded
in the foot and captured a man who had not been in the army but was said
to head a band of outlaws. His name was Northcut. He was tried by a little
drumhead court marshal and shot on short notice one mile north of Ashboro
as we were leaving that section for Wilkes County, where there was a
strong Union sentiment hard to hold down. After operating in the mountains
several months, where much apple brandy, fat beef, milk and honey
abounded, we returned to Randolph and the adjoining counties of Davidson,
Moore, Montgomery and Chatham, where there was much work to do. Here we
began pressing property, especially horses and feed, from the disloyal to
force them to bring in their conscript sons, and soon a number of our
company was mounted, only intending to use the horses while operating in
that vicinity; but Governor Vance, being advised of it, complained to the
Confederate War Department and threatened to turn his militia loose on us
and drive us from the State if such conduct was not stopped and all
property pressed promptly turned over to the original owners--and we had
to come down off our high horses and take it afoot again. Up to that time
I had not developed quite courage enough to steal a horse, but was caught
red-handed with a good mount in this temporary "critter company."--a
furloughed man having given me his horse. So my dignity was shocked when I
had to come down from my self-promoted position to a flatfooted
infantryman again.
REMOVING FEDERAL PRISONERS FROM RICHMOND, VA., TO ANDERSONVILLE, GA.,
FEBRUARY AND MARCH, 1864.
I was on a detail and made three trips via Raleigh, Charlotte, Columbia to
Branchville, S. C. These prisoners had been confined on Belle's Island, in
James River, and were in a most pitiable condition--half starved, half
naked. Most of them had been in prison for months and very few had a
change of garments. They were ragged, lousy, filthy and infested with
smallpox, and most of them had diarrhoea and scurvy and were so weak
that when they would swing down out of box-cars their legs would give away
when their feet struck the ground, and they would fall in a heap on the
ground. I don't think they got anything to eat except a little bread and
meat, mostly cornbread. They were transferred in box-cars, forty packed
into a car. We sometimes stopped at Raleigh to change cars, and always
stopped at Charlotte twelve to twenty-four hours. We ran up the Seaboard
to where it crossed the Statesville Railroad, then in the woods. A small
branch ran under both roads east and north of crossing, with embankments
on south and west, and we put them out there, where they had free access
to the branch. One night several crawled up a drain ditch from branch
along railroad and got out between the guard; others were caught in the
act and stopped.
Old man Tyree, of Company K detail, whose home was not far away, said he
could get some bloodhounds that would run them down. He was sent after the
dogs and they were put on their tracks after they had been gone four or
five hours, and followed them about thirty miles and caught them. The next
time we stopped there, at 2 a. m., they, the prisoners, seemed restless, a
number being up and moving around near the guard lines. Two or three made
a break through the guard lines and escaped in the darkness. Several shots
were fired at them, which awoke and roused up the whole camp. They were
ordered to lay down, but would not obey, even when the officers ordered us
to fire into them. But instead of firing into them, as we were ordered,
tried firing a few shots over them, which had the effect to make them lay
down. The officers then went among them and told them if anyone got up
before day he would be shot down. But still, occasionally, one would get
up and a guard would fire over him. At last one of the guards shot and
killed one. That might have been omitted, though we had orders to do so.
All the guards deplored that rash action. An old, sick Irishman fell in
the branch and died that night. I noticed after the war six or eight
graves at that wayside camp. Those who escaped that night probably got
through, as we never heard of them again.
While on guard in the car with them some of them twitted us about being
afraid of our officers. I told them our officers were kind and treated us
well; that I had been in the army seven months and had never seen a man
bucked and gagged; and, turning to a serious-looking Irishman, who was
listening with interest, but had said nothing, I asked him if he had ever
seen anything of that kind in their army. He answered, "Yes, my friend;
I've been bucked and gagged meself many a time." That was a clincher for
me that ended the discussion. The bad treatment of prisoners on both sides
makes one of the darkest pictures of that war. We understand statistics
show the mortality to be 13 per cent on the Federal side to 9 per cent on
the Confederate. My own experience in a Federal prison at the close of the
war, while very disagreeable, was much better than those poor fellows were
getting with us. But when we take into consideration the superior
resources of the United States, they were, to say the least, equally
negligent and resentful to their helpless enemies. Point Lookout Federal
prison will be treated on in another chapter.