Today’s Seething Yet Truly Morbid Fact!
Between February, 1864 and April, 1865 it is estimated that 45,000 Union prisoners were confined in the Confederate stockade, Camp Sumter, near Anderson Station, Georgia, forever to be remembered as Andersonville. Of that number, approximately 25,000 men survived their prison experience and returned home to tell their tale of suffering. It is unknown how many survivors, with their health and lives shattered, died as a direct result of their captivity after returning to civilian life. Close to 13,000 Union soldiers did “give up the ghost” at Andersonville, and it was the ghost of Andersonville that haunted the survivors for the rest of their lives.
The following is the beginning of the account of:
PRIVATE GEORGE A. HITCHCOCK
Age: 20
Company A, 21st Massachusetts Infantry, Ninth Army Corps.
Captured in the battle of Bethesda Church, June 2, 1864.
Confined at Andersonville, Millen, and Florence prisons.
George Hitchcock
Thursday, June 16th. Reached the gates of the Andersonville stockade soon after noon, where we were taken in charge by Captain Wirz, a grizzly, dirty-looking Dutchman. As we stand on the outside of the stockade, on the rising slope near the headquarters of Captain Wirz, waiting for our names to be enrolled, our eyes take in a view of the inside of the “hell upon earth” we are about to enter. We saw a dense, black mass of seething, moving humanity, not unlike the appearance of a mammoth anti-hill just broken open, covering the whole space enclosed, except a swampy valley in the centre, through which flowed a sluggish stream. Over the whole hung a cloud of black smoke from the thousands of little fire, where rations were being cooked. As soon as the enrollment is completed, we pass through the heavy-timbered double gate, and are shut out from the world.As we pass along through the dense crowd of fellow-prisoners who are looking for familiar faces, we see squalor and filth everywhere. The pitch-pine smoke has given even the clearest complexion an Afric hue, and we are assured that this will be our own fate in a week or two. As we move along we find that the crowd which pressed against us near the gates does not decrease. Anxious to secure a good clear spot where we may sit down, I break away from our crowd, but do not find my desired haven. I am told that I had better sit down where I can find a chance, for if I wait until dark I may not find even room to stretch out. I accept the advice and “squat,” while Jim Miller goes to hunt up the 21st boys who were lost at the Wilderness and Spottsylvania. The first familiar face I saw was [Ransom] Bailey, of Company I, and at last the mystery of his fate was solved. He had been missing since the 23rd of last December, when on our widely-deployed skirmished line, advancing through tangled underbrush and dense thickets near Blain’s Cross Roads, East Tennessee; while passing through one of these thickets, Bailey, my right guide, was missing, and not seen again.
He tells a story of hardship which makes the heart ache. Being swooped up by two guerrillas in the dense thicket, he was hurried forward on a lonely path over mountains, and, evading our outposts, was made to march ninety miles to Bristol, from thence to Richmond, where he was confined at Belle Isle through the winter, and early in the spring was brought down here. He is troubled with scurvy, and complains of the cold nights, for he has worn out all his clothing; a pair of ragged cotton drawers compose his only covering. His face, black as a negro’s, is hardly recognizable. He directed us to the spot where we found Sergeant [J. Albert] Osgood, [Wilber A.] Potter, and ten others of the 21st. A sorry looking set of fellows, poor and emaciated, though prisoners only six weeks. The day was passed in hearing the accounts of the horrors which seem to be our inevitable lot. We returned to our squatting place, James Miller and myself, sadly out of spirits, each of us hoping that our friends will never hear how we are situated. As we lie down on our bed of clay, we are cautioned to “freeze” to our ration bags,; so we fasten them to our blouses and essay to sleep. At ten o’clock, however, we awake from a doze and find the rain falling. We sit up till morning drenched to the skin. Thus ends our first day at Andersonville.
June 17th. We found three men from Sherman’s army who have just come in, and one has a woolen blanket. We have gone in together, and, after looking several hours, secure sticks, and set up a shelter. Five of us get under, but find that we can only lie on our backs. There are now over 20,000 prisoners here, and the stench in every part of the camp is well-nigh unbearable. We are assured, however, that we shall get accustomed to that after a few days. Great numbers are dying every day, many from scurvy. At night drew rations of rice and sow-belly; the rice is half-booked, and only half a pint of it at that.
June 18th. Our squad was called to the gate and divided. As several of our number could not be found, the Dutchman informed us that we would not have any rations until the missing men were produced. It seemed like hunting for a needle in a hay-mow, but our stomachs craved, and each man made an energetic search until all were found.
We are formed into the eighty-third detachment (of 270 men each). Each detachment is divided into three squads, of 90 men each. Rebel sergeants call the roll of the detachments every morning. A Union sergeant is assigned to each squad, and, when the ration wagons come in, goes with a detail from the squad and gets and distributes their rations. These are the only camp regulations. The rations are brought into camp in the latter part of the afternoon. The view of the country outside is a dreary swamp, where all refuse matter of 25,000 men is thrown and deposited. It has become a mass of corruption, living with worms, and would alone be reason enough for the dreadful mortality which increases every day. Several prisoners for [Maj-Gen Franz] Sigel’s West Virginia Army came in to-day, many of them wounded, whose wounds have not yet been dressed. Thirty-six prisoners while out under guard getting wood, escaped by overpowering the guard, driving them along with them. Our rations to-day were corn-bread, two inches square, and sow-belly.
June 19th. Very hot. Heavy shower in the afternoon. A lot of prisoners from Sherman’s and Butler’s army came in. [James A.] Miller and [Thomas B.] Dyer sick with the diarrhea. Found Walter Lamb of the 25th Massachusetts, who was taken prisoner June 3rd at Cold Harbor. Two men were shot by a sentry who fired at another prisoner, who had gotten over the “dead-line,” a little rail running around the entire stockade about twenty feet inside from it, over which if a man passes or reaches he becomes the mark of the two or three sentries nearest him. The rule is over diligently carried out, and it is very dangerous to approach the line. It is rumored that Grant has got into Petersburg. A man killed about two rods from us last night by falling into a well.
June 20th. Very hot till afternoon, when rain began and continued incessantly for several hours. Dyer is better, and I am troubled with the same disorder which he has had. I begin to wonder if I ever shall see home again.
June 21st. Warm as ever, with the usual shower in the afternoon. Another man is shot on the deadline. Over one hundred men died to-day, but their places were more than made good by the prisoners from Sherman’s army.
June 22d. Very hot. Rations of a pint of meal and a small piece of sow-belly. Hear the tantalizing report of an exchange of prisoners, to begin July 1st.
June 23d. Very hot. A lot of prisoners from Grant’s army came in, taken at Petersburg. A great display of eggs, cucumbers, biscuit, squashes, potatoes, beans, and parsnips is seen torturing the poor fellows who are dying by scores each day for want of these same luxuries. They are brought in by the rebel guard. There was the usual number of free fights in camp, where clubs, razors, and fists were freely used.
June 24th. Very warm. Drew rations of mush and sow-belly yesterday, and raw meal and salt today. We do not venture from under our shelter during the middle part of the day, when the torrid rays melt us quickly.
June 25th. Very hot. Rations of raw meal and meat, but no wood to cook them with, so we eat our meat raw. I had a good wash at the creek to-day, though without soap. Rows in camp are increasing, and it presents a scene like a second Babel.
June 26th. Prisoners from General Steele’s army came in. I washed my pants in the creek. I am feeling quite weak from diarrhoea, which makes me desponding. This is the Sabbath; but how unlike our peaceful New England Sabbaths. Poor starved men of almost every nationality; many without a spark of principle, bounty-jumpers, New York “dead rabbits,” Baltimore “plug-uglies,” the sick and dying all around, make this a scene of horror which will be ever vivid in my memory, if I am allowed to see the end of all this. But every dark cloud has its silver lining, and I can trust God has us under his keeping.
June 27th. Two prisoners were brought in who tunneled out ten days ago and traveled over a hundred miles, living on sweet potatoes from plantations along their route. The blood-hounds overtook them near the Florida line, so they have returned to prison life, refreshed by pure air. Several shots were fired at men on the deadline.
June 28th. Hot. Heavy shower in the evening. Six hundred prisoners from Grant’s army, taken near Petersburg, came in. Among them we found the familiar faces of [Thomas] Winn, [Thomas Stephens] Stevens, and [William H.] Tyler from the 21st. Thirty Indian sharp-shooters from Northern Michigan, also. I learn that my brother Henry is with the regiment, and is acting adjutant.
June 29th. A soldier from Ohio, who lay sick with fever within arm’s-length of me, died in the night. Showers in the afternoon. Rations to-night two quarts of meal. It has been found that the outlaws in camp have formed a league, styling themselves “the raiders,” and for the past two days matters have come to a terrible state. Two men murdered, one thrown into a deep well, and many knocked on the head and plundered, generally new arrivals, known to have money, watches, or other valuables. The rebel authorities have allowed the prisoners to form a police organization of several hundred men, who are armed with clubs and are hunting up the desperadoes. The afternoon has been one of great excitement, as twenty or thirty of the raiders have already been secured and sent out.
June 30th. Passed a sleepless night, for the police and raiders have kept up a continual fight, and this morning the camp is in the wildest excitement. The ringleader has not been found, but several of the raiders have been found buried under blankets with valuables to escape detection. At three in the afternoon, the ringleader was found under a pile of blankets and pine boughs. It was difficult to get him outside of the stockade unharmed. The rebels sent him immediately back to the tender mercies of his fellow-prisoners. Hardly had the gates closed upon him, as his trembling form reappeared, when the outraged prisoners fell upon and literally tore him to pieces: his carcase [sic] was carried out an unrecognizable mass. We felt that the ring is effectually broken up, although we are told that the rest are to be pardoned, but, if they are returned here, there will be no pardon for them.
July 1st. At noon an opening was made through the stockade into the new addition: and during afternoon fifty detachments, or over thirteen thousand men, moved into it, ours among the number. We have now twenty-five acres enclosed, but the camp appears just as crowded as ever.
Jim Miller and I found a 34th Massachusetts man (Levi Shepard) who had a rubber blanket, so we three go in together: my woolen now serves for a shelter from the sun and rain, and Shep’s rubber for the ground, so we are in more tolerable condition. There was some order planned in the arrangement of detachments into streets, but our allotted ground was much too small, so we are in as great a jumble as ever.
July 2d. Very hot. Found an old tent-mate of the 36th Massachusetts, who was taken near White House Landing, when on his way to his regiment on the 30th of May. Water is very difficult to get, and of poor and filthy quality. We drew two rations, owing to a misunderstanding on the part of the rebels. On account of the low state of our morals we did not return the extra ration.
July 3d. Very hot. Roll was called throughout the camp. Our detachment lost their rations on account of the absence of half a dozen men; so our extra rations of yesterday were very opportune.
July 4th. Very hot. We didn’t celebrate the “glorious 4th” by feasting, but roasting half of our pint of meal for breakfast, made mush of the other half for dinner, and had raw pork for supper. The detachments were reorganized, and ours is now the 63d. In place of the usual fire-works in the evening, over thirty thousand filled the night air with songs of “John Brown’s Body,” “Star-Spangled Banner,” “Down with the Traitors,” etc., cheers for Vicksburg and Gettysburg victories of a year ago, and groans for Hog Winder and the Dutch Captain. All of which were given with an unction, and did not fail to reach the ears of those for whom they were intended.
July 5th. Very hot, but a fine breeze blows up from the swamp. A death from cholera last night is reported. Rumors of the fall of Richmond on the 2d.
July 6th. Very hot. More prisoners came in to-day. The camp is full of rumors of an an exchange to begin to-morrow. Succeeded in getting an axe for a few moments and cut up some wood.
July 7th. Very hot. Several “wood riots” and knock-downs occurred. The quartermaster has issued axes to each detachment, thereby stopping the letting of axes at fifty and seventy-five cents an hour, which the blood-suckers have been practicing.
July 8th. Very warm. Several hundred prisoners from Grant’s army and James Island came in, which made unusual commotion outside. One poor fellow of our squad died of diarrhea during the night. A large prayer-meeting was held near us, to which many a poor fellow delighted to crawl: every moment of the time was taken up in prayer, which went up from earnest hearts.
July 9th. Very hot, with a shower in the afternoon. Another man of our squad died to-day. A large number of prisoners from Hunter’s West Virginia Army came in: they report a lot of prisoners from the 2d Corps on their way to this place. Washed shirt in creek.
July 10th. Very hot, with showers around us. More prisoners came in. The monotony of camp was broken by the parade of several camp-police with two or three prisoners, with their heads and faces shaved on one side, and a card attached to their backs bearing the word “Thief.” They were greeted with brick-bats and cudgels as they passed along through the noisy, unsympathetic crowd.
July 11th. Another day of excitement. Seven hundred prisoners from Grant’s army came in. After noon a scaffold was brought into camp, and erected near the south gate. At three the rebel camps were in commotion: the entire guard came out under arms, and were placed in line of battle at different points around camp, and the batteries were all manned. At four o’clock six of the condemned raiders were brought in under a strong guard of Union prisoners. After they had ascended the scaffold, a Catholic priest attended to their spiritual wants individually: meal-bags were tied over their heads and the ropes adjusted, while very living soul inside and outside the stockade was looking on in silence. At a given signal the six dropped off: five went struggling into eternity, while the rope of the sixth broke, and falling to the earth he gave a bound and was away like a frightened deer, over tens, and smashing in shanties; in his race of despair he reached the swamp, and after floundering about a few moments was re-taken. After begging most piteously for his life, he was taken up to the scaffold, and the second time launched off, this time into eternity. One man was from New York, one from New Jersey, one from Pennsylvania, and two were sailors. There is now a feeling of greater security than there has been for a long time, but may I never witness another scene like that!
July 12th. Showers around us have cooled the air and it is quite comfortable. Six hundred prisoners from Grant’s army came in today, among them Allen from Baldwinsville, of the 36th Massachusetts. I bathed in the muddy creek in the evening. Prayer-meetings every pleasant evening and very largely attended.
July 13th. Very warm, but cloudy. An extra ration of rice was dealt out to all in camp. Two men were shot on the dead-line, and a third was fired at. There are now one hundred and ten full detachments of two hundred and seventy men each, in camp, besides the crowded hospitals outside.
July 14th. Warm in the forenoon, but cloudy in the afternoon. Several were shot on the dead-line during the day. The sergeants were ordered to appear at the gate, where they received the pleasing information that grape and canister would be fired into camp without further notice, if large crowds should collect or any unusual commotion occur. There was a general review of the camp guard outside, and a salute of two guns fired. The authorities evidently fear an uprising in camp.
July 15th. A few cripples and “bummers” from Sherman’s army came in. The rebels are suspicious that large tunnels are in progress, and are hunting for them near the dead-line. A petition has been made up to send to our government, praying for a speedy release of all here. Death is doing his share of the work faithfully.
July 16th. Two tunnels have been discovered, one of them running fifty yards outside of the stockade, and would probably have been a great success, had the place not been betrayed by a fellow of the 7th Maine, who for the extra mess of pottage sold his brethren. Jim Miller has gone in with Osgood, so Shep. and I have the tent to ourselves.
July 17th. Very chilly last night, but warm to-day. The 7th Maine fellow was hunted down by the police and put to torture, after which his head was shaved, and with “traitor” on his back, he was most unmercifully beaten by the justly indignant prisoners. Rations of molasses in place of meat.
July 18th. A man was shot near the dead-line by the accidental discharge of a sentry’s musket, and killed. Prisoners who came in to-day report Montgomery, Ala., burnt by a Union raiding party.
July 19th. Very hot. Hog Winder has allowed six men to go to Washington to present the petition for parole or exchange, the men to be appointed by a committee of twenty men inside the stockade. The Union raiding party is said to be steering for this place.
July 20th. The rebels seem to be thoroughly alarmed. Negroes are throwing up fortifications all around camp. Raw militia is being hurried in on the cars. Two prisoners were discovered escaping from the outside end of a tunnel and fired at; several others had already escaped.
July 21st. Sergeant Webster was disposed. Mumford succeeding him in charge of the detachment. The Johnnies are very active outside: trains have been running all day and night. A few prisoners taken near Atlanta came in. Another ration of molasses instead of meat,–a very poor substitute for those troubled with diarrhea.
July 22d. Three hundred prisoners from Grant’s army came in, captured June 29th. Several tunnels partly dug were found. A sentry fired at a man near the dead-line, but missed him.
July 23d. Cloudy and comfortable. Rations of corn-bread, sow-belly, and salt. “Raiding” has been going on, and several fights, but the police are on the alert.
July 24th. Last night was very cold and to-day is very hot, which increases the mortality. Rations of rice and sow-belly.
July 25th. Last night was the coldest of the season. I could not sleep much, but laid awake listening to the coughs and groans from all directions. I have canker in my throat, which is painful. More tunnels were found. Rations of rice, but no salt to go with it. Water-melons, apples, eggs, doughnuts, berry pies, biscuit, etc., for sale in camp, but no one has any money. Cloudy and rain. I have taken cold, and my throat is quite sore. Rations of raw meal and sow-belly.
July 27th. Four hundred men from Grant and Sherman came in to-day. One was shot soon after coming in, while reaching under the dead-line for clear water, –probably not knowing the rules; his brains were blown into the water. I traded my ration of pork for cayenne pepper and used it for my throat, which is filling up with canker and very painful.
July 28th. Hot, shower in afternoon. I have great difficulty in talking and eating from the filling up in the my throat. Seventeen hundred prisoners from Sherman came in, during which the rebels fired a solid shot a few feet over our heads, which struck in the marsh outside; it caused a big scare and dispersed the crowd in quick time. The fort around headquarters is nearly completed.
July 29th. Very hot. The usual shower in the afternoon. A line of white flags has been stationed through camp, marking the limit beyond which no crowd must collect. The rebels hardly dare put their threat into execution without modifying it. —-and—- went outside to work on their parole of honor. Two men of the 11th Massachusetts died near me.
July 30th. Very hot. Our rebel sergeant has called for shoemakers, and —- sent in his name. The coarse, uncooked corn-meal has brought on the diarrhoea again.
July 31st. Very hot. The rebels have been felling trees all about camp to serve as a blockade. More rumors of exchange and parole. I have been suffering from a severe headache and fever turn.
August 1st. Very hot; rain last night. I was sick all night, but feel better this morning. A preacher from outside held services in camp, and read the exchange report in the newspaper. Ambulances have been taking out sick all the afternoon.
August 2d. Very hot. Heavy thunder-shower in the afternoon, which flooded us all, soaking everything. I am quite sick,–very weak from cough and diarrhea. A lot of prisoners came in, who report that they were taken at Macon while en route for this place to relieve us. The sick have been going out all day.
August 3d. Very hot. The moving of the sick to the outside has been going on all day, causing much talk and rumor as to the why and wherefore.
August 4th. Very hot. No sick were taken out; neither roll-call nor sick-call took place. One of our squad died near me this noon. Prayer-meeting was held near me in the evening.
August 5th. Very hot. All the sick of the first eight detachments were taken out. Prisoners from Sherman came in. I was taken with a severe headache at night. We are continually tormented and tantalized with the sight of peaches, apples, chickens, and soda-water offered for sale at fabulous prices.
August 6th. Very warm. The dread monotony of our miserable life is broken only by the hundreds of rumors of exchange, causing renewed disappointment to the believing. A man was killed on the dead-line, and another shot at in the evening.
August 7th. Very warm. Several convalescents came in from the hospitals, and report an awful condition of affairs there. I am feeling better, except an irritating cough. Prisoners from Sherman came in.
August 8th. A row of sheds inside camp at the west end are being built for the sick. Rain all the afternoon.
August 9th. Very warm. The heaviest thunder shower of the season occurred in the afternoon, which flooded camp and undermined the stockade in several places so that it fell over, causing wild excitement among the authorities outside. All the guard were called by the long roll, the batteries all manned and turned on us poor fellows, who were greatly amused by their alarm. Four hundred prisoners from Sherman came in. Poor old Boyer, a German from Ohio, died near me. All day yesterday and last night he lay, almost within arm’s-length of me, moaning and crying for water, while every draught seemed to throw him into spasms; and when he died we all felt relieved that rebel hate could do no more to him. In the evening I went over and had a good talk of old times with Walter Lamb.
August 10th. Heavy shower in the afternoon. The rebels worked all day very lively on the stockade. Drew half rations of bread, raw beans, and fresh meat, but no wood. I feel well to-day, but mighty hungry. The wet weather causes rapidly-increasing mortality.
August 11th. Very warm; rain in the afternoon. The rancid bacon, flinty corn-bread, and beans that are not all beans, make us dainty. The beans come to us cooked up with all sorts of chaff, dirt, and bean-bugs, but it all fills up, and we ought to be grateful. Prisoners came in from Sherman. The old stockade is all up, and the negroes are at work erecting another one twenty rods outside, so that tunneling will have to be dispensed with.
August 12th. Rations of bread (half-cooked), rice (quarter-cooked), meat (slightly warmed). More prisoners from Sherman to-day.
August 13th. Very hot and clear. Beautiful moonlight evening. We have two new neighbors from Iowa, who have stretched their blankets with ours. They were taken in the rear of Johnson’s army, while raiding. They were robbed of a large amount of money, and of watches and clothing. The bank of the creek has been boarded up, so that we are able to dip for water without making it muddy. Shower in the evening, our rations better to-night.
August 14th. Prisoners from Sherman to-day report Atlanta taken by our forces.
August 15th. Very hot. Headache at night. Rations smaller than ever.
August 16th. Very hot, with shower in the evening. Two years ago to-day I sold myself to Uncle Sam to help “put down the rebellion.” This day finds the tables turned, and the accursed rebellion trying to put me down. It remains to be seen whether all this wholesale persecution of the helpless will avail to establish a new and honored government at the south.
August 17th. Very hot, which makes my head ache constantly. I found a book on temperance, which I have been reading, –the first I have seen, except my little testament, since my capture.
August 18th. Very hot. A new rebel sergeant called our roll, who finds it difficult to red writing and in his haste does not get answers to many of the names. The rations of the supposed absentees are consequently cut off. I am down sick with diarrhea and headache. More prisoners from Sherman come in.
August 22d. To-night finds me better able to write. I feel that I have been very near to death’s door. The weather has continued hot as ever, and my diarrhea, which took the form of dysentery, made me nearly helpless. Then my head ached till I thought I should become crazy. I thought of the regiment as the 19th of August came round, when I suppose they were to be mustered out. My spirits went down to zero as I thought of the prospect of my old comrades compared with my own. Oh, that the old pale horse would not stare me in the face so hard and so constantly. Yesterday I felt that my pluck had nearly vanished, and it seemed as if the only hold on life which I had was in the comfort derived from the previous words which I read, “My son, despise not thou the chastening of the Lord, nor faint when thou art rebuked of Him, for whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth.” Shep has been very kind, and I feel thankful that my prayers have been answered and I am really better. The mortality on these cold, wet nights is terrible. A large prayer-meeting was held on the flat in the evening. Rations of corn-bread, beans, and molasses.
August 23d. Very hot all day and night; mosquitoes very troublesome. [E] Baker, of the 34th Massachusetts, of our mess, and another member of the 34th, died to-night, near by. Prisoners from Kilpatrick came in.
August 24th. Very hot. I am feeling much stronger. Shep went outside to the dead-house with a dead body. When he returned, after a stay of some ten minutes, he seemed greatly refreshed. Another man close by us died to-night. Some commissioned officers, disguised as privates, were taken out and sent away.
August 25th. Very hot. Rations of raw beans and beef. A few prisoners came in.
August 26th. This roasting hot weather does much toward driving men to idiocy. Many a poor fellow has been sun-struck, and gone up. This is what drives the humanity out of us. Rations of bread (a morsel), sow-belly (a bit), molasses (plenty), salt (a particle). Funeral services were held over a dead comrade near my tent, which seemed civilized.
August 27th. Very warm, but a good breeze which keeps the dust stirring. Rebs report heavy fighting at Petersburg on the 19th, when Grant was defeated.
August 28th. “Macon Telegraph” gives notice of a general exchange; but thanks that I am beyond believing anything now till the Stars and Stripes are between me and this hell on earth.
August 29th. Prisoners from Sherman yesterday and to-day.
August 30th. Warm and clear. Last night was cold and uncomfortable. Providence opened a new spring during the heavy shower of a day or two since, washing away a large stream of pure cold water flowing out, which supplies a large part of the camp. The man is a fool who doubts a kind and benevolent Providence after such a manifestation.
September 1st. Drew microscopic rations of beef, bread, ham, beans, and salt; some detachments had rice in place of bread.
September 2d. Last two nights have been uncomfortably cold. I have been a prisoner three months. How dreary the prospects ahead.
September 3d. Cloudy, with northeast wind. A crowd of convalescents came in from outside, and a lot of sick went out. In the afternoon there was a great stir in camp on account of the arrival of a mail from the north. [German] Lagara, the Frenchman, of Company K, received a letter from his wife, and the generous soul has been reading it to us greedy ones who receive none. Sherman is reported to have got in the rear of Hood.
September 4th. Mild. I read a letter written from Templeton, Mass., to Wilber Potter, in which I learn that Colonel [George P.] Hawkes has resigned and gone home, also that —– has become a Christian. This was all, but no one but those in our situation can realize the pleasure of hearing even this and seeing a letter from home. Clark, of our squad, died to-night, and [Waldo] Dwinnell, of Company G, went out to the hospital, and I presume we shall never see him again, as his strength is all gone, and he is very badly emaciated.
September 5th. Very hot. Drew rations of rice and molasses, bread and pork, which we found to be a mistake, as squad three lost theirs, so most of our boys gave up their extra.
September 6th. The whole camp is wild with excitement over the prospect of exchange, for the first eighteen detachments are now under marching orders. Nobody understands it, but there is a universal uplifting of heads by those who had already shut out hope.
September 7th. Very hot. Ten detachments were taken out. Ten more ordered to be in readiness. Drew a pint of meal, and pork. Holshoult, of the 34th Massachusetts, of our squad, died to-night.
September 8th. Cloudy. Mosquitoes troublesome. Several detachments left during the night, and a large number to-day. Rations of raw meal and beans.
September 9th. All the sick have been moved into the sheds at the west end. Prisoners from Sherman came in, and many went away at night. Rations of bread and meal, but no salt.
September 10th. Rourke, of our squad, died to-night, and I was detailed to carry him out to the dead-house. This is the first time I have been outside these horrid gates since I came in three months ago; and ‘tho’ outside less than three minutes, I caught a breath of fresh air which gave me a new lease on life. Rations of rice, meal, and molasses, and no salt. Several detachments went out at night and in the morning. Forty detachments have now gone, and the camp looks quite deserted; though there are over twenty thousand still here.
September 11th. There is a beautiful harvest moon shining down upon us. I wonder if dear friends at home are looking at it also and thinking of me. Ten detachments left to-night. Nearly all the 21st boys have left, Miller among the number. How homesick it makes a fellow feel to see all his friends leaving him in a place like this.
September 12th. Graton stopped with us last night. Eighteen detachments go out to-day.
September 13th. A large number of “flankers” from our squad got out last night with those who went away, so that our rations are larger in consequence. Go it, boys, while you can. To-night we receive orders to be in readiness to start in the morning.
September 14th. Very hot. The train which left last night collided with a freight train six miles away, by which eight of the cars were smashed, killing and wounding about sixty “Northern Mudsills.” All of the uninjured on that train were sent back into camp, and none left to-day.
September 15th. Days hot and nights cold. 1,100 sick sent away to-day. 2,000 of Sherman’s men ordered to be ready to leave on a special exchange, for which reason we do not get our rations till late in the night. A heavy shower in the afternoon.
September 16th. Hot. A large number of sick have been going out all day. 600 of yesterday’s batch returned to camp for want of transportation.
September 17th. Cloudy; heavy rain at night. 700 men of Sherman’s exchange left, several of them from our detachment. It seems lonely and drear to see the thousands of deserted burrows and dens.
September 18th. Stormy. No prisoners went out; and no signs of any more going at present,–many long faces in consequence. Shep is sick with the diarrhea.
September 19th. Cloudy; rain at night. —and—sent into camp because two or three of their comrades ran away. They say that it is supposed that the prisoners have only been transferred to other prisons, Charleston and Savannah. 1,100 more of Sherman’s exchange went out, each man’s name called to prevent “flankers”.
September 20th. Cloudy; rain in the night. Signs of scurvy have appeared in my mouth; am feeling very poorly. Drew no bread to-day.
September 21st. Cloudy and rain. Very chilly and damp nights. Great numbers sick with colds. Drew a ration of mouldy sea-biscuit, molasses and beans. Bad as the bread was it was a desirable change from the “grits.”
September 22d. Sun came out scorching hot at noon, and shower in the afternoon. The camp has been reorganized into new detachments of 240 men each, divided into four squads of sixty men each. They number from forty-five to seventy-three: ours is the seventy-second.
September 23d. Shower in the afternoon. A lively trade between the guard and prisoners: the prisoners’ articles of traffic being military buttons, and the rebs’ sweet potatoes. Some rebel officers visiting here rode around the dead-line to view the human menagerie.
September 24th. Several showers during the day. Washed in the creek. Ration of raw meal. The Dutch captain has been inspecting the ration wagons, and tells us we are entitled to more rations than we get. Oh, well, don’t we know it!
September 25th. Clear and mild. It was so cold we could not sleep last night. We are beginning to realize that we must remain here through the winter. Will hope keep us up much longer?
September 26th. Roll-call; and all men not in line were deprived of their rations. Prisoners who came in from Sherman say that the special exchange is true, but no general exchange. The chief quartermaster has been inspecting us. Wonder how he likes the looks!
September 27th. Roll was called, and men put into our detachment to fill up the places of flankers. Our ration of beans very small, and the most filthy we ever had: dirt, bugs, worms, chaff, and pods being the principal ingredients. The shout was raised “fall in,” and several more detachments were sent away, but ours will be the last, so our case is well-nigh hopeless. More prisoners from Sherman came in.
September 28th. Warm and comfortable last night. Drew rations of meal, beef, beans, wood, pork, salt, and molasses, which were dealt out to us in crumbs, drops, splinters, and teaspoonfuls. Three and a half detachments went out to-day.
September 29th. I found a “History of the World” by Peter Parley, which has been a rare treat to me for the hour or more allowed me to keep it. Drew very small rations of meal, beans, and beef. Five more detachments prepared to leave, but the train did not come for them.
September 30th. Very warm and sultry. At roll-call all detachments were filled up. Drew molasses in place of meat, a very poor substitute for these hungry starving skeletons. Tasted a sweet potato, which was a great luxury. A ration of a teaspoonful of soft soap was distributed throughout camp, and nobody knows what to do with it.
October 1st. Washed in the creek, just to use up the soap: that was all. Rations of bread and beans. A train-load of prisoners went away.
October 2d. Four months a prisoner, and oh, how long ones! A few Sherman prisoners, captured near Atlanta, came in. Drew a splendid ration of beans. We find it difficult to remember the Sabbath as it comes around, but conclude that this is one up in God’s country, if we haven’t lost our reckoning.
October 3d. Heavy showers. Several men went to work on their parole of honor as teamsters, choppers, etc.
October 4th. Another load of prisoners went away this evening, among whom were [Alvin S.] Granton and [George V.] Barker of the 21st. Two shots were fired on the dead-line.
October 5th. I was detailed to “pack” the sick and dead, to and from the sheds, for which I drew an extra ration of bread, rice, and molasses. My teeth and jaws are quite sore.
October 6th. Cloudy and rain. My sleep was broken by teethache. I trade away my ration of meal for beans, which I eat as dry as possibly to check the progress of scurvy. Rations to-day of bread, beans, bacon, beef, and molasses, just enough to keep life in the lice and fleas, which companions in misery stick closer than brothers.
October 7th. Cloudy and damp. Had a suffering night from my teeth. Shep. is sick, as also many others, with chills and ague.
October 8th. The weather changed suddenly in the night, and to-day is clear and cold. Lost another night’s sleep from teethache. Many poor fellows are sinking, and dying from exposure to this hard weather.
October 9th. Still clear and cold. We are moved over to the south end of this deserted camp, and are formed into detachments of five hundred men in each. We are in the 4th. Shep. and I dug a hole in the ground, over which we spread our blanket, for another cold night is expected, and we must work to keep from getting a death-chill, even if it is the Sabbath.
October 10th. Spent a suffering and sleepless night. The coldest night of the season. The rebel guards on their elevated posts suffered from the freezing wind and were impatient to get off, and very noisy all night. There are now about 2,500 men in camp. Shep. and I mess with Sergeant Phelps, of Vermont, and twenty others. Teeth ache all day.
October 11th. Mild. Spent a more comfortable night. The sick at the sheds get hard tack. Three hundred prisoners from Sherman came in, captured between Atlanta and Marietta.
October 12th. My jaws are very sore. The entire camp was kept in line all the morning while the sergeants arranged the rolls, and the quartermaster arranged the camp into streets. A new deadline was put up.
October 13th. More arranging and moving about. We now lie very compact; about three thousand men occupying about three acres, two thirds of which space is included in the streets. I have been peddling coffee at the hospital sheds, made from burnt meal.
October 14th. Cloudy and cool. Spent another night of suffering. Men at work fixing up their tents for winter. Quite a large number of sick were admitted to the sheds. Street sutlers are plenty, with an abundance of sweet potatoes and biscuit for sale.
October 15th. Shep. and I have been digging our grave deeper, over which we spread our blanket. Teeth ache all day another sleepless night.
October 16th. I was detailed to “pack” dead out to the dead-house from the sheds. I carried out two men belonging to the 19th Massachusetts. Nights are cold and frosty, and no wood to keep warm with.
October 17th. Large details have been made to go out for wood. Rations of raw beans and molasses, but no bread. Made candy of my molasses. Rain in the evening.
October 18th. I went outside the stockade for wood; and oh how like a new life it seemed to see the green grass and leaves, and breathe the fresh air, and be surrounded by sights and smells which no one can ever appreciate as fully as those who live as we do. It gives me a new longing to live, and also a new torture in the doubt and hopeless look of the future. Shep. and I have been writing letters home, sending for boxes. Several convalescents tried to escape into the hospitals, but the hounds caught them.
October 19th. Shep. sick with diarrhea. Rations of rice and molasses.
October 20th. Warmer last night. Went out for wood again, so we have a fire to sit by this evening. Beans and beef for to-day’s rations.
October 21st. Pleasant day, but cold night. Several went to hospital from our mess, Webster among the number. Rations of rice and molasses in place of beans and beef.
October 22nd. Shep. and I have fixed up blankets with Laird of Pennsylvania, by which means we get an extra blanket for nights.
October 23rd. Very cold and heavy frost last night, for which could not sleep much. Went out again for wood.
October 24th. Had a comfortable night’s rest. We think we have our tent made very comfortable. The chief sutler was cleaned out by the Dutch captain for selling liquor, and his goods confiscated for the benefit of the sick around camp.
October 25th. The wood detail has been stopped because some of the men have escaped. Salt is very scarce.
October 26th. An order confiscating all salt offered for sale in camp has been issued by the Dutchman. Teeth ache very severely.
October 27th. Stormy. Our tent was flooded. I am hoarse and used up generally for want of sleep. Rations of bread and rice, very small, barely enough to sustain life.
October 28th. Hard toothache and poor night’s rest. Washed in the creek and mended shirt. Traded off my ration of beans for an excellent ration of rice. A mud shanty fell in, breaking one man’s back and badly crippling two others.
October 29th. Very cold, and heavy frost last night. Toothache very severe. Fixed up our tent so that it is weather-proof. Six prisoners came in.
October 30th. Had about an hour’s sleep last night. Shep. applied for admission to the hospital but was refused. The whole camp has received orders to be ready to march.
October 31st. Warm and lowering. First, second, and part of third detachment went away in the morning, but there is no enthusiasm, for we believe it to be only a change of prisons, the report of exchange being only a dodge of the rebels to keep us from any attempt to escape during transportation. The rebel sergeants have been taking our carpenters to work on their parole of honor. Rations of bread and rice cooked without a particle of salt.
November 1st. The sheds are being cleared of all sick, who are either taken outside or returned to camp.
November 2d. Storms commenced before midnight, and rained hard about twelve hours; fortunately for us our tent was kept quite dry, while most of the others were flooded. This is about the last of Andersonville for us, and it is a general abandoning of this horrid place. Orders came for us all to be ready to start at eleven A.M., but transportation did not arrive, and we did not start until ten at night, when we were roused out of a sound sleep, and went through the gates in perfect darkness and in a pelting rain, thus passing out of a place which, however long we live, will always combine more of the realities to be expected in that dark and terrible region of despair of the future world known as “hell,” than any other can to us. In the pitchy darkness we were packed into old freight cars (eight-three in a car), the doors were shut and secured, and we were soon moving towards Macon.
November 3d. Packed as we were, it was impossible to change position, and I sat all night on the bottom of the car, with hardly a wink of sleep. Passing through Macon at daylight, we continued our journey on the Charleston Railroad, riding all day and until late at night, in the same cramped sitting posture; at last we arrived at Millen Station, two hundred miles from Andersonville, in a pitiable condition, and found great relief in getting out and stretching our aching limbs. One of my mess died in our car on the trip. Marching half a mile, we came to another stockade, and camped outside for the rest of the night.
November 4th. Clear, but very cold wind. Suffered for want of shelter and clothes. We were formed into detachments as before, and marched inside, where we drew rations of rice, meal, beef, beans, and salt. Camped by the side of the creek. Find this place nice, clean, and roomy, though about ten thousand of our old prisoners are here.
November 5th. Drew two day’s rations, better in quantity and quality than at Andersonville, but suffer for want of shelter. Those who came in first have made comfortable winter-quarters of logs. Several hundred, in despair of exchange, have taken the oath, and gone into the rebel army.
November 6th. Chilly. Couldn’t sleep last night on account of the cold. Laird and I went out for wood.
November 7th. Warm night. Found Lamb and Graton. Made a temporary shelter. The man who hung the raiders last summer was chased out of camp by part of the old ring, but he escaped unharmed.
November 8th. Light rain. I had a comfortable night’s sleep. This is supposed to be presidential election day, and a great deal of excitement and sport was made in voting for the two candidates, Little Mac and Old Abe. My vote proved to have been case for the triumphant candidate in camp. Abraham received a majority of nine hundred and seventy-five in a total casting of over nine thousand.
November 9th. I went out for wood twice to-day. A great cheering outside among the rebels, which the guard told us was caused by the news of a general exchange.
November 10th. Rain in the morning. Cold and windy at night. An inspecting officer has been taking the names of those most ragged in camp, for clothing.
November 11th. Clear and cold. A recruiting officer has been in camp enticing prisoners to enlist in the rebel army. Several went from our division.
November 12th. Very chilly wind all day. Our two days’ rations did not come till late at night, because a number of the enlisted recruits could not be found, and the authorities feared that they had been murdered by our boys, who are very indignant at their action. A man near me, who was nearly naked, perished with the cold.
November 13th. Chilly wind and frosty night. Names of sick, seventy-five from each division, were taken to the surgeons, who examined and passed them out, to be sent to Savannah for exchange. Shepard and Graton were examined and passed; they expect to go to-morrow. What an inducement to be sick!
November 14th. Coldest night of the fall. Received a ration of sweet potatoes in place of meal, and of hard soap. I wrote a letter home, to send by Shepard.
November 15th. Shepard and his crowd left us. It did me good to see him go, though my heart sank to feel that I must always be left behind.
November 16th. Sweet potatoes were issued again. Another train of sick arrived from Andersonville. Our sick did not get away, and all returned inside the stockade to-day.
November 18th. A new sergeant, who could not read very well, called our roll, and did not get through so that we could draw our rations, till after dark; so we starve on three spoonfuls of rice all day. Shepard’s lot of sick went way this time, and the surgeons are examining in camp for another load.
November 19th. Storm came on at night. Another change of sergeants, which caused another day’s starvation on a mouthful of beef. Another train load of sick went away at dark.
November 20th. More sick were examined and passed out. At midnight the cry went around “Fall in 1st and 2d divisions,” and they packed up and went way.
November 21st. Stormed all day. At one o’clock at night we took possession of a fine shanty, abandoned by second division fellows, of which we enjoyed the occupancy until night, when we were ordered to pack up, and start off in the rain. Rumors are rife among the prisoners that Sherman has something to do with it, and our suspicions are confirmed when we reach the depot and see train after train pass down towards Savannah, loaded with all kinds of household goods, men with their families, and negroes of all ages, while numberless teams of all descriptions are depositing their freight alongside the railroad. We, meanwhile, stand in a terrible, freezing biting wind for hours, waiting for transportation, until at last, more dead than alive, chilled to the heart, we go on the cars (sixty in a car).
November 22d. At four o’clock in the morning we glided away through the pine forests toward Savannah, over one of the smoothest railroads I ever was on. Arriving at Savannah at sunset, we passed through the beautiful city and left the cars at dark. The weather was biting cold, no quarters or fuel were furnished us, and having had no rations for two days, most of us are too weak to move about and keep our blood stirring. A remaining spark of Yankee ingenuity suggested rather a novel mode of keeping warm. Two or three men would sit down on the ground, locking and interlacing each other in their arms and legs, while others would pack on and against them until there would be a solid stack of humanity of twenty, more or less. But in spite of every effort to keep warm, several of our poor, thin-blooded fellows froze to death.
November 24th. Milder than yesterday. Beef and salt were issued to us. Citizens have been bringing in food and clothes all day but I am not smart enough to get any. A lot of prisoners went south on the Florida road; the sick were also taken away, and the rest of us were allowed to get wood from the lumber-yard, with which we keep more comfortable at night.
November 25th. Clear. The kind-hearted people of Savannah continued to bring in food and clothing all day. I got some rice, which kept me till the rations of hard-tack and molasses came at dark. A train came along at nine in the evening, and we were hurried on board the cars. A rebel officer told us we were going to Charleston to be exchanged.
November 26th. After riding all night we find ourselves at sunrise approaching Charleston, cross the broad Cooper and Ashley rivers, and reach the city. Our cars stand in the streets all the forenoon, miles out of the city, and change cars, our only exchange at Charleston. Moving northward we rode until ten o’clock, when we left the cars at Florence, one hundred miles from Charleston.
November 27th. Having spent the night in bivouac by the side of the railroad, in the morning our names are taken and we are sent inside another stockade, which we find crowded with old prisoners from Andersonville. Laird and I spread our blankets together, and at night drew a ration of meal and flour, which, by the aid of a few chips, we made a supper of, and though our hopes had been checked by this termination of “the exchange,” still the change of air and scene has stimulated us somewhat, and we do not feel ready to say die yet.
November 28th. After a cheerless, sleepless night on the cold, damp ground, I got a breakfast of flour paste, and found all the old comrades of the 21st–Miller, Middy, and all well. This camp is crowded fully as badly as Andersonville was; the location is damp and swampy, and the rations poorer and smaller than ever. The sick from each thousand are being paroled each day.
November 29th. I bought some straw with a borrowed $5 confederate scrip; and mended my clothes, which are in a miserable condition: the sleeves of my blouse and shirt are almost entirely gone, showing some skeleton arms, the backs of both garments are as thin as gauze, while my pants are worn from the knees down, entirely away, and my cap is two simple pieces of cloth sewed together. I was detailed to go out for wood. Rations of a pint and a half of flour and a splinter of green gum-wood. More prisoners came from Millen.
November 30th. Had the chills last night and lost my sleep. Jim Miller was admitted to the hospital. Bathed in the creek. Rations of a pint and a half of meal, with beans and salt.
December 1st. All the prisoners were moved to one side of the creek, and then the entire camp made to move back to the other side again, being counted as they passed across the little bridge. A lot of “galvanized Yanks”–turncoats–were sent back into camp by the rebels for fear they would escape to our army.
December 2d. Six months a prisoner.
December 3d. Roll-call and wood rations were omitted “on account of the return of a large number of paroled sick,” though we don’t see the relation of cause and effect. I traded a map of the seat of war for a mess of sweet potatoes.
December 4th. The prisoners were again transferred back and forth in order to get a correct count. I copied a map of the States of North and South Carolina, which for unexplained reasons has become a favorite occupation among certain prisoners. Rations of a pint of rice. A sick man was shot dead on the dead-line.
December 5th. Frosty night, but beautiful to-day. I drew a ration of a pint and a half of meal, but no wood to cook with.
December 6th. Foggy in the morning; clear and cold at night. I heard preaching from clergyman from Florence. Went out for wood.
December 8th. Very chilly and cloudy. I am not prepared to understand my situation yet, so unexpectedly has it come upon me. In the morning the remaining four thousand in camp were called out into the dead-line and examined. Laird and I were near the last end of one of the lines. As the rebel surgeon came along, glancing at one and another, speaking to perhaps one out of a dozen, he passed me by,–an incident which did not attract my attention much, as I had no idea I was worth noticing any how. But he turns and looks back at me, and then steps back, asks my condition, examines me more closely, thumps me (and my heart thumps back), asks the name of my regiment, State, time of expiration of term of service, and then, turning away, says abruptly, “You may go.” No words will ever strike me as those did; asking him to repeat them–not fully understanding–I bounded out of the stockade as if I had been shot out. Hardly was I out and looking about me, when I saw Laird following me. Too overjoyed to think of anything else, we clasped each other’s hands and cried like babies. Found and signed our parole papers, after which we were sent out on a large level field, with a number of others, without much guard, all day and night. Rations of meal and sweet potatoes.
December 9th. Cloudy and cold. Suffered severely, as the small fires could not afford us, bloodless creatures, much warmth, and we were nearly blinded with smoke. At night our names were called, each of us drew a loaf of wheat bread, and before it was dark all of us (one thousand in all) were on board a long train of rickety, broken cars. Pain in all my joints, cold and shaking, blind almost as a bat in the daylight, after being pulled into a car I laid down to wonder if death were not then really creeping over me.
December 10th. After an all-night ride, with some sleep, reached Charleston at eight o’clock in the morning, and left the cars in the lower part of the city near the mouth of the Ashley River. The day was cold and cloudy, and a dense mist hung over the harbor. We were kept a large part of the day on a wharf, waiting for the fog to clear away, exposed to the piercing winter’s wind as it blew in from over the harbor. By the middle of the afternoon the mist had lifted, and at four P.M. we were transferred to a small steamer and sailed down the harbor. Passing the many points of interest which, under ordinary circumstances, would have commanded the closest attention of all, at this time all eyes were peering with intensest gaze out into the thick haze which hung over the harbor. At last old, ragged Fort Sumter came in view, and as we passed under its ruined, battered walls, all eyes for a moment turned toward that historic pile. Then the boat’s speed slackened, and swung slowly around so that the gaze of the prisoners, who were confined on the stern of the vessel, suddenly took in the sight before them. There, high before us, only a few yards away, lay the majestic steamer “City of New York,” from whose topmast waved the grand old Stars and Stripes. The scene which follows beggars description. Men shouted and cheered, laughed like idiots, and cried like babies. Men stood with their eyes riveted on that flag as if dreaming; others danced or grasped each other, and all acted like madmen.
Transferred and exchanged! the fulfillment of “hopes long deferred.”
Andersonville in all its misery…
Culled from: Andersonville: Giving Up the Ghost
Civil War Injury Du Jour!
Photograph No. 205. Double amputation of the forearms for injury caused by the premature explosion of a gun.
Private Samuel H. Decker, Company I, 4th US Artillery, while ramming his piece at the Battle of Perryville, Kentucky, October 8, 1862, had half of his right forearm and somewhat less of the left blown off by the premature explosion of the gun. At the same time his face and chest were badly burned. Five hours after the accident, both forearms were amputated by the circular method about the middle., by an assistant surgeon of the regular army whose name he cannot recall. He laid in the field hospital at Perryville until the wounds were partially cicatrized [healed by scarring — DeSpair] when on November 1 he went to Louisville, Kentucky, and, on the 3rd of November, 1862, he was discharged to service. About the middle of January, 1863, the stumps were completely healed. In the Autumn of 1864, Mr. Decker began to make experiments for providing himself with artificial limbs. He produced, in March, 1865, an apparatus hereto unrivaled for its ingenuity and utility. He receives a pension of $300 per year and is a door keeper at the House of Representatives. On November 29, 1867, Mr. Decker visited the Army Medical Museum where a number of photographs of his stumps were made. With the aid of his ingenious apparatus he is able to write legibly, to pick up any small objects, a pin for example, to carry packages of ordinary weight, to feed and clothe himself, and in one or two instances of disorder in the congressional gallery has proved himself a formidable police officer.
Photographed at the Army Medical Museum.
Culled from: Orthopaedic Injuries of the Civil War
I had to look up Decker’s prosthetics and found this nice photo of them. Clever guy!
