MOVED JUST IN TIME.

REMOVED FROM ANDERSONVILLE TO THE MARINE HOSPITAL, SAVANNAH—GETTING THROUGH THE GATE—BATTESE HAS SAVED US—VERY SICK BUT BY NO MEANS DEAD YET—BETTER AND HUMANE TREATMENT.

Aug. 1.—Just about the same. My Indian friend says: “We all get away.”

Aug. 2.—Two hundred and twenty die each day. No more news of exchange.

Aug. 3.—Had some good soup, and feel better. All is done for me that can be done by my friends. Rowe and Sanders in almost as bad a condition as myself. Just about where I was two or three weeks ago. Seem to have come down all at once. August goes for them.

Aug. 4.—Storm threatened. Will cool the atmosphere. Hard work to write.

Aug. 5.—Severe storm. Could die in two hours if I wanted to, but don’t.

Aug. 12.—Warm. Warm. Warm. If I only had some shade to lay in, and a glass of lemonade.

Aug. 13.—A nice spring of cold water has broken out in camp, enough to furnish nearly all here with drinking water. God has not forgotten us. Battese brings it to me to drink.

Aug. 14.—Battese very hopeful, as exchange rumors are afloat. Talks more about it than ever before.

Aug. 15.—The water is a God-send. Sanders better and Rowe worse.

Aug. 16.—Still in the land of the living. Capt. Wirtz is sick and a Lieut. Davis acting in his stead.

Aug. 17.—Hanging on yet. A good many more than two hundred and twenty-five die now in twenty-four hours. Messes that have stopped near us are all dead.

Aug. 18.—Exchange rumors.

Aug. 19.—Am still hoping for relief. Water is bracing some up, myself with others. Does not hurt us.

Aug. 20.—Some say three hundred now die each day. No more new men coming. Reported that Wirtz is dead.

Aug. 21.—Sleep nearly all the time except when too hot to do so.

Aug. 22—Exchange rumors.

Aug. 23.—Terribly hot.

Aug. 24.—Had some soup. Not particularly worse, but Rowe is, and Sanders also.

Aug. 25.—In my exuberance of joy must write a few lines. Received a letter from my brother, George W. Ransom, from Hilton Head.[A]Contained only a few words.

[A]My brother supposed me dead, as I had been so reported; still, thinking it might not be so, every week or so he would write a letter and direct to me as a prisoner of war. This letter, very strangely, reached its destination.

Aug. 26.—Still am writing. The letter from my brother has done good and cheered me up. Eye sight very poor and writing tires me. Battese sticks by; such disinterested friendship is rare. Prison at its worst.

Aug. 27.—Have now written nearly through three large books, and still at it. The diary am confident will reach my people if I don’t. There are many here who are interested and will see that it goes north.

Aug. 28.—No news and no worse; set up part of the time. Dying off a third faster than ever before.

Aug. 29.—Exchange rumors afloat. Any kind of a change would help me.

Aug. 30.—Am in no pain whatever, and no worse.

Aug. 31.—Still waiting for something to turn up. My Indian friend says: “good news yet.”Night.—The camp is full of exchange rumors.

Sept 1.—Sanders taken outside to butcher cattle. Is sick but goes all the same. Mike sick and no longer a policeman. Still rumors of exchange.

Sept. 2.—Just about the same; rumors afloat does me good. Am the most hopeful chap on record.

Sept. 3.—Trade off my rations for some little luxury and manage to get up quite a soup.Later.—Sanders sent in to us a quite large piece of fresh beef and a little salt; another God-send.

Sept. 4.—Anything good to eat lifts me right up, and the beef soup has done it.

Sept. 4.—The beef critter is a noble animal. Very decided exchange rumors.

Sept. 5.—The nice spring of cold water still flows and furnishes drinking water for all; police guard it night and day so to be taken away only in small quantities. Three hundred said to be dying off each day.

Sept. 6.—Hurrah! Hurrah!! Hurrah!!! Can’t holler except on paper. Good news. Seven detachments ordered to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.Later.—All who cannot walk must stay behind.If left behind shall die in twenty-four hours. Battese saysI shall go.Later.—Seven detachments are going out of the gate; all the sick are left behind. Ours is the tenth detachment and will go to-morrow so said. The greatest excitement; men wild with joy. Am worried fearful that I cannot go, but Battese says I shall.

Sept. 7.—Anxiously waiting the expected summons. Rebels say as soon as transportation comes, and so a car whistle is music to our ears. Hope is a good medicine and am sitting up and have been trying to stand up but can’t do it; legs too crooked and with every attempt get faint. Men laugh at the idea of my going, as the rebels are very particular not to let any sick go, still Battese say I am going.Most Dark.—Rebels say we go during the night when transportation comes. Battese grinned when this news come and can’t get his face straightened out again.

Marine Hospital, Savannah, Ga., Sept. 15, 1864.—A great change has taken place since I last wrote in my diary. Am in heaven now compared with the past. At about midnight, September 7th, our detachment was ordered outside at Andersonville, and Battese picked me up and carried me to the gate. The men were being let outside in ranks of four, and counted as they went out. They were very strict about letting none go but the well ones, orthose who could walk. The rebel adjutant stood upon a box by the gate, watching very close. Pitch pine knots were burning in the near vicinity to give light. As it came our turn to go Battese got me in the middle of the rank, stood me up as well as I could stand, and with himself on one side and Sergt. Rowe on the other began pushing our way through the gate. Could not help myself a particle, and was so faint that I hardly knew what was going on. As we were going through the gate the adjutant yells out: “Here, here! hold on there, that man can’t go, hold on there!” and Battese crowding right along outside. The adjutant struck over the heads of the men and tried to stop us, but my noble Indian friend kept straight ahead, hallooing: “He all right, he well, he go!” And so I got outside, and adjutant having too much to look after to follow me. After we were outside, I was carried to the railroad in the same coverlid which I fooled the rebel out of when captured, and which I presume has saved my life a dozen times. We were crowded very thick into box cars. I was nearly dead, and hardly knew where we were or what was going on. We were two days in getting to Savannah. Arrived early in the morning. The railroads here run in the middle of very wide, handsome streets. We were unloaded, I should judge, near the middle of the city. The men as they were unloaded, fell into line and were marched away. Battese got me out of the car, and laid me on the pavement. They then obliged him to go with the rest, leaving me; would not let him take me. I lay there until noon with four or five others, without any guard. Three or four times negro servants came to us from houses near by, and gave us water, milk and food. With much difficulty I could set up, but was completely helpless. A little after noon a wagon came andtotedus to a temporary hospital in the outskirts of the city, and near a prison pen they had just built for the well ones. Where I was taken it was merely an open piece of ground, having wall tents erected and a line of guards around it. I was put into a tent and lay on the coverlid. That night some gruel was given to me, and a nurse whom I had seen in Andersonville looked in, and my name was taken. The next morning, September 10th, I woke up and went to move my hands, and could not do it; could not move either limb so much as an inch. Could move my head with difficulty. Seemed to be paralyzed, but in no pain whatever. After a few hours a physician came to my tent, examined and gave me medicine, also left medicine, and one of the nurses fed me some soup or gruel. By night I could movemy hands. Lay awake considerable through the night thinking. Was happy as a clam in high tide. Seemed so nice to be under a nice clean tent, and there was such cool pure air. The surroundings were so much better that I thought now would be a good time to die, and I didn’t care one way or the other. Next morning the doctor came, and with him Sergt. Winn. Sergt. Winn I had had a little acquaintance with at Andersonville. Doctor said I was terribly reduced, but he thought I would improve. Told them to wash me. A nurse came and washed me, and Winn brought me a white cotton shirt, and an old but clean pair of pants; my old clothing, which was in rags, was taken away. Two or three times during the day I had gruel of some kind, I don’t know what. Medicine was given me by the nurses. By night I could move my feet and legs a little. The cords in my feet and legs were contracted so, of course, that I couldn’t straighten myself out. Kept thinking to myself, “am I really away from that place Andersonville?” It seemed too good to be true. On the morning of the 12th, ambulances moved all to the Marine Hospital, or rather an orchard in same yard with Marine Hospital, where thirty or forty nice new tents have been put up, with bunks about two feet from the ground, inside. Was put into a tent. By this time could move my arms considerable. We were given vinegar weakened with water, and also salt in it. Had medicine. My legs began to get movable more each day, also my arms, and to-day I am laying on my stomach and writing in my diary. Mike Hoare is also in this hospital. One of my tent mates is a man named Land, who is a printer, same as myself. I hear that Wm. B. Rowe is here also, but haven’t seen him.

Sept. 16.—How I do sleep; am tired out, and seems to me I can just sleep till doomsday.

Sept. 17.—Four in each tent. A nurse raises me up, sitting posture, and there I stay for hours, dozing and talking away. Whiskey given us in very small quantities, probably half a teaspoonful in half a glass of something, I don’t know what. Actually makes me drunk. I am in no pain whatever.

Sept. 18.—Surgeon examined me very thoroughly to-day. Have some bad sores caused by laying down so much; put something on them that makes them ache. Sergt. Winn gave me a pair of socks.

Sept. 19.—A priest gave me some alum for my sore mouth. Had a piece of sweet potato, but couldn’t eat it. Fearfully weak. Soup is all I can eat, and don’t always stay down.

Sept. 20.—Too cool for me. The priest said he would come and see me often. Good man. My left hand got bruised in some way and rebel done it up. He is afraid gangrene will get in sore. Mike Hoare is quite sick.

Sept. 21.—Don’t feel as well as I did some days ago. Can’t eat; still can use my limbs and arms more.

Sept. 22.—Good many sick brought here. Everybody is kind, rebels and all. Am now differently sick than at any other time. Take lots of medicine, eat nothing but gruel. Surgeons are very attentive. Man died in my tent. Oh, if I was away by myself, I would get well. Don’t want to see a sick man. That makes me sick.

Sept. 23.—Shall write any way; have to watch nurses and rebels or will lose my diary. Vinegar reduced I drink and it is good; crave after acids and salt. Mouth appears to be actually sorer than ever before, but whether it is worse or not can’t say. Sergt. Winn says the Doctor says that I must be very careful if I want to get well. How in the old Harry can I be careful? They are the ones that had better be careful and give me the right medicine and food. Gruel made out of a dish cloth to eat.

Sept 24.—Arrowroot soup or whatever you may call it; don’t like it; makes me sick. Priest spoke to me. Cross and peevish and they say that is a sure sign will get well. Ain’t sure but shall be a Catholic yet. Every little while get out the old diary from under the blanket and write a sentence. Never was made to be sick—too uneasy. This will do for to-day.

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