CHAPTER IV.

First Visit to Annapolis.—Stories of Starved Men.—Burial at Andersonville.—Neely’s Life in the Dungeon of Castle Thunder.—Sergeant Kerker.—Captains Wilson and Shelton in the “Iron Cage,” in Buncombe County, Tenn.—The Boy and the Flag.—Gould’s returning Consciousness.—Mr. Brown in Danville Prison.

In this closing period of the war, and of our labor in the hospitals, comes the darkest, saddest page of all—too terrible to be lightly spoken, and too painful in its remembrances to be dwelt upon any longer than is needful for the connected continuance of the narrative. The inhuman, fiendish treatment of our soldiers in Southern prisons has now become a matter of history, the truthfulness of which cannot be doubted. Would that it could be!

By the bedsides of dying skeletons, as they shudderingly recalled their prison life, I have written their sad stories, which often ended with: “We can never tell the half of all we have endured; it would not be credited, if we did.” All of horrors that I had seen and known during these memorable years, faded into insignificance when contrasted with this heinous crime—a systematic course of starvation to brave men madecaptives by the chances of war! Our first visit to Annapolis was with the object of seeing and knowing more of them; that by a recital of their condition, I might interest still more those who were devoting themselves to the preparation of hospital comforts. The little we saw of the starved men, at that time, enlisted all my sympathies. In one of the wards of the hospital at Camp Parole, a man belonging to the 5th Indiana Cavalry was reclining in a large rocking-chair near the stove; his features sharpened by suffering, the eyes sunken, skin tightly drawn over the lips, as though they could never smile again; the whole face had an unearthly, smoke-dried parchment look. Upon asking him where he was from, he answered plainly: “Anderson; that cruel treatment, no shelter, with want of food and water, had brought him to this condition.” His age wasalmosteighteen; I should have said at leastforty. There was no appearance of flesh upon the attenuated hands and arms; he died within an hour, before we left the building. Near him lay two others, who seemed pleased to relate their stories and have any one listen to them. All had been so long unused to kindness, that a pleasant word or theleastattention surprised them. They also had been at Andersonville, Florence, and other prisons; but the first named was worse than all. Their statements as to kind of food, want of shelter, etc. were afterwardconfirmed by hundreds of others. They gave their corps, regiment, when captured, etc., stating that of the large number who entered with them, but few left it alive.

Their mode of burial was this: every morning a wagon was driven through the camp, to pick up those who had died during the night; the poor, emaciated bodies were caught up by an arm and foot, andpitchedinto the wagon as a stick of cord-wood would be thrown; this was continued until no more could be piled in, then taken to the shallow trenches which were to receive them; they were packed in, lying upon the side, the head of one over the shoulder of the man in front of him; a slight covering of earth concealed the victims from sight, relieving them of that much care by lessening the number in their vile prisons—but adding another to the list of martyrs from the North. They crept, at night, in holes burrowed in the ground; those too feeble to prepare such shelter, crowded together inrowsfor warmth; during the winter, theoutside sleeperswere almost invariably found stiff and cold, in the morning light.

The appearance of those with whom I had been conversing reminded me of the skeletons I had seen washed out, upon Antietam, Gettysburg, and other battle-fields, onlytheyhad ceased from suffering, andwere at rest;thesewere still living, breathing, helpless,starvedmen.

On board a vessel, which had just unloaded its miserable passengers, came a young boy, who was carried on shore; when bathed, and made comfortable with clean clothing, taken into one of the tents at Naval School Hospital. As he was laid upon his nice, clean mattress, he called to his comrades in suffering: “Boys, I’m ready todie, now that I’ve heard the music, and have seen the old flag.” Some one answered: “Surely you don’t want todie, now that we are home again?” The boy replied: “I prayed so earnestly that I might live only long enough to die upon our own soil; and now, though I should like to see my own home, I am perfectly happy, and ready to go; I know I can’t live.” He continued to talk cheerfully of death, repeating every few minutes: “I’ve heard the music, and I’ve seen the old flag.” In three hours the feeble spark of life was gone; and he was, the next morning, carried to the cemetery—withsixty-fiveof his companions! the most saddening funeral procession that perhaps was ever formed.Sixty-fivestarved men, who lingered long enough to die upon our own soil, and under the “dear old flag!”

“In treason’s prison-hold,Their martyr-spirits grewTo stature like the saints of old,While, amid agonies untold,Theystarvedformeandyou!”

“In treason’s prison-hold,

Their martyr-spirits grew

To stature like the saints of old,

While, amid agonies untold,

Theystarvedformeandyou!”

In one arrival of four hundred and sixty, only sixty were able to walk ashore; the four hundred were carried; half of these died within a few days; one-third of the whole number imbecile. They appeared like a wretched bundle of bones, covered with a few filthy rags. Of those who were able to totter about, the greatest care was requisite; they would search eagerly for bones, crusts, crumbs, or anything that was orhad beeneatable; some discovered the slop-barrels, and took out of them the savory morsels of bones or vegetables. There were instances where a sick man was feebly raising the bread to his lips, when a stronger one would snatch it from his fingers. The same look of hopeless sadness is on every face, without a smile—smoke-dried skeletons.

Their statements, though coming from different prisons, all agree in this one fact: they were starved, without shelter, and wearing only the scantiest clothing—the rags which remained from the time they were captured;—when their coats, blankets, and valuables were all taken from them. Many, after conversing about it, will say: “You never could imagine such horrors.” In one room, I singled out the two most skeleton like, and asked the least emaciated one: “What prison did you come from?” He looked at me with a vacant stare, and answered: “Prison? ah—yes, I’m Anderson!” I gave him up, and his friendreplied: “He thought they had been shown throughallthe prisons, though last from Anderson.” Another, that I asked the same question, replied: “He was from Florence; had been at Charleston once; didn’t know how long since; they were all bad alike.”

In another ward were five, all very low: two of the most fearfully emaciated men that we had yet seen; one from Iowa, the other from Michigan; they were too feeble to speak; we could only take the nurse’s account, which varied but little from the others; both died during the night.

In the next room was —— Andrews, from Ohio; at the commencement of the war, he was about finishing his college course—and wrote to his parents that “hemustgo, it was his duty to do so; that his life was no more precious than others which must be given.” His mother, repeating to me what I have just written, said: He was an only son, it was agony to think of parting with him; but they did not, could not object, and he went. In the same town was his very dear friend, also an only son;hisparents would not consent to his going, and during that year he died at college. Now, her son had been spared through many battles and hardships, and through the sufferings of prison life; he was ill, when exchanged; had at one time escaped; but chased by dogs to the swamps, was concealed in them until he became so exhaustedfor food, that when he came out in search of it, was unable to run from his pursuers, and taken back to prison; where his only shelter was a narrow alley between two buildings, until a rebel, with some kindness of heart, picked him up and laid him upon a scrap of blanket, from which a dead man had just been carried out. At length, some Sanitary Commission blankets were given them—one for five men; as their companions died, they crept closer together; and at the time of leaving, he had half of one. When he arrived, he was among the bad cases; his mother heard he was in Annapolis, and came directly on; to her devoted care he owes his life; she never left him day or night, but gave him, by the spoonful, nourishing food and drink as ordered by his surgeon; at length, to her great joy, was pronounced some change for the better. When we saw him, he was sitting up for the first time: had he been anything but a “returned prisoner,” we would have said such an emaciated man couldnotlive. His mother was sitting by him, bathing his skeleton-looking hands; and calling our attention to the shrunken arms, said they were looking so much better, that she was perfectly happy in the thought of soon taking him home.

In the same building is a man whose mind seems quite gone: he is always looking for his mother; unconscious as he is, they cannot tell where to write, orwhether she is living. As I entered the door, he sprang up in an excited manner, calling out; “Yes, yes, there is my mother!” With a few soothing words, he was soon quieted; but when the nurse attempted to give him medicine, threw it from him, saying: “They are always trying to poison us in prison.”

On the second floor was —— Arnold, from Milesburg, Centre County, Penna.; his feet were frozen, and he was so starved that but little hope was entertained of his recovery. His mother was with him, doing all in her power for him.

A boy who had been very low, but then seemed rallying, was requested by the surgeon to show his emaciated arms; unfastening his collar, he said: “This is the color I was all over, when we landed; but it isnotdirt, lady; I’m clean now.” The bony framework of the chest was plainly visible, giving painful evidence of what he had endured.

In the officers’ ward was a young man from the 121st New York, who looked feeble and emaciated, with but little hope of life; he had just picked out a tooth; thought all were loose. Another, with a fractured thigh when captured, but who now seemed apparently doing well, had been withoutanycare while in rebel hands; they never did anything for him. As a general rule, the officers fared better than the men; but there were also many sad cases among them.

The food given to the men in those hospitals was thevery best, and most nourishing that could be prepared. As one of their surgeons remarked: “Medical skill was often at a loss; their books never taught them howstarvedmen should be treated.” They relied almost entirely upon good food for their cure.

Upon our return home, the work for the hospitals was resumed; with this added incentive, to urge upon those we met untiring efforts in behalf of our returned starved prisoners. There were but few families who had not some friend or relative among them, whose stories of patient endurance of suffering touched all hearts. While help was needed for them, there seemed no limit to the generous offerings of the people. Through the Sanitary Commission, an immense supply was forwarded for their use, beside what was sent through other sources. There was too much to be done at Annapolis, for the returned prisoners, to remain contentedly telling others whattheycould do; so that in a very short time we returned,—accompanied by a friend, Mrs. S., of Boston, who had with her a valuable contribution of articles from persons there; she remained a few weeks,—our stay was until July.

Directly after our return to Annapolis, while waiting in the Sanitary Commission Rooms, a train of ambulances, containing nineteen bodies, passed, the first and last of the number covered with the flag; we followedthe procession to the cemetery, and saw them laid side by side in their quiet resting-place—Chaplain Sloan officiating. Upon the head-boards of all the prisoners should be inscribed “starved to death!” that in future years Southern “chivalry” might read and know the fact.

In one of the wards of St. John’s Hospital was Mr. Kerker, of Ohio, watching by the bedside of his only child—the last of six; an elder son had been captured a year previous, and afterward murdered by the rebels. This one was a sergeant of the 2d Virginia Cavalry: with three others, had volunteered to go upon a dangerous expedition for the purpose of carrying a dispatch to headquarters for Merril’s Division; seeing troops in the distance, and not knowing who they were, gave his saber, etc. to the men, telling them if he was not back in two hours, to return and report his fate, but he would go on alone. Moving cautiously, hiding in the bushes and grass, he was at length seen by their pickets,—surrounded and captured,—but tore his dispatch into small pieces; the rebels picked it up, and fitting it all together, read that the general must take the north road with his force, and troops would be sent to meet him. Missing the dispatch,—as intended,—he took the south road, as had previously been decided; the rebels were deceived, and the division saved. It was a ruse—to sacrifice one man, and save numbers. The poor fellow lived through his imprisonment, reachingAnnapolis an emaciated skeleton. His father heard of his arrival, and came immediately to wait upon him: he watched him with the most anxious, tender care,—hoping each day to see him better, that he might take him where he was so impatient to be—home; but all in vain: we saw how the wasted frame daily became weaker, and at length there came suddenly to both father and son the utter hopelessness of anticipating any change but that which death must bring. From that time, cheerfully and pleasantly, as though preparing for a delightful journey, his last arrangements were made, looking forward to that home “not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.” As his father remarked: “He had always been a good boy, attentive at church and other religious duties.” The first letter which he wished to dictate was to his former pastor, thanking him for all his care and kindness during his early life, and telling him how happy he was, now that earthly scenes were so nearly over, etc. There were parting messages to dear friends at home; and all the time, loving words of thanks, and pleasure, that hisfathercould be with him. With the most earnest, childlike faith and trust in our Saviour’s promises, his face ever wore a bright look when telling that “he was going home to God.” A lady who had manifested much interest in him, he asked to “be his mother while he lived, and watch over him.” Mostfaithfully did she fulfill the request. As we entered his tent in the morning, he would greet us with a smile, and say: “Still here, waiting.” It was one of the most beautifully touching death-beds that I have known in the hospitals. Early in the morning of the 20th of April, 1865, death came gently to the boy who had so longed for him, and the freed spirit was at rest. The wasted body was taken by the sorrowing father to their home in Ohio: another martyr added to the fearful list, whose reckoning God alone can balance.

In the officers’ ward, at Naval School, was Capt. Washburn, of Boston; he was ill when he came from prison. His father, who had five sons out of six in the service,—all who were old enough to go,—was waiting upon him.

In the late arrival was a young officer, emaciated and ill. His brother had been with him during all his imprisonment: and when the order came for their exchange, both were permitted to leave, if they could reach the station, three miles distant;thisone started, carrying his skeleton brother upon his back for two miles, when his strength entirely failed, and he sank, overcome by the exertion, upon the ground; after resting some time, started again with his burden; but the effort was in vain—his wearied frame could go no farther: and as he laid him down, the brother clasped his arms around his neck, and died! There, by the dusty roadside, the brave young officer’s grave was made.

In the chapel were a number of very bad-looking skeletons; several with frozen feet.

A few days since an old gentleman came, inquiring for his son: he had died two hours before his arrival—the last of seven! Four starved to death in rebel prisons: all were in the service. Well might he exclaim: “Behold, and see, if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow!”

Steward Newman, of Company D, 5th Michigan Cavalry,—whose statements are confirmed by Lieut. Hayes, from near Lock Haven, Penna., —— Miller, of Boston, and other comrades,—says: while in prison at Andersonville, he has frequently seen our soldiers tied to the whipping-post by the thumbs, their toes just touching the ground, the helpless sufferers so thin and weak that their bodies swayed in the wind like a moving pendulum; the crime, asking for food!—unable to eat what, at home, their cattle and horses would refuse, and even chickens could not live upon. At thanksgiving, they were kepteighty hourswithout any food, because they refused to tell where the tunnel was which they were digging. At length it was completed, and all their arrangements made for escaping, when one of their number, tempted with tobacco, revealed their plans: one thousand were to have left that very night. The tunnel was so wide that two could go out abreast. They caught the scamp who told: withindia-ink, put a large letter T, for traitor, upon his forehead and nose, shaved half his head, and turned him off. Their coffee was made of the burnt crusts of their miserably baked corn-cob bread. At long intervals a little rice would be given them, which they browned and made of it what they thought good coffee, eating the roasted grains afterward. Another drink was made by putting corn-cob meal in a bucket, and standing it for three days in the sun to ferment, adding to it molasses and sassafras—which the negroes would procure for them. A man fortunate enough to have sufficient money for the purchase of a barrel and the needful corn-meal and molasses, would soon improvise a sutler’s establishment by stretching over poles the ragged remains of an old blanket: and there, with this attempt at shelter from the sun, would call to the ragged crowd, as they passed along:

“Here’s your good, nice beer, five cents a glass!Good, cool, and tart! walk up and try;If you don’t like, you needn’t buy!”

“Here’s your good, nice beer, five cents a glass!

Good, cool, and tart! walk up and try;

If you don’t like, you needn’t buy!”

When the prisoners were moved from Andersonville to Florence, they left behind them all their cooking utensils, as they were told they were to be exchanged, not sent to prison; but finding they had been deceived, asked permission of a rebel, Major Brown (it is humiliating to add that he was formerly from Pennsylvania),to use the tin-roofing of the cars which stood near; he consented, and they took off the entire roof of one. The only tools they had were a cold-chisel, a railroad spike, and an old table-knife; in a marvelously short time, cooking pans, cups, and buckets were cut out and hammered together; and when the variety was shown to the rebel major, he remarked: “They might turn a Yank into the woods with nothing, and he would soon have all he needed.” Buckets, plates, and spoons were made of wood. For the buckets, they split staves of wood, the negroes furnishing poles for hoops and handles. As far as ingenuity could go, they made the best they could of their wretched surroundings. The men were divided by thousands, then hundreds, for convenience in distributing rations: while at Florence, Newman entered his name three times in one thousand,—giving, of course, two feigned names,—that he might draw sufficient food to sustain life; fortunately, he was not found out; if he had been, the penalty of one hundred lashes, in his enfeebled health, would have killed him.

Staunton, Pete Obrey, and Hoover were the men of infamous notoriety, who did more lashing of our soldiers at Andersonville than any others. Staunton was chief of police: the few picks and spades within the stockade were under his control; Newman asked permission to use one, to repair his sleeping-pit; insteadof a reply, was felled with it to the earth; when consciousness returned, he dare not complain; suffering with the blow, and ill as he was, could only crawl away to his ditch, thankful to escape with life. The two first named were at Annapolis while we were there; their lives had been so often threatened, if found outside the hospital, that they were glad to keep within its walls for safety. Pete disappeared one night, no one knew where. These men all wore the Federal uniform: while doing so, possessed the entire confidence of the rebels in command—proving that, though wearing the “army blue,” they were rebels in disguise.

A Massachusetts sergeant said when his regiment entered Anderson, one hundred and thirty-five men answered roll-call; after a captivity of eight months, nineteen only could be found. An Illinois man remarked that twenty of his company were taken prisoners with him; at the end of five months, five were living. A little Massachusetts fellow, wounded in the leg when captured, cut crutches from the woods, and by their aid marched, for sixty miles, with his comrades. He was afraid the rebels would do as they threatened, leave him to starve to death if he did not keep up with the party. When they reached prison, he was sent to the hospital. The ball is still in.

A fresh arrival of prisoners to-day, 27th of March; the most of them can walk; if these were the first wehad seen, we would think them all bad. Among them was a young German who had lain for three days beside his dead comrade, that he might draw his rations; representing all the time that he was too ill to get up for them; and keeping him covered with their rags, when the “dead-cart” passed along. Many are suffering with frozen feet: some have lost all their toes, others only on one foot.

On the 28th, assisted in the distribution of Sanitary Commission articles—needles, thread, comb, paper, envelopes, and towel—to fourteen hundred of the late arrivals: these are presumed to be well men, at least they are well enough to keep out of the hospital for a time. They march up in line for their dinner, which consists of good soup, boiled cabbage, and half a loaf of bread, given to them from an open window; in the same order, they march on to the next building, where they receive the articles named. Their remarks, as they pass along, are amusing; many “thank you’s” were said heartily; they all looked, and I have no doubt were, pleased. “Boys, wouldn’t we like the rebs to see this,” “the folksdocare for us at home,” etc., showed how gratifying it was to them to be thus remembered. In about two hours the fourteen hundred were all supplied, and the crowd scattered.

A Maryland infantry boy, belonging to the ninth corps, was a prisoner eight months; had had a furlough,and was now back ready for duty; had “asked to be sent front,” saying, “the rebels had boarded him eight months, and he was anxious to go back and settle his bill of fare!”

April 29th. A boat, with three hundred, just arrived: the drum calls the “stretcher-bearers” to fall in line; and all who can, rush to the landing. Following the crowd, we come to the wharf just in time to see the unsteady column begin to move. On board the vessel the hospital band is playing cheerful strains of welcome, and they come ashore to the music of familiar tunes.

“Back to the North, where the air is free;Back from the land of pain.”

“Back to the North, where the air is free;

Back from the land of pain.”

Tottering and feeble, bronzed and smoke-blackened, tangled hair and matted beards, some in rebel garb, many barefooted and bareheaded, the majority clothed in shirt and drawers furnished by the Sanitary Commission in Wilmington, a few fortunate possessors of a blanket,—such is the walking party. It was more than some of them could do to walk, so they gave it up, and, as the line of “stretcher-bearers” followed in their wake, were added to the number. Sorry plight for three hundred brave men to come from Southern care! Martyrs for the nation, patient and uncomplaining, they do not blame the government—they censure no one!

In all the precious lives lost to friends and home, and the wrecks of noble soldiers yet remaining, is not the hand of God seen? The costly offering was asked for, and given, that the nation might be saved, and that distant lands might learn to what refinements of crueltySLAVERYhad educated a people!

Among them one was noticed straining his eyes toward the shore, and, as they neared the wharf, was one of the first to press forward to leave the vessel; he walked along the plank, eagerly looking in the distance; tottered with a few feeble steps upon our soil, and then—fell dead! his wish gratified: he died at home.

Another load of two hundred: some skeletons among them who could not be made to comprehend that they were in a land of plenty, andwould beprovided for; but clutched with a firm grasp the bones and scraps which they had concealed; and when forced to drop them outside the gate, did so with tears, repeating, “they had been in prison eighteen months, andknewwhat starvation was.”

Thomas G. Spikean, from New York, while at Florence was set to work outside of their prison inclosure, building chimneys for the rebels; finding food daily becoming more scarce, determined to escape, or perish in the attempt. Thinking death preferable to slow starvation, five men broke their parole and started withhim: for ten days kept together, until they were tracked by dogs, and obliged to secrete themselves in the swamps; wading about in them until they became chilled, at length reached a small island in safety; from there to land; came to Orangeburg just as Sherman’s forces left it, and to Columbia as they were taking up the last pontoon; crossed in a skiff, and were then taken care of by the army.

There had been terrible suffering during all the winter months, among our soldiers in prisons, for want of clothing, food, fire, and shelter. Five sticks of wood were given to one hundred men once in three days!Thatamounted to none at all, for, as they have shown me the size, it couldallbe burned in an hour.

A man, who has been a prisoner since the battle of the Wilderness, now lies entirely stiffened, helpless, and unable to move, from exposure and sleeping upon the cold ground: he says, at one time Sanitary Commission clothing was pretended to be distributed by the rebels—sixpieces toone thousandmen! the rebel guard wore the caps, clothing, and blankets, while our men died by scores for the want of them.

Again assisting in distributing Sanitary Commission articles to sixteen hundred and forty men: they had been in prison but a few months; a small number among them, eighteen months; these had been resting at Wilmington, where they were well fed andkindly cared for, and now looked well and happy in their new blue. The distributions, which are made at College Green Barracks, are a source of pleasure to the recipients, while it is both gratifying and amusing to those who act as donors.

A German named Neabal, 54th New York, eleventh corps, who was captured at Gettysburg, July, 1863: stayed in that horrid Belle Island eight months; from there to Andersonville, thence to Savannah, where they had good rations; then taken to Macon and Charleston; for three weeks they were kept moving, for fear Gen. Sherman would find and release them; the corn which the cavalry horses dropped upon the ground, when they were fed, was all they had to eat for several days; he was paroled in Wilmington the last of February, and soon after sent North.

April 4th. Three boats filled with prisoners arrived: some shocking-looking cases among them; as soon as they were bathed, dressed, and made comfortable in good beds, you could hardly recognize the squalid-looking crowd we had so lately seen. As soon as possible, passed through the wards, taking names, and notes of messages to write to friends at home—that is always thefirstrequest; wrote, and mailed for them that evening, twenty-two letters. In the morning, was pained to learn the number that died during the night. Mrs. Hulster, of Ohio, found her nephew in thisarrival: he had been reported dead by his comrades, and so they all believed at home. The toes of one foot were entirely gone, part of the other badly frozen; he is ill with the terrible fever brought here by the prisoners.

The one great, exciting event is the fall of Richmond, so long expected, and now occurring so quietly that these poor fellows think it cannot be; as we move among them, they constantly ask: “Isit true? God grant it may be!” The salute of one hundred guns, which was soon afterward fired, confirmed their belief that it was so. The Naval School band played patriotic airs in the cupola of the State House, Governor Bradford made a speech to the excited crowd, flags were floating, and the Union people here, as everywhere, jubilant over the good news.

To-day, met Captains Wilson and Shelton, of the 57th Ohio Vols., who have been in the service four years, and intend to remain while there is a rebel in arms against the government; they were captured at Atlanta, 20th of July, 1864; sent from there to Macon, thence through nearly all the prisons in the Confederacy. As soon as taken, were asked for all valuables—watches, rings, money, and clothing,—last of all, their honorable captors took their arms. On the 10th of November, escaped from Columbia; finding great difficulty in eluding the pickets, they secreted themselvesin the mountains, and built a hut for shelter; while there, they were kindly provided with food by the Union people and colored population; many very poor were anxious to give up their small amount of provisions for Union officers and soldiers; at night, some of the loyal people of Transylvania County, N. C., would come, driving a cow before them loaded with whatever provisions they could collect. The rebels became so expert following a trail, that they would track them as the Indians do: as they would not suspect acow, she was made to carry the burden, and deceive them. By such acts of kindness they were kept in good health until the 18th of January, when they were recaptured and taken to Asheville, Buncombe County, Tenn., where, with six others, they were put in aniron cageused as a dungeon. It was eleven feet in length, nine wide, and seven high; there was no bed, bench, stool, or anything to sit or lie down upon; no blanket, or covering of any kind, except the scanty clothing which had been left them; they were not out of the dungeon once during the month: filth and vermin in it beyond description; a stove stood outside their bars: if the wood was not placed just in one spot, they could have no fire, no matter how much might be there. Their miserable allowance of food consisted of the black corn-cob bread, varied at long intervals with rough pieces of boiled pork, which wascarried to them in a bucket, and served out by a rebel, who had the itch, dipping his hand into the bucket and tossing them whatever the fingers brought up! At first they turned away with loathing, unable to catch the dainty morsels; but continued starvation brought them to eat it without a word. While in the cage, a lieutenant in our army, Wm. Johnson, a resident of Haywood County, N. C., was placed there for a few hours; no clothing left him but drawers; he was told he was a traitor, and a doomed man; listened to it all with folded arms; and soon afterward was taken out to a field near by, and deliberately shot by a rebel sergeant named Bright; earth was thrown thinly over the young martyr’s remains; and when their food came in the morning, the man brought the tidings that the body had been nearly devoured in the night. After remaining there one month, they were taken to Morganton and put in a similar cage for a few days; from there sent to be exchanged. Capt. Wilson said he had, at one time, a tender, sympathizing heart, even forrebelsin suffering; but that was all gone now, and in its place something as hard as their own cob bread.

Again occupied in the pleasant duty of distributing Sanitary Commission articles, at the Barracks, to seventeen hundred and sixty men: many have been prisoners but a little while. Among them are some of Sherman’s veterans, and his noted “bummers,”who, smart as they were, could not always escape from the rebels. Such work as this is a most agreeable contrast to the wards, where we see nothing but skeletons, and hear their sad tales of suffering so touchingly related.

In this arrival were many wounded from the late battles and skirmishes; their blankets and coats were taken from them: at night, without any shelter, they suffered from exposure. From Danville to Richmond, one hundred and forty miles, they were crowded on top of box-cars: the rebel lieutenant in charge telling the guard to “push them with his bayonet, crowd them up; he wished they werealldead!” The poor wounded men had to hold on with both hands; many, unable to do so, rolled off, and had broken bones added to the suffering of their wounds; some died there from the effects of that ride, and others who are here cannot live.

A young boy, after he was captured and robbed of his clothing, was shot in the side by a man who rode up, and without one word, fired a revolver, aiming at his heart; a quick movement saved his life, but he lies helpless, and suffering with an ugly wound.

Many of the prisoners have been so long away from home and friends, that they cannot understand why so much sympathy should be manifested forthem. Thomas Brown, Company I, 58th Massachusetts, whohas been for weeks the most patient sufferer, and now very near his end, says he never saw anything like the kindness and attention shown to the men in this hospital (St. John’s); that certainly the Lord put it into the hearts of the people to do all this for them; he wished the men in Southern prisons might know it.

Calder, of the 174th Ohio, is a Virginian, his wife and children living on the Rapidan when last he heard from home. He had great difficulty in eluding the conscript officers; at length crossed the lines, and enlisted in Ohio; when captured by the rebels, was tried for treason, and a rope tied round his wrists and ankles for three months; was nine months in prison, then made his escape.

A boy was brought into “St. John’s” to-day, the son of a Presbyterian clergyman near Baltimore: since the first battle in which he was engaged, he has been frantic with terror; he knows very well that he was a prisoner in Castle Thunder, but thinks he was put there as a punishment for praying daily “that God would end the war, give victory to our armies, and peace to the land.” His dread of Southern prisons is painful to behold: when the flags which hang upon the walls are pointed out, and he is asked “iftheylook like the rebels’?” conscious for the moment, he will reply, “oh, no;thatlooks like home;” but with a shudder he is again in the dreaded prisons, and it iswith difficulty he can then be calmed and quieted. The surgeons think the rest and pleasures of home will, in time, restore his mind; he will very soon be sent there.

In another ward is a case something similar to the Maryland boy, though this man has endured longer imprisonment and greater suffering. His name is Ephraim Gould, from Maine; his mind seemed entirely gone; he was only conscious of his prison life:thatwas all fearfully distinct. To-day there seemed a gleam of returning reason: and observing a lady near him, called his wife, and asked, was she here, had she written, or was it all a dream? Fortunately, his wife had been written to, and a letter received from her; some money was handed to him, and told it was his own; he looked intently at it for a moment, and then remarked: “Surely that is United States; it don’t look like the rebel stuff!” Then recognizing a ten, a five, and so on, gave their value correctly. Inquires as a little child would do how he must get out of bed, must he ask if he wants to sit up, and so on. It is the most complete awakening of an imbecile man that I have yet seen. To the regret of all who knew him, this was but a faint glimmer of reason, ere exhausted nature gave up the struggle. Once more he was conscious for a short time; then sank into the repose of death.

Among those whose minds werenotrestored was “Fred,” supposed to be a Swede: when asked his name and residence, would give the first he thought of—rarely the same twice. At the breaking up of the hospitals, “Fred” was sent to Baltimore: we saw him there in August, 1865; he seemed better; and wrote his name in a beautiful hand, “Fred, Chicago.”

An intense love of the flag is observed in nearly all who are received here. From the high flag-staff at the Naval School, the vessels can distinguish the flag floating while yet some distance out. A boy was lately carried from one of the boats who seemed wild with excitement when he gazed upon it; and when laid upon his bed in the hospital, asked that it might be placed where he could see it. A small one was given to him: his greatest pleasure seemed to be to lie under its folds; he held it in his hands, laid it upon his face, nestled close to it in sleep, and would never have it out of his sight. The poor emaciated child lingered a few days, forgetting his sufferings and all the dark, weary months of hopeless imprisonment; he was perfectly happy under its protection, and died with his flag in his hands; was carried to his grave with it resting upon the coffin lid.

Another boat load, of two hundred, just arrived: many of them in good condition, having been sent from Wilmington to Fortress Monroe, where they have been for three weeks; some skeletons in the number.

Met Mrs. Galbraith, of Ohio, looking for her son; she was lost and bewildered in the crowd, and knew not where to go or what to do; taking charge of her, he was soon found—the mother sobbing for joy that her boy was alive. He was sitting up: now, with her care, can soon bear the journey home.

In the last arrival, came Wm. Neely, Company B, 83d Pennsylvania Vols., enlisted in Philadelphia. He was captured the 11th of October, 1863, and taken to Richmond, Va. After having made several desperate efforts to escape with his comrades, on the 24th of December he was put in the dark, condemned cell of Castle Thunder; an iron bar, fifteen inches long, wasrivetedupon his wrists and ankles; the other end of thesamebar fastened in like manner to Capt. Avery, of Kentucky. They were kept in that dungeon four months and six days; the only clothing they were permitted to keep was pantaloons and blouse; no covering of any kind allowed them; no chair, bench, or bed; nothing to sit or lie down upon but the filthy floor. Sometimes six men were kept in the same cell with them; at night, a light was placed near the bars; during the day, total darkness. He concealed in the roof of his mouth, for six weeks, a fine steel saw, such as is used about gun-barrels: at the time they were sent away, had one bar cut through, ready to make another effort to escape. The iron bar upon his wrist cutinto the bone, making an offensive wound; the scar it made he carried to his grave. When taken out, they were covered with filth and vermin, so enfeebled that they could with difficulty stand alone, and looking like nothing human. The captain was started for Tennessee to be tried for treason; but on the way escaped, and reached his command at Knoxville in safety. Neely was sent to Salisbury, from there to Columbia, thence to Macon, and hurried back again to Columbia, dodging Sherman. He finally escaped, by tunneling out under his prison walls, the Asylum in Columbia, eight days before Gen. Sherman entered the town; a Union lady concealed him, a lieutenant, and sergeant until they could rejoin our forces; he came to Fayetteville with the second division hospital of the fifteenth army corps; from there to Wilmington with the refugees, where they were kindly fed and cared for until able to bear the journey, when he was sent with others to Annapolis. He lingered two months, and died in St. John’s Hospital. Continued efforts have been made to find his family: this statement has been published in city and country papers without avail: information of importance tothemis still in my possession.

Harris was one of the most revolting-looking skeletons that was landed: when brought in, his head was without hair, except a little tuft in front; his headand neck were eaten in great holes by vermin—they had burrowed in ridges under the skin; mind and body were alike weakened. He rallied for a few days: with good treatment and kindness, it seemed as though his life might be saved; but all was of no use: rebel cruelty had too surely done its work, and the victim suddenly died without any apparent illness other than starvation.

The 15th of April, 1865, came the saddest news that ever startled the American people: our beloved President Lincoln murdered! It seemed incredible, and it was long before it could be realized. Where so lately was rejoicing, all is now changed to mourning.

In one of the wards of “St. John’s” is a man who had been three months a prisoner, and wounded. The flag always remained fastened to his bed: this morning it was at half-mast, heavily draped with black. Continuing our walk, found many others like it: the only token of sorrow they could give.

In the Naval School Hospital is a man from New York Mounted Rifles who has been a prisoner two years and three months, having tried all their prisons in turn. His stories of the “dead line” are terrible, yet agreeing accurately with all others I have heard speak of it. A boy was with him, going to the stream near the “line” to procure water that would be alittlepurer than that farther down: as he stooped to fill his cup, the guard tossed a piece of bread near him—eagerly the hand was outstretched to grasp it, the fingers up to the “line,” when, in an instant, his brains were scattered upon the cup and bread he held! and the guard resumed his walk, well satisfied that he had performed a commendable act.

A daily occurrence is the number of those who come searching for friends: all they know is, theywereprisoners; and so hope to find them, or hear tidings of them. Many, alas! have filled an unmarked grave at “Andersonville,” “Florence,” or “Millen,” or perhaps may have been among those who, unable to tell their names when landed, died and were buried as “unknown!” and so added to—

“The brave hearts that never more shall beat,The eyes that smile no more, the unreturning feet.”

“The brave hearts that never more shall beat,

The eyes that smile no more, the unreturning feet.”

An old gentleman from Ohio could not give his son up: but telling, with tears, his affecting story, would ask help from every one he met to find his boy. All the records were searched in vain for John H. Ritchey, Company C, 122d Ohio Vols.

A mother came from New York to the Sanitary Home: after searching all the records without success, she walked through all the hospitals—gazing at everyman, and inquiring if they knew her son; at length a man said there was a book here with that name in it, that the man died as they came to the wharf; as soon as she saw it, exclaimed: “It was a Bible she had given him; her writing was in it!” It was a great comfort to her to find out that much certainly.

Miller, belonging to a Massachusetts regiment, was so emaciated when he arrived that, when his father came for him, it was thought he could not reach Baltimore alive; by resting with him frequently, reached home in safety. His weight then was sixty-five pounds, his height six feet: after some weeks’ stay, returned, weighing one hundred and twenty pounds. He walks very well with a cane, but cannot stoop to the ground—as there are still large sores upon his back, from lying on the ground through storms and sun.

Calling at the embalmer’s about the body of a man who had just died, I found a gentleman from Connecticut waiting to have a coffin, that had been disintered, opened. When the lid was thrown off, it proved to be one of the most terribly starved ones. The face had not changed: it was a ghastly green color, with mould upon it, as he came from prison; the fair, light hair was brushed smoothly off the forehead—for some reason it remained uncut, showing that it had beenmatted and sunburnt. The father’s agony was most painful to those who were present: taking up the skeleton hands, would exclaim: “If he had fallen when with Sheridan, upon the battle-field, or by illness, he could have borne it without a murmur; butthis!—he never thought his brave young boy wouldstarveto death!” repeating over and again, “starved, starvedto death!” After the embalmer had prepared the body, it was again robed in nice, clean clothing from the Sanitary Commission; but thefaceremained unchanged, when the father took the wasted remains to his home.

Mr. Brown, a New York man, who enlisted in a Pittsburg regiment, is one of the most suffering cases among the prisoners. Directly after their capture, he was standing quietly with a group of others, when a brutal rebel soldier struck him down with his musket; he was never able to straighten himself afterward. He was taken to one of their hospitals, where, without any care, the wound sloughed and became offensive. When the men were taken from No. 4, Danville, he was left in the room alone—as he says, to die; calling to a rebel nurse, he implored him to carry him out with the others; but all in vain; at length some one came in to hear what he was saying, when, with the desperation of a drowning man, he clung with both arms round hisneck, telling him he would not let him go until he was taken to his companions. In that way he was carried and laid upon the platform, to wait for the cars: no blanket, or covering of any kind, to cover his poor suffering body; his moans and cries from pain and the cold were constant, until a rebel, more kind than his fellows, came to him, saying “he had been in our prisons, and knew how well they were treated; and would do all he could for him.” He succeeded in procuring some whisky, which he gave him—that warmed and quieted him; then finding a piece of blanket, wrapped him in it and laid him near the fire. When the cars came, lifted him in, bidding him “good-by,” with “Yank, you will soon be in your lines, while I go to the front to bring over a crowd with me.” That was the last he saw of the man who, at that time, saved his life. During all the time he lingered, his sufferings were intense; his sister, Mrs. Clark, of Alleghany City, waited upon him most devotedly until death released him from all pain.

Two Georgia women, wives of prisoners, came on the boat with them, and were brought to the “Sanitary Commission Home.” While the prisoners were at Macon, these girls worked in a woolen mill near: whenever they could do so unobserved, would take some of the cloth and divide among them. The men assisted insome kind of work outside their prison, and there the girls could take them food; when released, they were married, and marched with them fifty-eight miles—until they were put upon the cars, and sent on by boat. This is the third party of the kind we have seen here.

The “Sanitary Commission Home” at this place, Annapolis, has been to hundreds a place of shelter when the town was crowded to overflowing, and a home at all times to those who were received beneath its roof: here the relatives and friends of those in the hospitals were provided for, meals and lodgings furnished gratuitously, and all made comfortable. Mrs. Hope Sayers, the estimable matron who presided so efficiently and pleasantly over the establishment, will ever be kindly remembered by all who were its inmates.

May 13th. Eleven hundred and fifty men landed at the Barracks: again employed distributing articles among them, which are always received in the same pleasant manner. Those sent to the hospital are very dark with smoke and sun, and skeleton-looking like those who preceded them. They tell the same stories of their prison life, and repeat what others have said—how they dug wells at Andersonville fifty feet deep, their only tools the halves of a canteen and an old table-knife. An arrival of rebel officers and privateswith several hundred “galvanized Yanks,”—an expressive term in army parlance, meaning that these men, in their desperation for food, accepted the tempting offers of the rebels,—but they were never trusted or kindly treated by them—and despised by their old comrades.

Among the wounded is Sergeant Black, State color-bearer of the 67th Pennsylvania Vols., who lost a leg while carrying the flag. He was shot by a rebel not a yard from him: as he fell, they caught the colors; it was but a moment ere his company had them back again, and their rebel bars with it. The fight was through a swamp, which varied in depth from four inches to as many feet.

May 29th. Another arrival of prisoners: among them are theblackest whitemen I have ever seen. These are nearly the last from the South: they are suffering with scurvy and kindred ailments; exposed for months to the sun and storms and the smoke of pitch-pine, they are most thoroughly browned and tanned. Among them is a perfect skeleton—a boy from Ohio: he enlisted in a Kentucky regiment; is now sixteen, and has been in the service two years. Longing and praying to see his mother, inquiring of every one how soon he will be sent home—he died suddenly at the end of two days. There are twentyothers in the same arrival almost as bad as he is; the most of them must die, as Ohio did.

The wife of one of these skeletons arrived directly after they landed. She had heard, in her home in Western Pennsylvania, that he was living, and was here. She came, dressed in the deep mourning she had worn for him for two years: for so long was it since she had heard of his death; but—

Back to Index Next