A DREAM
Our last plate of soup was sold to a Maine soldier who paid for it his last five cents. He was nearly naked and incessantly shivered from the cold. The writer found him the following morning, after a night of rain, to which he was exposed, with his knees drawn upto his chin in the instinctive effort to bring the surfaces of his body together for warmth. With difficulty his frame was straightened out for burial.
The profit of this business for several weeks gave to our group of six one fairly good meal each day and made possible the survival of those of our number who finally emerged from this awful prison life.
A DEARTH OF WATER.
If the food supply of Andersonville was bad, the water supply was worse. To understand the situation and to see how little was done to overcome the difficulties involved, and to make the most of the existing facilities for the relief of the suffering, one has to consider the formation of this prison encampment.
The surface of the interior consisted of two hillsides, sloping respectively north and south towards the center which was occupied by a swamp of nearly four acres. This was traversed by a sluggish creek which was some five feet wide and six inches deep, and made its way along the foot of the south slope. Up the stream were located the headquarters of Capt. Wirtz, the camps of the Confederate artillery and infantry and the cook-house for the prisoners.The drainage of these localities entered the creek which flowed into the prison through spaces between the stockade timbers, and polluted the water which was the chief supply of the prison, and which, at midnight, in its clearest condition, was the color of amber. The intervening space at the foot of the north hill was a wide morass, and when overflowed by rains became a vast cesspool on which boundless swarms of flies settled down and laid their eggs; which were speedily hatched by the fervent heat of the nearly tropical sun, and became a horrible undulating mass. On a change of wind the odor could be detected miles away; indeed it was reported that the people of Macon petitioned General Howell Cobb, the military governor of Georgia, for a removal of the prison located sixty miles away, lest an awful pestilence sweep over their country!
The turkey buzzards, birds of ill omen, would come up against the wind, alight on the bare limbs of the tall pines overlooking the prison, and circle over thegrizzled city as if waiting to descend for a carrion feast.
When we entered the prison on May 23rd, our detachment of two hundred and seventy men was scheduled fifty-five, indicating the presence of fourteen thousand eight hundred and fifty prisoners. The number steadily rose until a reported thirty-five thousand were present at one time. As the arrivals increased by hundreds and thousands, the daily mortality was counted by scores and hundreds, and many of the sick were without shelter from the heat of the pitiless sun.
As the killed and wounded are scattered over the fields of the sanguinary battle, so our dying sick lay around on every hand. In the early summer, Capt. Wirtz issued to the prisoners picks and shovels, with which to dig wells for increased water supply. From some of these wells the men started tunnels through which to escape. Discovering this, the commander withdrew the tools, and ordered the wells to be filled up. Permission to keep one of them openwas purchased by a group of prisoners. It was sunk to a necessary depth, covered with a platform and trap door, and supplied about one thousand men.
Aside from this well, for the favored few, the only water supply was from about twelve feet of the length of the creek which reached between the dead-line and the bridge connecting the two divisions of the prison. A terrible water famine set in, with the result that many of the ailing ones became insane from thirst.
In these unsanitary surroundings there is a well authenticated case of a man who was severely afflicted with scurvy. As he lay in the place of filth and stench, without medical attention until gangrene of the lower limbs set in, he realized that to save his life he must lose his feet. No one of his comrades had the nerve to perform the necessary operation, so he obtained an old knife and disjointed his pedal extremities.
“In November, 1863, an order was issued for the establishment of a prison in Georgia, the granary of the eastern part of the Confederacy,and for this purpose a tract of land was selected near the town of Andersonville. A stockade 15 feet high, inclosing 16½ acres, was built, and this, in June, 1864, was enlarged to 26½ acres, but 3¼ acres near the center were too marshy to be used. A small stream ran through the inclosure, which, it was thought, would furnish water sufficient for drinking and for bathing. The trees within the stockade were cut down and no shelter was provided for the expected inmates, who began to arrive in February, 1864, before the rude prison was completed according to the design, and before an adequate supply of bacon for their use had been received. Prisoners continued to come until, on the 5th of May, there were about 12,000, which number went on increasing until in August it exceeded 32,000. Their condition was one of extreme wretchedness. Those who came first erected rude shelters from the debris of the stockade; later arrivals burrowed in the ground or protected themselves with any blankets or pieces of cloth of which they had not been deprived according to the practice of robbing men who were taken prisoners which prevailed on both sides. Through an unfortunate location of the baking and cooking houses on the creek above the stockade the water became polluted before it reached the prisoners, so that to obtain pure water they must dig wells.After a severe storm a spring broke out within the inclosure, and this became one of the mainreliances for drinking water.The sinks were constructed over the lower part of the stream, but the current was not swift enough to carry away the ordure, and when the stream was swollen by rain and overflowed, the foecal matter was deposited over a wide area, producing a horrible stench. This was the famous prison of Andersonville.”—From Rhodes’ History of the United States, Vol. V, pp. 483-515.“The history of Andersonville prison pen has shocked the world with its tales of horror, of woe, and of death, before unheard of and unknown to civilization. No pen can describe, no artist can paint, no imagination comprehend their fearful and unutterable sufferings.“Into the narrow confines of this prison were herded more than thirty-five thousand enlisted men, whose only fault was they ‘wore the Union blue,’ many of them the bravest and best, the most devoted and heroic of those grand armies that carried the flag of the Union to final victory. For long and weary months they suffered and died for that flag. Here they sufferedunshelteredfrom the burning rays of a southern sun, or were drenched by the rain and deadly dews of the night. All this while they were in every stage of physical disease—hungered, emaciated, starving.“Is it a wonder that during the month of August, 1864, one man died in every eleven minutes, night and day, or that, for six months, beginning April, 1864, one died every twenty-twoand one-half minutes night and day? This should forever silence the assertion that men would be taken prisoners rather than risk their lives on the firing line. The lack of water was the cause of much disease and suffering. Under the most favorable circumstances the water supply was insufficient for one-quarter of the number of men confined there. All the water obtainable was from a sluggish creek that ran through the grounds; and, in addition to this, there were thirty-six hundred men acting as guards camped on the bank of this stream before it reached the prison pen, and the water became so foul no words can describe it.”—From “A Sketch of Andersonville,” by Mrs. Lizabeth A. Turner, Chairman Andersonville Prison Board. Journal of the Twenty-fifth National Convention of the Woman’s Relief Corps, page 169.
“In November, 1863, an order was issued for the establishment of a prison in Georgia, the granary of the eastern part of the Confederacy,and for this purpose a tract of land was selected near the town of Andersonville. A stockade 15 feet high, inclosing 16½ acres, was built, and this, in June, 1864, was enlarged to 26½ acres, but 3¼ acres near the center were too marshy to be used. A small stream ran through the inclosure, which, it was thought, would furnish water sufficient for drinking and for bathing. The trees within the stockade were cut down and no shelter was provided for the expected inmates, who began to arrive in February, 1864, before the rude prison was completed according to the design, and before an adequate supply of bacon for their use had been received. Prisoners continued to come until, on the 5th of May, there were about 12,000, which number went on increasing until in August it exceeded 32,000. Their condition was one of extreme wretchedness. Those who came first erected rude shelters from the debris of the stockade; later arrivals burrowed in the ground or protected themselves with any blankets or pieces of cloth of which they had not been deprived according to the practice of robbing men who were taken prisoners which prevailed on both sides. Through an unfortunate location of the baking and cooking houses on the creek above the stockade the water became polluted before it reached the prisoners, so that to obtain pure water they must dig wells.After a severe storm a spring broke out within the inclosure, and this became one of the mainreliances for drinking water.The sinks were constructed over the lower part of the stream, but the current was not swift enough to carry away the ordure, and when the stream was swollen by rain and overflowed, the foecal matter was deposited over a wide area, producing a horrible stench. This was the famous prison of Andersonville.”—From Rhodes’ History of the United States, Vol. V, pp. 483-515.
“The history of Andersonville prison pen has shocked the world with its tales of horror, of woe, and of death, before unheard of and unknown to civilization. No pen can describe, no artist can paint, no imagination comprehend their fearful and unutterable sufferings.
“Into the narrow confines of this prison were herded more than thirty-five thousand enlisted men, whose only fault was they ‘wore the Union blue,’ many of them the bravest and best, the most devoted and heroic of those grand armies that carried the flag of the Union to final victory. For long and weary months they suffered and died for that flag. Here they sufferedunshelteredfrom the burning rays of a southern sun, or were drenched by the rain and deadly dews of the night. All this while they were in every stage of physical disease—hungered, emaciated, starving.
“Is it a wonder that during the month of August, 1864, one man died in every eleven minutes, night and day, or that, for six months, beginning April, 1864, one died every twenty-twoand one-half minutes night and day? This should forever silence the assertion that men would be taken prisoners rather than risk their lives on the firing line. The lack of water was the cause of much disease and suffering. Under the most favorable circumstances the water supply was insufficient for one-quarter of the number of men confined there. All the water obtainable was from a sluggish creek that ran through the grounds; and, in addition to this, there were thirty-six hundred men acting as guards camped on the bank of this stream before it reached the prison pen, and the water became so foul no words can describe it.”—From “A Sketch of Andersonville,” by Mrs. Lizabeth A. Turner, Chairman Andersonville Prison Board. Journal of the Twenty-fifth National Convention of the Woman’s Relief Corps, page 169.
A CRY TO HEAVEN.
The bitter cry which arose from the suffering camp was changed on the lips of a few to an appeal to heaven. Where else could men look in their dire extremity? One evening early in August the sound of the old long metre doxology was heard from the voices of a group of men gathered around the solitary pine stump in the enclosure, which was situated at the end of the north street of the prison where space was left for the ration wagon to turn around. On this stump was seated an emaciated cavalry sergeant, Mr. Shepard, of Columbus, Ohio, formerly an honored preacher of the gospel. In days past he had frequently been called upon to offer prayer over the remains of some deceased comrade, and now he led in the old and well-known hymn to call like-minded souls together.
Some twenty-five unkempt, starving men gathered around him and joined in the familiar strain. What memories of family worship and old-time services in the meeting-house those words called up. Said Brother Shepard in substance: “I have today read in the book of Numbers of Moses striking the rock from which water gushed out for the ample supply of man and beast. I tell you God must strike a rock in Andersonville or we shall all die of thirst. And if there is no rock here, He can smite the ground and bring forth water to supply our desperate needs. Of this I am sure; let us ask Him to do this.”
Pointing to an uncombed, unwashed, ragged comrade standing close by, he said, “Will the brother from Chicago pray?” He then successively called on other acquaintances, distinguishing them by their different localities at home. All the prayers were poured out in the one desire for water.
For perhaps an hour the meeting continued and closed with the doxology. The words of the leader were, “Boys,when you awake during the night offer to God a little prayer for water. Do the same many times tomorrow, and let us meet here in the evening to pray again for water.”
If memory be not at fault, these individual and collective petitions were steadfastly offered from Monday evening to Thursday evening.
For a month previous we had noticed that a number of the stockade timbers near the north gate had been loosened by the percolating of the copious rain and that they were sagging considerably and had settled out of line. We wondered why they had been allowed to remain so long in this unsafe condition. Was it a coincidence that after prayer began to be offered the quartermaster of the prison notified Capt. Wirtz that stockade timbers were out of line and should be set right? He was ordered to take a gang of slaves and make the necessary repairs. About fifteen stalwart negroes were marched through the main gate and turned into the twenty-foot space between the dead-line andthe wall. With pike poles the closely adjoining posts were heaved into position and the earth was closely tamped.
Then the workers faced about and commenced digging a trench up the hill nearly as wide as the space between the dead-line and the stockade. A part of the gang swung their picks into the red clay which was shoveled against the timbers. Another set followed with heavy rammers and pounded the whole into a smooth, sloping surface which was tamped closely to the base of the wooden wall, making a perfect watershed, and thus preventing the further loosening of the earth at the base of the stockade. By Thursday evening the broad trench with rounded bottom was completed from the swamp up the dead line space to the north gate.
THE WOMANS RELIEF CORPS
PROVIDENCE SPRING AND WOMEN OF THE RELIEF CORPS
UNSEALING OF THE SPRING.
On Friday morning an ominous stillness pervaded nature. By the middle of the forenoon a dense, dark cloud was noticed in the southwest quarter of the horizon, slowly creeping upward. It rose above the treetops majestic and awful in appearance. A troop of small, scurrying, angry-looking clouds seemed to form an advancing line to the vast mass of storm cloud. The onward movement quickened, and soon the front of the mountain of approaching cloud assumed a gray appearance, caused by the mighty downpour of water which more nearly than anything else seemed a continuous cloudburst.
Crashes of thunder broke over our heads and flashes of lightning swished around us as if the air was filled with short circuits. The awful moving wallcame towards us rapidly and we understood what was happening.
As the mighty deluge swept through the clearing west of the prison, we bowed our heads in preparation of submersion in the advancing waterspout. When it came upon us the sensation was as if a million buckets of water were being poured upon us at once. The air was so filled with the roaring, hissing flood that we could not look up, but bent forward to protect our faces, covering our nostrils with our hands to preserve a little breathing space.
Instantly rivulets of water poured down over our bodies as if a hose were discharging its stream on our shoulders, and the surface of the filthy ground was soon covered with a rush of muddy water. The swamp space as quickly filled with great swirling eddies. The upper stockade served as a dam across the creek, which in a few minutes became swollen into the dimensions of a river. Driftwood bore down upon the stockade, causing it to give way with a mighty crash. The heavy timbers were whirledacross the prison as if they were mere straws, and by the force of their impact carried away the rear stockade. From the batteries solid shot was fired over our heads to warn us that if we attempted to escape through the opening in the wall we would be swept by the cannon. The roar of the guns chimed harmoniously with the thundering of the storm. In the awful suspense of such overwhelming conditions the progress of time could not be measured. The downpour may have continued twenty minutes, perhaps half an hour, or possibly longer. So great was its fury that we felt it must soon end or it would end us. Fortunately, it ceased as suddenly as it came. Looking up, we saw the great water wall retreating. The sun burst forth with unwonted vigor and shone with brilliant effect upon the receding rain. A dense fog arose from the drying garments of thirty-five thousand human bodies and from the exhalations of surrounding surfaces. As the heavy mist cleared away, the drenched and forlorn prisoners tried to be merry. Theyviewed with complacency the breach in the walls of the infamous pen and wished that every timber had been leveled to the earth.
A witty comrade on the south hill of the prison, thinking to convey desired information to the north side, shouted at the top of his voice, “Water! Water!” Men on the north side, as by a common impulse, answered back, and the two great companies in turn shouted the magic word, much as the opposite hosts on Ebal and Gerazim alternately responded, “Amen.”
Immediately after this antiphonal outburst a voice was heard from the north gate, ringing out in clear tones the thrilling words, “A spring! A spring! A spring has broken out!” “Where, where?” was the eager inquiry which arose at once from many lips. The writer tried to press his way towards the north gate, but the crowd was so dense that no progress could be made. The excitement of the moment was indescribable. During a lull some one sang out, “You fellows over by thenorth gate, tell us, has a spring broken out?” “Yes,” was the reply, an emphatic “Yes.” Then was further shouted the explanation, “Where the trench was dug the flood has torn up the earth and a spring has gushed out.”
As soon as opportunity afforded we pressed our way to the spot, and there, just below the north gate, in the center of the space between the stockade and the dead-line, at the point where the earth had been most deeply excavated, the sloping surfaces had gathered the waters of the flood. The bottom of the trench was torn up some twenty inches, uncovering the vent of a spring of purest crystal water, which shot up into the air in a column and, falling in a fanlike spray, went babbling down the grade into the noxious brook. Looking across the dead-line, we beheld with wondering eyes and grateful hearts the fountain spring.
But our relief was not yet realized; the question which now concerned us was how to bring its cooling waters within reach of our lips. In the afternoonand evening of that eventful Friday we prayed that God would so turn the heart of Capt. Wirtz that he would allow the precious water to be conveyed within our lines. We waited in suspense for the answer, and on Saturday morning, to our delight, we saw the quartermaster again enter the gate with a gang of slaves, bringing fence boards, hammers, nails, axes and stakes. A double row of the latter was driven, so that the direction crossed the dead-line at a slight angle down the hill. A strip was nailed across each pair of stakes, and in the aperture rested a trough made of two fence boards nailed together. At the lower end of this chute in an excavation was set a sugar hogshead, around which clay was tamped so as to aid in making it watertight. When all was ready the upper end of the chute was thrust under the falling column of water, which swiftly ran down and filled to overflowing the large barrel. From this the men by crowds dipped freely of the refreshing, life-giving water.
Laughter, songs and thanksgivingabounded. Thus was wrought before our eyes a gracious work of Providence which to many of us was quite as wonderful and quite as manifestly the work of the All-Father as was the smitten rock in the Palestine desert from which the thirst of the fainting hosts of Israel was slacked in their desert wanderings.
Stockade bursted by a flood which opened the wonderful “Providence Spring”
WAS IT A MIRACLE?
A profound conviction has been cherished by many that the unsealing of Providence Spring was as marked an interposition of the hand of the Almighty as that recorded in the Book of Numbers where it is said, “And Moses lifted up his hand, and smote the rock with his rod twice; and water came forth abundantly and the congregation drank.” Num. 20:11.
Are they wrong in this conviction? The unwontedness of the incident admits of no dispute. In such a sober work as Rhodes History of the United States, we have the statement, “After a severe storm a spring broke out within the enclosure (Andersonville stockade) and this became one of the main reliances for drinking water.” Vol. V., p. 492.
An eye witness records: “About the first of August showers fell that beat anything I ever saw. There was one good result, for where the stockade was washed away on the north side, it opened a spring of pure water, enough to supply nearly the whole of the prison.” (The narrative of Amos E. Stearns, Co. A, 25th Regiment, Mass. Published by Franklin Pierce, 1887.)
While comparatively few of the prisoners knew of the days of prayer that preceded the storm, every one recognized that something out of the ordinary course of events had happened; and that a new spirit pervaded the camp. Before this, no one would give a dying man a drink, for water was scarce, and the scurvy in the recipient’s mouth might contaminate the cup for its owner. And indeed, not many had the strength to wait upon others. But now the dull, sombre, despairing mood was changed. The little stream of pure water, contrasted with the former slough that supplied us, murmured sweetly down through the night, and during theday it over-brimmed thousands of cups that eager hands reached forth.
In after days many of these men were gathered at Camp Chase, Ohio, and there detained until improved health rendered them presentable for return home.
We recall that when in the chapel of that place a Capt. Allen conducted evening religious services, hundreds of testimonies were given to the effect that the breaking out of the spring at Andersonville was a distinct answer to prayer and a convincing fact of the reality of help coming from above. Many of the speakers declared that their Christian faith began from that occurrence.
Questions such as the following naturally arise: Was Providence Spring a miracle? Would the saving relief have been withheld if prayer had not been offered?
The situation is not more difficult of analysis than is that described in the story of Queen Esther where is exhibited the interplay of natural and supernatural elements in human activity andDivine over-ruling. The northern section of the Andersonville inclosure was mainly a bank of clay, as evidenced by the many wells which were partially sunk, but filled, by order of Capt. Wirtz, because tunnels therefrom were dug for escape. The vein of water which issued in Providence Spring doubtless flowed from time immemorial, and being unable to work upward through a too great overpress of clay, had found a lower seam through which it seeped into the depths of the swamp below. This implied fact was learned as follows: As the prison administration was unable to cook meal and bacon for the increasing thousands of men, these articles were issued raw for two weeks alternately to the north and south sides of the enclosure.
A distressingly small lot of wood must suffice a detachment of two hundred and seventy men for three days. Often the individual portion would not make a fire that would scald, much less cook, the scant portion of cornmeal, which was sometimes coarse and unbolted. It wassaid that more than ten thousand cases of bloody dysentery prevailed at one time; aggravated by irritation to stomach and intestines from the practically uncooked food. The awful unsanitary conditions which prevailed can be described, but respect for the sensibilities of the reader forbids. Suffice it to say that the need for fuel was urgent, that a number of the stronger captives would lay aside their tattered remnants of clothing, wade into the slimy muck of the swamp, and, sinking to their armpits, would pull up fragments of wood that had long been submerged. This was mostly pitch pine and when broken up would quickly burn. The work of exhuming fuel under such repulsive conditions was chiefly done at night.
It was noticed that in the morning the partially remaining foot-prints and depression, from which the stick had been drawn, were filled with clear water. This fact was a mystery until after the spring was opened; then the conclusion was reached that the spring water followed a deep seam in the clay and oozedinto the swamp some distance below the surface and rose up through the openings made by the wood-diggers.
Therefore Providence Spring was not especially created to order. Like Topsy, it had “allus” been. The providential aspects of the case may be thus stated; the spring existed, but was unknown. It was located under the space between the dead-line and the stockade, through which digging for a well was not permitted; it therefore remained undiscovered. The out-of-plumb position of the stockade timbers had existed for a long time, but was not noticed by the officials until the time when prayer began to be offered for water. As the petitions of Esther and Mordecai, unknown to the King, in a manner unseen affected his action, so by analogy, the prayer of Sergeant Shepard and his colleagues influenced the state of mind of the quartermaster and of Commandant Wirtz and they were moved to the repairing of the stockade which had long been neglected.
This decision led to the forming of a broad trench by digging away theground to afford the needed watershed from the base of the stockade.
Thus a channel was formed which gathered the storm-water with force sufficient to tear away the ground over the spring and release the life-giving fountain. The slaves removed quite a depth of the earth directly over the unknown reservoir; thus the deepest part of the trench was brought so near the spring that the rush of the storm-flow could do the rest.
The spring water was uncovered and its pressure was sufficient to throw it into the air. However, as it was located on the forbidden margin, any prisoner reaching under or over the dead-line for a draught of the water would be instantly shot by the sentinel posted overhead on the wall.
Hence, after the spring was opened an object of much desire, and suitable as a subject of prayer, was that the hardness of Capt. Wirtz would be relaxed to the extent of allowing the prisoners to have access to the water. This resultwas accomplished and the relief was complete.
A recent writer commenting on the development of Providence Spring refers to the marble fountain erected by the Ex-Prisoners of War Association inside the granite pavilion built over the spring by the Woman’s Relief Corps, remarks, “The waters flow strong and sweet with a never-ceasing stream into the marble basin. It is said to be the best water in all Georgia; that which gushes forth from the side of the little hill in Andersonville.” Confirmatory to this statement is the following incident:
In 1896, when the writer lectured in Warsaw, N. Y., on “Reminiscences of Battle-fields and Prisons,” a prominent war veteran of the town, who had been a member of the staff of General Grant, showed him a bottle of water from Providence Spring which nine years before had been hermetically sealed by the Rev. G. Stanley Lathrop of Atlanta. So pure was the content that no sediment existed.
The further comment is: “The scientific fact of Providence Spring is thatin the August electrical storm the rocks (clay) which held back this spring were cracked or broken open by a lightning bolt and the waters gushed forth. No one ever believed that it was a sort of Moses intervention for the prisoners, but it was undoubtedly looked upon in that light by the poor, thirsty, half-starved prisoners.”
To which we reply that if we believe in prayer as an instrumentality by which human and divine forces cooperate to a beneficent end, and the result takes place, why should we question the efficacy of intercession?
The fact that a number of believing men in the prison were engaged for some days in protracted prayer for relief from water-famine was not ostentatiously announced at the time, and was little noticed by the crowd. Thus has it ever been with the origin of great spiritual movements.
The relief came and a new spirit of hope and gladness, such as prevailing prayer engenders, swept through the multitude.
The scientific fact of a mightly rain storm being the visible agency of completing the opening of Providence Spring fitly coordinates with the moral force of prayer, as in numberless instances such convergence occurs in history. Nevertheless, this explanation will probably be accepted or challenged according to the personal experience of the reader in matters of Christian faith.
In the case of the smitten rock of the Palestine desert water doubtless existed in an abundant, although unknown supply. The Almighty, by the agency of Moses, brought it forth for the satisfying of a great multitude.
The prophet was commanded to speak to the rock and it would give forth water. The response could be from none other than the Creator of all mountains and flowing streams. And although Moses went beyond the Divine command, and struck with a rod instead of speaking with his voice, yet the Divine goodness was not withheld, “and the water came abundantly.” So at Andersonville the sufficient, though unknown,supply was close at hand. Human voices pleading for relief were answered by Him who spoke by the wind, the lightning and the flood.
It is said that the spiritual desires of our hearts are the reflection of what God is waiting to do for us through our own co-operation. Surely then, the prayers of the Andersonville prisoners for water were incited by Him who saw their dire necessity, and who waited only for human hands to aid in the release of the fountain of water which his Omnipotence had created.
During the subsequent years the writer has given the foregoing account in lectures and conversations to his comrades of the Grand Army of the Republic and to many others. Gentlemen of scientific and Christian attainments have said that this explanation of the phenomenon of Providence Spring is the most satisfactory of any that they have heard.
The event here chronicled is commemorated by the erection on the spot of a granite pavilion which isappropriately named “Providence Spring.” The inscriptions are as follows:
This Fountain Erected byThe National Association of UnionEx-Prisoners of WarIn Memory of the 52,345 Comradeswho were confined here as prisoners ofwar, and ofthe 13,900 comrades buried in theadjoining National Cemetery.Dedicated Memorial Day,May Thirteenth, Nineteen Hundredand One.James Atwell, National Commander.S. M. Long, Adjt. Gen’l.J. D. Walker, Cham. Ex. Committee.
A reverse tablet bears the words:
This Pavilion Was Erected by theWoman’s Relief CorpsAuxiliary to the Grand Army of theRepublicIn grateful memory of the men whosuffered and died in theConfederate Prison at Andersonville,Georgia,From February, 1864, to April, 1865.
“Erected 1901.”
DELIVERANCE.
[3]At a point on the Cape Fear river, about ten miles from Wilmington, N. C., a trainload of old Andersonville prisoners who had been confined also at Florence, S. C., and Salisbury, N. C., were delivered to General Terry. They had just been paroled at Goldsboro, and were received by him about the middle of March, 1865. His headquarters was at a point on the Cape Fear river and recently taken from the enemy. It was now held by the Third New Hampshire, Sixteenth New York heavy artillery, and by a division of colored troops.
The freight cars halted in a pine forest about a mile from this position, which commanded a pontoon bridge. A squad of cavalry received the ex-prisoners, unfurling the Stars and Stripes in greeting. Many of the boys in blue wept, when they saw our plight. The released men tried to hurrah, but were too weak to raise much of a shout. Three ambulances were loaded with as many of the sick as could be taken on the first trip.
At the farther end of the pontoon bridge the road led through a deep cut in the bank up to the open space of the camp where guns pointed over the river towards the forest through which the freight train had come from Goldsboro with the paroled men. Spanning this cut was an arch constructed of evergreen boughs and faced with the whitecloth square of shelter tent, upon which was spelled in letters made of evergreen sprigs, “THE SIXTEENTH NEW YORK WELCOMES YOU HOME.”
The march of a mile from the railroad to the pontoon bridge greatly exhausted the paroled prisoners. At first the excitement of once more gazing upon the flag they loved, and being received by the advanced squadron, stimulated them to walk with some show of vigor.
But soon their eyes shone with the unwonted brightness of fatigue in contrast with their pinched and grimy faces. Many sank by the wayside, to be picked up by the ambulance when the same could return for them.
The stronger ones worked up into the head of the column which crossed the pontoon bridge and the advance files of men undertook to walk up through the cut in the bank at the bridge end. But their feet sank in the sand and they were too weak to go further.
Meanwhile a company of colored soldiers were drawn up through the cut in two ranks facing. Between theselines and under the arch our ambulance passed; the horses tugging with might and main up the steep grade and through the deep sand. The white officers and the black soldiers stood at “Present Arms.” The eyes of the soldiers opened and their teeth gleamed with an aspect of astonishment, as they for the first time beheld seasoned graduates from a course of experiences in war-prisons. The living wrecks in the ambulances were still more pale and ghastly than were the stronger ones following slowly on foot, and as the latter emerged from the woods on to the floating bridge, the onlooking crowd of our men off duty began to be stirred with a great excitement.
As the ambulances lined up before headquarters, General Terry approached. With him were the brigade surgeon and a representative of the United States Christian Commission. The General looked upon us with tear-dimmed eyes; and turning to the surgeon gave his pocket flask, saying, “Doctor, for God’s sake, help these poor fellows.”
This ambulance stopped on the crest of the hill, when the Christian Commission man stepped to its side and said to the writer, “My boy, you will get out here.” Seeing I was too weak to rise from the seat, he said, “Just lie across my shoulder.” This I did and he carried me into a near-by country church building which sheltered the sick until they could be conveyed by boat to Wilmington.
Meanwhile the straggling column of paroled prisoners had crossed the bridge. An officer undertook to form them into ranks so as to march in form under the arch and between the lines which stood at “Present arms.” Their feet sank in the soft sand of the cut, and after taking a few steps they were utterly exhausted. The officer in charge thus addressed the two lines: “Shoulder arms!” “Order arms!” “Stack arms!” “Break ranks and carry these men up the hill!” With a mighty cheer the athletic colored soldiers sprang forward and each picked up an emaciated, wilted prisoner, carried him up the hill, andtenderly placed him on the ground. In due time, the sick were taken by boat to the Wright House Hospital, Wilmington, and the stronger ones were placed in a camp waiting transportation by steamer to the north.
In the winter of 1875-76, the partially regained health of the writer collapsed, and he was advised to consult his former regimental surgeon, Dr. Wells B. Fox. The Doctor said, “You may live a good while, and you may not. Prepare to leave your family in as good shape as possible. If you have unsettled accounts fix them up.”
Pursuant to this advice, and needing the benefit of a climate warmer than a Michigan winter, he went to Washington to close up some army matters. Here he was received very kindly by Surgeon General Barnes, and by him ordered to have a thorough examination by experts of the medical department. The diagnosis was more favorable than was deemed possible, and its correctness has been verified by the subsequent years.
On the journey from Cheboygan toWashington, a stop was made at Greenville. With his host, a call was made on the Rev. James L. Patton, pastor of the Congregational Church of that place. As the evening passed, conversation turned to army happenings. After reciting some experiences in the service of the United States Christian Commission, with an aroused manner, Dr. Patton said, “I must tell you of an occasion that I shall never forget. I was in the Christian Commission service outside Wilmington, North Carolina, near the close of the war, with General Terry, when he received the first installment of old Andersonville prisoners as they were sent into our lines. Terry was all broken up over their condition.” “Could the prisoners walk?” asked the writer. “Yes,” he replied; “some of them could, but many had to be brought in on ambulances.” He was asked, “Where did you put those who were sick?” “We laid them on the floor of a little church that was close by,” Dr. Patton replied. Extending his hand the writer said, “Dr. Patton, thank you.” “Why, why,” hereplied hesitatingly, “you need not thank me for the story; it is true and you are welcome to it.” “Yes,” was the response, “I have no doubt the story is true. I do not thank you for it, but for helping me out of the ambulance at that time.” Need it be said that these two men found themselves comrades, indeed?
AN INCIDENT BY THE WAY.
A steamboat on the northeast branch of the Cape Fear river carried our paroled men from the station held by General Terry to the city of Wilmington.
One of the principal mansions was owned by a Dr. Wright who had fled with his family on the approach of the Union troops. His fine residence was converted into a hospital for the arrivals who were sick.
During the ride from Goldsboro on top of a freight car, the writer was taken ill and was barely able to walk the steamer plank at the point of transfer. After resting in the little country church he was taken to the Wright House Hospital and assigned a straw bed on the floor of a room in the third story. Soldier nurses proceeded to take off his infested prison rags and to give him a sponge rub. He fainted under theprocess and had a run of fever during which he was delirious.
When the point of death was apparently reached his vitality took a turn for the better and he rapidly improved.
On the floor of his room were twelve narrow straw beds having a succession of occupants who, with a few exceptions, were soon transferred to their final resting places.
Many of the ex-prisoners having died from the effects of the too early use of solid food, the physicians became extremely cautious and limited the sick to small quantities of the most simple preparations.
During the writer’s convalescence, his ravenous hunger was unsatisfied by the slender allowance. It happened that his bed ended up to a window, and his favorite occupation was to sit on his pillow and watch the proceedings in the yard below. Here was a servant’s cottage occupied by two colored women who evidently had excused themselves from flight with their master. The older one moved about with quiet dignity anddoubtless had been the “mamma” of the family. With evident pleasure she watched the new life and movement around her, and held in restraint her young and vivacious companion.
In the yard soldier cooks prepared in large kettles great quantities of beef soup, which was ladled into pails, carried to the kitchen and served to the patients throughout the building.
A young artilleryman from Olean, New York, lay on a straw pallet alongside that of the writer. The one was called “Olean” and the other “Michigan.” From his post of observation at the window the latter, one morning, watched the handling of the soup below with an interest that could not be concealed. “Say, Michigan, what are you looking at?” inquired Olean. “I am looking at them pouring out the soup,” was the reply, “and say, Olean, I wish I could have a good smell of it.”
“Smellof the soup,” said Olean contemptuously; “if I was a wishing I’d wish Ihadsome and not just a smell.” Upon this sagacious remark, a numberof the occupants of the other beds passed the wink or laugh with a feeble, hacking sound; their pinched faces brightening with a sense of mirth.
The practical wisdom of the suggestion was not lost upon “Michigan,” who said, “If I was a little stronger I would take my cup, go down the stairs and into the yard and I would say, ‘Boys, I’m awfully hungry; please give me some soup.’” Ah-ah-ah, laughed “Olean.” “Say, Michigan, I’ll bet you five cents you can’t walk the length of your bed and touch the door knob.” Upon this challenge, the other patients from their pillows exchanged glances, several braced up on the elbow and discussed the possibility of one of their number leaving his room without permission to forage for refreshments. The concensus of opinion was that he could not succeed.
“Who are you talking to?” vigorously responded “Michigan.” “You think I can’t do it; I’ll show you what I can do.” Grasping the projecting window moulding he helped himself to his feet, carefully balancing his trembling steps alongthe narrow space between the beds on the floor, and triumphantly grasping the knob of the door exclaimed, “There now, Olean; I’ve done it; I’ve done it. Where is your five cents?” “Oh, I haven’t any five cents,” replied Olean, “but say, Michigan, you would look mighty fine going down those stairs, wouldn’t you?”
Thereupon the observing comrades laughed in great glee; in weakness, like little children, a very trifling incident amused them; they nodded their heads at each other and exchanged approving glances.
Our regulation costume was a gray army shirt, drawers of like material, and a pair of socks. Thus appareled “Michigan” opened the door into the hall, peered over the railing down the two flights of stairs and, seeing the coast clear, worked along to the newel post and carefully lowered himself one or two steps.
Thinking discretion might be the better part of valor, he tested his strength for the return by trying to retrace the steps down which he had come. He wasquite unable to lift himself on the rising, so must needs continue down the two flights, resting his weight on the rail. Dizzy and breathless he stood by the stair post on the main floor. At this juncture the hospital steward suddenly entered and was amazed to find a very weak patient in a state of migration. “What are you doing here?” he hurriedly and angrily asked. “What room do you belong to and who said you might leave it?” “Oh, I’m just taking a little exercise,” was the reply. The steward rang for an attendant, and with an oath said, “No more of this; I will order a man to help you to your room and there you stay.”
But no helper appeared, so our hero summoned all his determination and walked through the hall to the back porch. Here a stack of plain coffins greeted his view; and he fancied that one of them belonged to him. Going down the veranda steps he held to the rail and coming into the full rays of the sun turned faint and for a few minutes was helpless. Again, he summonedall the powers of his will and started down the gravel walk towards the servant’s cottage.
Reaching the porch of the same, he sank exhausted on the steps with head resting against the corner post. Just then the old “mamma” came out of her room and caught sight of the wasted form and pale face of the would-be soup hunter. Gazing pityingly upon his emaciation, and speaking to her assistant, she exclaimed, “Dinah, Dinah, come yeah, come yeah; look at dat ar’ po’ white chile; he bleached so white as linen!”
Then addressing him, she said, “Wah yo’ come from? Wah yo’ come from?” “Oh, auntie,” he gasped, “I came out of the hospital to get some soup and I can’t get any further. Auntie, give me something to eat; I’m awfully hungry!” “Dinah, Dinah,” she said. “Go to the cupboard and git a big slice ob de co’n pone; jes slip it undah you aprun and bring it yeah to me.” Passing the generous slice under her own apron, the old mammy stood by the veranda post, lookingthe meanwhile intently at a distant object as if oblivious to all near concerns.
Thus she partially screened the invalid from observation, and reaching the portion down to his hand, tenderly said, “Dar now, honey, yo eat dat bread.” No second invitation to indulge his famished appetite was needed. The slice of “co’n pone” speedily disappeared. Strange to say, no inconvenience resulted. The food aroused the dormant vitality and the young fellow eagerly exclaimed, “Auntie, Auntie, that was so good. Give me some more.” “No, honey,” she said decisively, “de doctah see me do dis yah, I done go, suah.” Then the invalid began to cry hysterically. The sympathy of the kind old heart was still further aroused and, spreading her great hand on his head, she said softly, “Po chile, po chile, he want ta see he muddah.”
“Mother, Mother!” How that word stirred his heart and aroused his memory so weakened by suffering. Physical vigor from the dark hand upon hishead was surcharged with vitality that probably stimulated the depleted personality.
Again the young man asked, “Aunty, aunty, give me some more,” and again came the reply, “No, honey, de doctah see me do dis, he send me off for suah.” Meanwhile “Olean” was pressing his face against the third-story window to see how “Michigan” was prospering in his quest for soup.
A soldier nurse approached the cottage and “aunty,” who seemed to be on good terms with all, interceded for her guest. “Dis ya chile done cum down fo a wok; he done tiad out, yo’ help him back, won’t yo’, massa?” And he did.