Oh, how hot, and oh, how miserable. The news that six have
been sentenced to be hanged is true, and one of them is Moseby. The camp is
thoroughly under control of the police now, and it is a heavenly boon. Of
course there is some stealing and robbery, but not as before. Swan, of our
mess, is sick with scurvy. I am gradually swelling up and growing weaker. But a
few more pages in my diary. Over a hundred and fifty dying per day now, and
twenty six thousand in camp. Guards shoot now very often. Boys, as guards, are
the most cruel. It is said that if they kill a Yankee, they are given a thirty
days furlough. Guess they need them as soldiers too much to allow of this. The
swamp now is fearful, water perfectly reeking with prison offal and poison, still
men drink it and die. Rumors that the six will be hung inside. Bread to-day and
it is so coarse as to do more hurt than good to a majority of the prisoners.
The place still gets worse. Tunneling is over with; no one engages in it now
that I know of. The prison is a success as regards safety; no escape except by
death, and very many take advantage of that way. A man who has preached to us
(or tried to) is dead. Was a good man I verily believe, and from Pennsylvania. It's
almost impossible for me to get correct names to note down; the last named man
was called “the preacher,” and I can find no other name for him. Our quartette
of singers a few rods away is disbanded. One died, one nearly dead, one a
policeman and the other cannot sing alone, and so where we used to hear and
enjoy good music evenings, there is nothing to attract us from the groans of
the dying. Having formed a habit of going to sleep as soon as the air got
cooled off and before fairly dark, I wake up at two or three o'clock and stay
awake. I then take in all the horrors of the situation. Thousands are groaning,
moaning and crying, with no bustle of the daytime to drown it. Guards every
half hour call out the time and post, and there is often a shot to make one
shiver as if with the ague. Must arrange my sleeping hours to miss getting owly
in the morning. Have taken to building air castles of late, on being exchanged.
Getting loony, I guess, same as all the rest.
SOURCE: John L. Ransom, Andersonville Diary, p.
78-80
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