WOMEN PRISONERS.—PROVIDENCE SPRING.
Rainy. A man with
gray hair has just died within six feet of us; another is dying within twenty;
another within forty. The dead are almost continually being borne past, more
than usual today. We walk, sleep, eat and drink among sick, dying, dead. We
pass them on our way, meet them sinking with fell disease, turn to pity, but
languishing with weakness bethink ourselves; shut sympathy in our breasts;
nerve ourselves, pass on.
Of our detachment of
270 but 123 are able today to appear in line. Any man able to be about can
consume the day's ration at once. Man never looked on scenes more horrible! Oh,
God, assist us; on thee alone our hopes must rest for strength!
I saw by a Rebel
sergeant's book that Harvey Deyo Merritt died the 16th inst. I learn he died
laying in the sand outside the hospital having been carried out owing to the
crowd. All knew him as Deyo in my company where he was a favorite. He often
entertained the boys with songs. He had a melodious voice, was a good singer, a
pleasant young man, a faithful soldier. I have composed the following lines in
his honor:
DEYO.
Dead he lay upon the sand,
Breathless lips and pulseless hand.
Dead he lay, appalling sight;
In those eyes there is no light;
Dead 'mid living, dying, dead,
And we have no tears to shed!
Death is but a common sight,
Dying round us day and night.
Scores are dying every day
And by comrades borne away,
Under gleaming Rebel guns
To cemet'ry for Northern sons.
Rolled in ditches by the score—
Ay, thousands—paroled forevermore!
No more his voice in song is heard
That sweetly once his comrades stirred;
Dead within this dreadful place,
The peace of God upon his face.
Nevermore the ration spare
Of prison pen with him we share.
He stood with us in fighting line;
Alas, together here we pine;
We sat with him in camp at night
Cheered by the Union firelight;
On weary marches night and day,
And with him in embattled fray;
On picket when the camp did sleep;
In wood, and field, and trenches deep;
When as skirmishers we creep,
And here where foes their vigils keep!
But now he sleeps in Dixie's soil,
No more, no more with us to toil;
Sleeps in the land he helped to free
From the bane of Slavery;—
No more to languish with us here; —
Dead, without coffin, shroud, or bier.
Deyo, good boy, farewell, farewell!
Who your wretched fate will tell?
Sadly you were heard to speak
"Mother, mother," faint and weak,
Until your starved and fetid breath
Was silent in this squalid death.
Thank God, your face she could not seŠµ;
Your soul from this damned pit is free!
No more your lips will songs repeat
We heard so fondly and so sweet.
O, lifeless body, let it rest,
Wasted in this place opprest!
He is gone who was its guest;
We who stay are still unblest.
Lying dead in Georgia's sand
He obeys the last command.
Deyo, rest, your service is done;
Turned in your knapsack and your gun.
Rise, Deyo, genial soul, arise;
Soul of Deyo never dies!
Soldier, in what realm now?
Whose command obeyest thou?
Freed from this place of pest and blight,
Where rests your spirit, calm, to-night?
In camps with comrades gone before
Where fearful war you know no more;
In peaceful gardens of delight
Rest, Deyo, in peace, tonight!
Sergeant Bourne of
the 58th Massachusetts favored me with the reading of a book entitled
"Isabelle," devoted to the subject of home influence. It contains
suggestions lovers of home ought to heed and practice. Although from the
American Tract Society, it speaks of the visitation of spirits to "Quiet
and influence and lead us in the way of heavenly things." Says the writer,
"How much a word or a sentence may do to influence our associates!" I
have been thinking that if these things be true, may not unseen influences buoy
us up, inspire us with hope and strength to survive these ills. I have often
asked they might, and felt perceptibly an inner delight; a joyous confidence.
Spencer wrote of angels—
"They come to succor us, who succor want,
They for us fight, they watch and duly ward,
And their bright squadrons round about us plant,
And all for love, and nothing for reward."
Milton expressed
similar ideas, putting these words into the mouth of Adam in one of his happy
talks with Eve, which likely expressed the views of the poet on this topic
"Millions of spiritual creatures walk the Earth
Unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep;
All these with ceaseless praise his works behold
Both day and night. How often from the steep
Of echoing hill or thicket, have we heard
Celestial voices to the midnight air,
Sole, or responsive each to other note,
Singing their Great Creator! Oft in bands
While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk,
With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds
In full harmonic number join'd, their songs
Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven."
I have been
thinking, too, that I ought to mend in everyday talk and demeanor; have made
slight effort; but everything around is hard. The temper is all the time worked
upon; there is nothing pleasant but hope, good thoughts and desires. God and
Nature are no less great, friends no less dear, liberty no less sweet,
principles I attempt to defend no less sacred. I will not cease to defend them
against rash, thoughtless men. Two men die across the street as I write this.
SOURCE: John Worrell
Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville
and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, pp. 113-5
