A prisoner of war
nearly a year have stood and went through the very worst kind of treatment. Am
getting ravenously hungry, but they won't give me much to eat. Even Mike won't
give me anything. Says the doctors forbid it. Well, I suppose it is so. One
trouble with the men here who are sick, they are too indolent and discouraged,
which counteracts the effect of medicines. A dozen or twenty die in the
twenty-four hours. Have probably half tablespoonful of whiskey daily, and it is
enough. Land is a good fellow. (I wrote this last sentence myself, and Land
says he will scratch it out. — Ransom). A high garden wall surrounds us Wall is
made of stone. Mike dug around the corners of the walls, and in out of the way
places, and got together a mess of greens out of pusley. Offered me some and
then wouldn't let me have it. Meaner than pusley. Have threatened to lick the
whole crowd in a week.
SOURCE: John L.
Ransom, Andersonville Diary, p. 99
No comments:
Post a Comment