Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop: Wednesday, July 13, 1864

Corn bread, as served here, is to me what a single feather was to Paddy's head on a rock and what he thought more would be if supplied. Irrepressible conflict is brewing between hunger and filling up. Putting plenty of water in the mush is common with some who want something to fill up. We get nothing but rice tonight.

I find Harriman and tent mate Phillips bad off with scurvy, it having assumed malignant form and the flesh of their limbs has become lifeless. Harriman was looking at photographs of home friends and spoke of them with tenderness and a tone keyed to despair. He has ever before been cheerful and quickly responded to expressions of hope and cheer. We find a word of cheer comes not amiss. I trust that "each does well in his degree." But time comes when condolence takes its place and when that cannot remove the fact. How little of either have we now! The downcast soul is robbed of the blessings of consolation from kindred when wafted from this den of sin to the realm beyond. Are its celestial features tainted with this morbid air; is it enfeebled by this languor? God's unbounded provision is the universal remedy for every woe. This we must feel as never before, or be insensible to ourselves. Harriman then related his strange dream which, to him, was extraordinary, in which he beheld immediate conditions, and the blackness and terror of the supposed "river of death" which soon brightened into a bordering stream, before which all misery, terror and darkness vanished, and he beheld the mystic world. He regarded this as a prophecy of a change soon to come to him and said he had no terror of what might come; it had given him strength ineffable. He then briefly sketched his life, his aspirations and disappointments, which are of so much interest to me that I carefully noted them for future writing.

Saw a paper of July 1st; most notable item: Democrats postpone their convention to be held in Chicago, August 29th. Made the acquaintance of a namesake, John H. Northrop, a nephew of the celebrated lawyer, Henry Northrop, of New York; a prisoner nine months, clothes nearly gone, is lively though he has symptoms of scurvy. The evenings are beautiful; religious meetings are being held in various parts. There are some remarkable singers who attract the attention of outsiders.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 91

Diary of Private John J. Wyeth, December 20, 1862

After some trouble we managed to get to bed last night about eleven o'clock; but for a long time after that the mules kept us awake; perhaps they were hungry also. The weather was clear and not cold, so we got a little rest. At six o'clock this morning we were ordered on, after a very light breakfast, excepting for a few who may have foraged. There were a few chickens and a little applejack about our mess. To-day has been the hardest of any day of the tramp, and there has been more straggling. The company organization was in the line, but thinned out terribly. We had no noon-rest; but at two o'clock we filed from the road to a field, came to the front, and received a good scolding. Our regiment looked as if it had been through two Bull Runs; only about 150 left, and the rest not "accounted for." In fact there were very few left of those who should do the accounting. The colonel stormed a little, but that did not bring up the men; so, as he was probably as hungry, if not as tired, as we were, he let us go to eating, which was a decided farce. Our haversacks were as flat as our stomachs. We found a few grains of coffee and tobacco-crumbs in the bottom of our bags, and succeeded in digging a few sweet potatoes, which we ate raw. We were told they were very fullsome. We waited here two hours or so for the stragglers, who finally came along. They had been having a fine time, plenty of room to walk, and two hours more to do it in than we had; and, more than that, they were in the majority, so nothing could be done but "Right shoulder shift" and put the best foot forward. About sundown we saw, in crossing a bridge, a wagon-load of hard-tack bottom side up in the creek. Some of the boys sampled the bread, but it was not fit to eat. Shortly after a signboard indicated fourteen miles to New Berne. That was encouraging! The walking was fearful, the roads full of water, in some places waist deep, and covered with a skimming of ice. At last we met a wagon loaded with bread, and after much talk with the driver we got what we wanted. Next we met a man who said it was only twelve miles to New Berne. They either have long miles or else some one made a mistake; we seemingly had been walking two hours or more from the fourteenth mile post, and now it was twelve miles. We came to the conclusion not to ask any more questions, but "go it blind.”

We at last reached the picket-post, seven miles out, and halted to rest and allow the artillery to go through. Here Col. Lee told us we were at liberty to stay out and come into camp Sunday; but most of "E" thought of the letters and the supper we would probably get, and concluded to stand by the flag. After a rest we started again, and at last began to close up and halt often, so we knew we were coming to some place or other.

The writer has no very distinct idea of those last seven miles, excepting that he was trying to walk, smoke, and go to sleep at the same time, and could only succeed in swearing rather faintly, and in a stupid sort of manner, at everything and every one. It was dark and foggy, but finally we saw what appeared to be the headlight of a locomotive a long way off. Then the fort loomed up, and we were passing under an arch or bridge, and in a few minutes we reached "E's" barrack, and our troubles were all forgotten. Now we were wide awake; gave three hearty cheers for every one; had all the baked beans and coffee we could stagger under; and then the captain's "Attention for letters" brought us to our feet. Some had as many as a dozen. They had to be read at once, and, notwithstanding our fatigue and the lateness of the hour, read they were.

SOURCE: John Jasper Wyeth, Leaves from a Diary Written While Serving in Co. E, 44 Mass. Dep’t of North Carolina from September 1862 to June 1863, p. 29-30

Diary of Malvina S. Waring, March 17, 1865

I could eat a tallow candle if I had a good one. But I have accepted an invitation to dine with the Trenholms—in my dreams!

SOURCE: South Carolina State Committee United Daughters of the Confederacy, South Carolina Women in the Confederacy, Vol. 1, “A Confederate Girl's Diary,” p. 282

Diary of Malvina S. Waring, March 8, 1865

Wish I had been taught to cook instead of how to play on the piano. A practical knowledge of the preparation of food products would stand me in better stead at this juncture than any amount of information regarding the scientific principles of music. I adore music, but I can't live without eating—and I'm hungry! I want some chicken salad, and some charlotte russe, and some ox-palate, and corn muffins! These are the things I want; but I'll eat anything I can get. Honestly, our cuisine has become a burning question. Dear, sweet Ernie bears the brunt, and has to, because the rest of us are simpletons! She'll be canonized some of these days, or deserves to be, if she isn't.

SOURCE: South Carolina State Committee United Daughters of the Confederacy, South Carolina Women in the Confederacy, Vol. 1, “A Confederate Girl's Diary,” p. 279

Diary of Malvina S. Waring, March 11, 1865

Thank goodness! I'm not hungry tonight, and for a very good reason: we dined with the Secretary of the Treasury and his family, the Trenholms. It was a symposium to us poor Treasury girls, attractive and impressive. We discussed the varied menu, elegantly prepared and daintily served, with a Confederate appetite, sharply whetted for long-denied delicacies. Mr. Morgan, the young midshipman, was there, quite en famille. I did not hear when the wedding is to be. I suppose after the war. Everything is going to take place after the war. As we arose from the table, President and Mrs. Davis were announced. This famous man honoris causa, I had already seen before in Columbia, but this was my first glimpse of his wife. She was graciousness itself. Some people whom I have heard talk, and who look upon Mr. Davis as a mere function of government, are disposed to regard him as a conspicuous failure, but, in the name of reason, how can one man please everybody? His role is certainly one of great difficulty. Socially, he may rub some persons the wrong way, but not so with us. He was pleasant, polished, and entertaining.

SOURCE: South Carolina State Committee United Daughters of the Confederacy, South Carolina Women in the Confederacy, Vol. 1, “A Confederate Girl's Diary,” p. 281

Diary of 1st Sergeant John L. Ransom: November 28, 1864

No one has come to me since day before yesterday. Watched and moved until most night of yesterday but could see or hear no one. Afraid I have lost communication. In the distance can see a habitation and will mog along that way. Most noon. Later —as I was poking along through some light timber, almost ran into four Confederates with guns. Lay down close to the ground and they passed by me not more than twenty rods away. Think they have heard of my being in the vicinity and looking me up. This probably accounts for not receiving any visitor from the negroes. Getting very hungry, and no water fit to drink. Must get out of this community as fast as I can. Wish to gracious I had two good legs. Later. — It is now nearly dark and I have worked my way as near direct north as I know how Am at least four miles from where I lay last night. Have seen negroes, and white men, but did not approach them. Am completely tired out and hungry, but on the edge of a nice little stream of water. The closing of the fifth day of my escape. Must speak to somebody tomorrow, or starve to death. Good deal of yelling in the woods. Am now in the rear of a hovel which is evidently a negro hut, but off quite a ways from it. Cleared ground all around the house so I can't approach it without being too much in sight. small negro boy playing around the house. Too dark to write more

SOURCE: John L. Ransom, Andersonville Diary, p. 125-6

Diary of 1st Sergeant John L. Ransom: November 29, 1864

The sixth day of freedom, and a hungry one. Still where I wrote last night, and watching the house. A woman goes out and in but cannot tell much about her from this distance. No men folks around. Two or three negro boys playing about. must approach the house, but hate to. Noon. — Still right here. Hold my position. More than hungry. Three days since I have eaten anything, with the exception of a small pototoe and piece of bread eaten two days ago and left from the day before. That length of time would have been nothing in Andersonville, but now being in better health demand eatables, and it takes right hold of this wandering sinner. Shall go to the house towards night. A solitary woman lives there with some children. My ankle from the sprain and yesterday's walking is swollen and painful. Bathe it in water, which does it good. Chickens running around. Have serious meditations of getting hold of one or two of them after they go to roost, then go farther back into the wilderness, build a fire with my matches and cook them. That would be a royal feast. But if caught at it, it would go harder with me than if caught legitimately. Presume this is the habitation of some of the skulkers who return and stay home nights. Believe that chickens squawk when being taken from the roost. Will give that up and walk boldly up to the house.

SOURCE: John L. Ransom, Andersonville Diary, p. 126

Diary of 1st Sergeant John L. Ransom: October 1, 1864

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

Diary of Sergeant Major Luman Harris Tenney: July 19, 1863

Moved at daylight. Soon came upon rebel pickets and fired. Skirmishing. Dismounted 2 and 7 and went forward. One man wounded soon. Mich. Battery came up and one piece fired shell. Almost simultaneously Gen. Judah and gunboats opened. We heard musketry 10 minutes before ours. Before 10 minutes the rebels broke in a perfect rout, most complete, left wagons, cannon and any amount of plunder. I soon changed clothes, light clothes. Went with skirmishers, got several shots. Rested till 4 P. M. Marched up the river near Tupper's Plains, and then bivouacked. Rather hungry — all of us.

SOURCE: Frances Andrews Tenney, War Diary Of Luman Harris Tenney, p. 79-80

Diary of 1st Sergeant John L. Ransom: June 20, 1864

All the mess slowly but none the less surely succumbing to the diseases incident here. We are not what you may call hungry. I have actually felt the pangs of hunger more when I was a boy going home from school to dinner. But we are sick and faint and all broken down, feverish &c. It is starvation and disease and exposure that is doing it Our stomachs have been so abused by the stuff called bread and soups, that they are diseased. The bread is coarse and musty. Believe that half in camp would die now if given rich food to eat.

SOURCE: John L. Ransom, Andersonville Diary, p. 69

Diary of 1st Sergeant John L. Ransom: January 11, 1864

A steady rain for twenty-four hours, and have not been dry during the time, however it is a warm rain and get along very well. We are still issuing clothing but very slow. About one hundred per day get partly clothed up. No news of exchange. Abe Lincoln reported dead. Papers very bitter on Beast Butler, as they call him. Manage by a good deal of skirmishing to get the papers almost every day in which we read their rebel lies. A plan afoot for escape, but am afraid to say anything of the particulars for fear of my diary being taken away from me. As I came inside to-night with some bread in my haversack some fellows who were on the watch pitched into me and gobbled my saved up rations. I don't care for myself for I have been to supper, but the boys in the tent will have to go without anything to eat for this night. It don't matter much — they are all hungry and it did them as much good as it would our mess.

SOURCE: John L. Ransom, Andersonville Diary, p. 25

Diary of 1st Sergeant John L. Ransom: December 2, 1863

Pleasant weather and favorable for prisoners. At about nine in the morning the work of hunting for vermin commences, and all over camp sit the poor starved wretches, nearly stripped, engaged in picking off and killing the big gray backs. The ground is fairly alive with them, and it requires continual labor to keep from being eaten up alive by them. I just saw a man shot. He was called down to the bank by the guard, and as he leaned over to do some trading another guard close by shot him through the side and it is said mortally wounded him. It was made up between the guards to shoot the man, and when the lieutenant came round to make inquiries concerning the affair, one of them remarked that the ——— passed a counterfeit bill on him the night before, and he thought he would put him where he could not do the like again. The wounded man was taken to the hospital and has since died. His name was Gilbert. He was from New Jersey  Food twice to-day; buggy bean soup and a very small allowance of corn bread. Hungry all the time.

SOURCE: John L. Ransom, Andersonville Diary, p. 15

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Tuesday, March 31, 1863

“To be, or not to be; that's the question.” Whether ’tis nobler in the Confederacy to suffer the pangs of unappeasable hunger and never-ending trouble, or to take passage to a Yankee port, and there remaining, end them. Which is best? I am so near daft that I cannot pretend to say; I only know that I shudder at the thought of going to New Orleans, and that my heart fails me when I think of the probable consequence to mother if I allow a mere outward sign of patriotism to overbalance what should be my first consideration — her health. For Clinton is growing no better rapidly. To be hungry is there an everyday occurrence. For ten days, mother writes, they have lived off just hominy enough to keep their bodies and souls from parting, without being able to procure another article — not even a potato. Mother is not in a condition to stand such privation; day by day she grows weaker on her new regimen; I am satisfied that two months more of danger, difficulties, perplexities, and starvation will lay her in her grave. The latter alone is enough to put a speedy end to her days. Lilly has been obliged to put her children to bed to make them forget they were supperless, and when she followed their example, could not sleep herself, for very hunger.

We have tried in vain to find another home in the Confederacy. After three days spent in searching Augusta, Gibbes wrote that it was impossible to find a vacant room for us, as the city was already crowded with refugees. A kind Providence must have destined that disappointment in order to save my life, if there is any reason for Colonel Steadman's fears. We next wrote to Mobile, Brandon, and even that horrid little Liberty, besides making inquiries of every one we met, while Charlie, too, was endeavoring to find a place, and everywhere received the same answer — not a vacant room, and provisions hardly to be obtained at all.

The question has now resolved itself to whether we shall see mother die for want of food in Clinton, or, by sacrificing an outward show of patriotism (the inward sentiment cannot be changed), go with her to New Orleans, as Brother begs in the few letters he contrives to smuggle through. It looks simple enough. Ought not mother's life to be our first consideration? Undoubtedly! But suppose we could preserve her life and our free sentiments at the same time? If we could only find a resting-place in the Confederacy! This, though, is impossible. But to go to New Orleans; to cease singing “Dixie”; to be obliged to keep your sentiments to yourself — for I would not wound Brother by any Ultra-Secession speech, and such could do me no good and only injure him — if he is as friendly with the Federals as they say he is; to listen to the scurrilous abuse heaped on those fighting for our homes and liberties, among them my three brothers — could I endure it? I fear not. Even if I did not go crazy, I would grow so restless, homesick, and miserable, that I would pray for even Clinton again. Oh, I don't, don't want to go! If mother would only go alone, and leave us with Lilly! But she is as anxious to obtain Dr. Stone's advice for me as we are to secure her a comfortable home; and I won't go anywhere without Miriam, so we must all go together. Yet there is no disguising the fact that such a move will place us in a very doubtful position to both friends and enemies. However, all our friends here warmly advocate the move, and Will Pinckney and Frank both promised to knock down any one who shrugged their shoulders and said anything about it. But what would the boys say? The fear of displeasing them is my chief distress. George writes in the greatest distress about my prolonged illness, and his alarm about my condition. “Of one thing I am sure,” he writes, “and that is that she deserves to recover; for a better little sister never lived.” God bless him! My eyes grew right moist over those few words. Loving words bring tears to them sooner than angry ones. Would he object to such a step when he knows that the very medicines necessary for my recovery are not to be procured in the whole country? Would he rather have mother dead and me a cripple, in the Confederacy, than both well, out of it? I feel that if we go we are wrong; but I am satisfied that it is worse to stay. It is a distressing dilemma to be placed in, as we are certain to be blamed whichever course we pursue. But I don't want to go to New Orleans!

Before I had time to lay down my pen this evening, General Gardiner and Major Wilson were announced; and I had to perform a hasty toilette before being presentable. The first remark of the General was that my face recalled many pleasant recollections; that he had known my family very well, but that time was probably beyond my recollection; and he went on talking about father and Lavinia, until I felt quite comfortable, with this utter stranger. . . . I would prefer his speaking of “our” recent success at Port Hudson to “my”; for we each, man, woman, and child, feel that we share the glory of sinking the gunboats and sending Banks back to Baton Rouge without venturing on an attack; and it seemed odd to hear any one assume the responsibility of the whole affair and say “my success” so unconsciously. But this may be the privilege of generals. I am no judge, as this is the first Confederate general I have had the pleasure of seeing. Wish it had been old Stonewall! I grow enthusiastic every time I think of the dear old fellow!

I am indebted to General Gardiner for a great piece of kindness, though. I was telling him of how many enemies he had made among the ladies by his strict regulations that now rendered it almost impossible for the gentlemen to obtain permission to call on them, when he told me if I would signify to my friends to mention when they applied that their visit was to be here, and not elsewhere, that he would answer for their having a pass whenever they called for one. Merci du compliment; mais c’est trop tard, Monsieur!

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 342-6

Diary of Sarah Morgan: March 17, 1863

On dit the Yankees have gone back to Baton Rouge, hearing we had sixty thousand men coming down after them. I believe I am positively disappointed! I did want to see them soundly thrashed! The light we thought was another burning house was that of the Mississippi. They say the shrieks of the men when our hot shells fell among them, and after they were left by their companions to burn, were perfectly appalling.

Another letter from Lilly has distressed me beyond measure. She says the one chicken and two dozen eggs Miriam and I succeeded in buying from the negroes by prayers and entreaties, saved them from actual hunger; and for two days they had been living on one egg apiece and some cornbread and syrup. Great heavens! has it come to this? Nothing to be bought in that abominable place for love or money. Where the next meal comes from, nobody knows.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 340