Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop, Sunday, August 21, 1864

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 seе;

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

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop, Monday, August 22, 1864

Most important reports are from Virginia. Grant's movements a mystery. Sheridan met Early in the Shenandoah with a heavy force, but whipped him to pieces. Flag of truce boat off Charleston. The boys talk this news over with satisfaction. Once in awhile there is one who says, "I don't care how they do if I can get home." We draw rations of rice and molasses only, tonight. It is a change and "change of pasture makes fat calves."

Capt. Wirz has not appeared for two weeks. It turns out he is sick; the boys hope he will die. Lieut. Davis commands the prison; we ascribe improvements to him. We could not account for how "Old Dutch" had become so enterprising. It is his custom to ride about like a pompous chief; to devise ways to punish offenders, as he calls men who attempt escape; watch them groaning in the stocks where he has kept them all day and all night with hands and feet outstretched to their utmost, and grinned as he saw them hanging by the thumbs. While suffering this punishment, two have died we know. If more have not, it is not to his credit. Neither has every little pretext to deprive us of rations from 24 to 60 hours, been so readily caught up. Nevertheless our principal ration has been bad, sour bread and hungry as we might be, some has been thrown away.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, pp. 115-6

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop, Tuesday, August 23, 1864

An interesting gossip was afloat when I came here that there were two women in prison disguised as Union soldiers. It was accepted as a fact by many who gave plenty of reasons for believing it, and it was a topic for talk among them which I was curious to hear. In June two sprightly persons were shown me as the alleged women. Many times after I saw them, always together, always by themselves. There was nothing in their appearance to discredit the story except male attire; nothing to suggest to me, under the circumstances, that they were women, in the absence of the story that they were women. They looked like beardless boys, feminine of stature and of features, with an air of shyness. The story could not be traced to an origin, nor was it denied except by ridicule. Its believers said their appearance was prima facie evidence, and accounted for their presence in several ways. For three weeks they have not been seen. This morning believers in the rumor are on to the fact that three weeks ago they left their dugout at sunset and passed the south gate. Where they went, how and why, is a mystery, but the story is now more than ever believed. They were called by some, "camp angels."

A. hints whimsically, he shall take his duds and leave because we disagree with him on important questions discussed. Steve is a rough, disagreeable talker on many things, reviles our cause, slanders Lincoln and his advisers. "We don't want a Union; that dog is dead. If we whip the South we had better give them independence, Nonsense; yet he was all right in the ranks. Prison deprivations disturb his equanimity.

A mere professional patriot, if weighed, is found wanting. Principles defended through superstition, selfish pride, blind party habit, or hatred, will ultimately be cursed by such defenders. That pride degenerates in its grossness; the man is "the wretch concentrated all in self," and obscures the self he really is. He who submits to be a mere tool in the relations of life, or exerts his power to the injury of others for rash and sordid reasons, is worse than inertia even when unused. The man without sentiment, strikes no spiritual goal.

As I passed the gate this morning I saw seven dead and met several on the way. Corpses are being carried to the burying ground in army wagons, loaded in like wood. The fellow who enjoys funerals ought to get satisfaction out of all he might see here.

During a terrific storm a spring burst out on the north of the swamp close to the dead line on the west side, below the north gate from a dry, sandy knoll, and now flows profusely; is pure, clear, soft and sweet as any water I ever drank We consider it remarkable, almost marvelous. It is difficult on the north side to reach water by wells. Men there, 20,000, perhaps more, have been obliged to get their water from the filthy run which catches the drainage from the Rebel camp, the cook house, and from excrement deposited on either side covering at least an acre, in places a foot thick, and filth from other sources. The south side, had, several weeks ago, reached water by digging 20 to 30 feet. In the 36th detachment, on the north side, they have sunk 80 feet and the water is red, hard and impure. A board spout is made conveying the water from this spring about 30 feet down the hill and out of danger of the dead line, where men flock by thousands daily to drink and fill their little buckets. Falling into files of four, a column is often formed which it takes two hours to pass the end of the spout. It runs a stream as large as my arm, white and clear, from the end of that spout.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, pp. 116-7

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop, Saturday, August 20, 1864

For nine days I have been prevented from making usual notes. Little passed I care to recall; I force myself to write today. I know no one who takes a general note of things; it is with hesitancy as well as difficulty, that I do. I cannot say that mine is more than meager penciling. They are samples of the best and some of the worst things that I note. Two of the sick mentioned the 11th, died the 13th; the others on the 15th. One had turned gray since I first saw him. He had money but could not save himself. His was the common complaint. He died within four feet of me suddenly falling; was from Pennsylvania. Another old prisoner died today of squalor within a few feet of us. The mortality, notwithstanding the removal of so many of the worst cases, has increased. The average is over 100 per day this month. On the 15th, 140; the 17th, 128 died. I am told by a man who is on duty at the hospital. The sick again admited to the gate for prescription; but three taken to the hospital out of several hundred applicants. It is the most disagreeable task one ever had to do, to cary a sick man before the doctor and then it amounts to nothing.

H. D. Merritt of our company was taken out in an awful condition on the 14th. He is from Sodus, Wayne county, N. Y. Fourteen of Company F have died; eleven more are in bad condition. (This does not include myself.) Madison hurt his foot a few days ago; his blood is so weak that it does not heal. Gangrene set in; it has eaten to the bone. The limbs of others are so affected as to be unable to walk. Most of them were strong heavy men, but we have to carry them to sick call. Gangrene is one of the frightful phases of these diseases. W. M. Townsend of the 111th N. Y. received a slight scratch on his thigh which has spread to a large and painful sore. It is by great precaution it is kept from being maggoty. The 12th I accidentally found Hanson, a young German of our company whom I had not seen for a long time, he belonged to another detachment. He was helpless but could talk; had fallen in the swamp, was completely daubed. His gums are rotted with scurvy; the backs of his hands and feet raw from sunburn; maggots actually crawling in his flesh. I got Sergeant Burton and went to the gate begging aid. At last got the answer, "You Yanks do something for your own selves." We returned to Hanson, lifted and gave him water, cleansed his wounds, found his detachment sergeant, borrowed a ragged blanket to cover him; could do no more. He died August 16th.

Tunnel was discovered not long since this way: It had been completed to the point where they wished to come out. The head man was pulling down the dirt when suddenly it broke away covering him, and down came a gray jacket with a Rebel in it, gun and all. The relief guards were just being mounted and one of them stepped upon the exact spot where they were to escape.

A Rebel paper I saw today spoke of Major Currill, Commissioner of Exchange, visiting our fleet in Mobile Bay, having reference to sending packages. Fighting at Richmond and other places, and close work at Atlanta. They abound in speculations on the Presidential campaign, and in extracts from the New York World, Herald, News and Albeny Argus and from their view argue the South's success. The World has an article on "The Failure of Grant," denouncing his whole course; and claims that "Grant is played out," though he has punched Lee back into his Richmond ditches and is still operating. Southern Rebels do not claim Grant is a failure. They keep up a bold front which they consider a political as well as a military necessity; but their own admissions, in general tones, are evidences of their strait. To me it seems they have ceased to hope for that degree of success from their armies that can save the little prestige they have abroad, much less secure their recognition, so turning to political bickerings, presenting their armies in the feigned attitude of triumph and strength but base their hope on the election. They believe that a party that could expiate their crimes in the past, would do even more in the future, if raised to power to look down on a forest of Rebel bayonets instead of threatening, sophistical politicians to whom they had succumbed. But they are a mere shell full of dead and rotting strength that has passed its zenith. The Southern heart is burning to ashes; they would negotiate for a respite to replenish the flame, not for Union. Oh, let the North be true in this crisis! Rebels would despair of success before January.

They do not give wood enough to ten men for one. Men go to extremes to obtain it, stealing dead men from their friends to carry out with the hope of getting it. Four men are permitted to go and can bring in quite a jag. Then some will trade half of their scanty rations for a stick to cook the other half. A few will trade a day's rations for a ten cent bit of tobacco. A few so far lose their reason as to throw clothing away, becoming disgusted with lice; add themselves to disgusting sights by going naked. All capable of being degraded so as to lose self respect, become so. God only knows the wickedness and woe of such a state!

I wandered to a locality new to me, a few days ago. I came to a quartet of Tennesseeans who told their war experiences; of persecutions their people suffered for being Unionists; how they fled from home to escape Rebels who were savage against all who refused to support secession. Their madness knew neither law nor friendship; their frenzy neither justice nor mercy. They, with a hundred others, armed themselves and one day cut their way through an armed mob claimed to have been sent by Governor Isham Harris, who designed to massacre or capture them. They marched many miles to join Buell's army, and had several fights with gorillas. They were captured in Rosecrans' operations near Chattanooga, in 1863; wintered at Danville, Va.; came here in March, seven stopping together. Three have died. Prison hardships affect them severely. The character of these sturdy mountain people, their honest, intelligent patriotism in connection with this crisis, also their general history, inspire these lines:

THE MEN OF TENNESSEE.

 

God save from woes of Anderson

  The men who bravely stayed

By Lincoln's flag, for country one,

  Where slavery's power had swayed;

Eschewed the leaders of the South,

  Of low and high degree,

And deemed the flag ensign of truth,

  Brave men of Tennessee.

 

They lived upon their native soil;

  They loved it well and true;

They lived by faithful, honest toil;

  They loved the peace they knew.

But they were those who weighed events

 As they should pondered be;

They saw conflicting sentiments

  Distracting Tennessee.

 

And when the Union of the States

 Was threatened by its foes,

With the Union they allied their fates

  Secession to oppose.

When driven from their homes away,

  By the powers of slavery,

They joined the Union's armed array,

Grand men of Tennessee.

 

They spurned the rule that would disrupt

  The Nation's life they loved;

They spurned the rule, wrong and corrupt,

 As patriots true behooved,

And leaving homes they loved behind,

Engulfed in war's red sea,

They showed great strength of heart and mind,

  These men of Tenneessee,

 

They nobly tendered strength and life,

   If human blood must shed,

Against secession's valorous strife

  By Southrons madly led,

And side by side with Northern men

  They fought most valiantly-

Here brook the ills of prison pen

  Brave men of Tennessee.

 

Behold them suffer here and die

  Within dark Sumter's walls!

The earth their bed, the roof the sky,

  Where woes their hearts appal!

And yet all offers they resent

  That promise them to free;

By loyalty invite torment-

  True men of Tennessee.

 

O, hail the men who know the right

 And for it stand and fall;

Who will not swerve at Treason's might

  Though death may claim them all;

And here in prison pine and rot,

  Though today they could be free!

No truer men have ever fought,

  Than men of Tennessee.

 

The valor of some Spartan band

  From ancient time men laud;

But the acts of these, of Jackson's land,

 Who will their deeds applaud?

I see them dying day by day

   'Mid scenes of misery;

No voice to praise, where death has sway,

  These men of Tennessee.

HOSPITALS, THEIR HISTORY.

Noting the indisposition or inability of doctors to clear the stockade of sick—victims conspicuous for their wretchedness—I have applied my mind to learn facts regarding so-called hospitals. It is no mystery that men sicken in the stockade. Coarse, unpalatable food, a mixture of meal containing cob and bran doctors call it meal and husk—often musty and bitter, stirred in filthy water in large batches, often souring before baking or while baking with green wood, no salt, no yeast, no soda, often partially raw, often over-roasted with a crust hard and tasteless. If changed to rice, that is colored with the dirty water and often uncooked. Exposed to all weather and until some wells were dug, all drank and washed in the same small stream, always roiled and more and more, night and day, being poisoned by drainage from without and within. Thirst becomes feverish, unbearable; to drink is to pollute our bodies with the offal, intermixed, made more stenchful and rotten by heat and rain. Nothing could be more unsanitary, more conducive to disease. What are the hospital facilities to cope with rapidly developing conditions absolutely adverse to health in strongest men? I find these facts, attested by appearances and results. No Confederate doctor or officer pretends to dispute.

This is the history of so-called hospitals here to date and they must continually grow worse. When the prison was built most of its early prisoners were from prisons farther north, Danville and about Richmond, where they were under roofs. Coming here in February and March they readily chilled through. Some refuse of the timber from which the stockade was built was appropriated by prisoners for fuel and shelter, and before hot weather and an increase of prisoners, both air and water might have been an improvement on their former abode. But old prisoners broke down and the first hospital was erected inside of poles and brush. This was the best hospital the place has ever had. The poles or logs were left several inches apart, and as sickly men were put in them the place became as odious and no more commodious than a backwoods hog-pen. A portion had a lose floor, no beds, no bunks, no blankets, no straw. The storm and wind beat through the space between the logs and rendered patients that retained sensitiveness or desire to live, uncomfortable. A few prisoners had threadbare blankets, or remnants, with the U. S. brand, but no other was provided whether prisoners had a U. S. rag or not.

This was the original provision and remained the only hospital until the middle of May, or a few days later, when prisoners began to come from the spring campaigns and were so packed about this hospital pen that the air was infected and it was removed to its present locality to make room. We arrived here from the Wilderness fields in Virginia just two days after this change; but even then the place where it had been, was covered with men fresh from our armies little heeding that the very earth which they had been forced to accept as their abode, was soaked with the filth of the lately removed wards of death, for, then as now, there was no means of disposal of excreta of men who were slowly wasting and unable to seek the swamp or stream, except in illy provided open excavations within the 'hospital" or death-pen. The hospitals now simply consist of old canvas appropriated from other use, ragged or patched, open at the sides, without floors, beds, bunks, stoves or straw. Men lay on the earth in ghastly rows. The ground where they lay is saturated with offal of wasting bodies. The sickening exhalation is constant. Patients have no clothing except that worn during their imprisonment and in active service, never but a single suit, in many cases not much of that, no blankets, except where prisoners happened to retain them on coming to prison. Patients are sickly visages of squalor, decaying bodies, while yet their minds retain dreary existences. There are fleshless skeletons with skin drawn over them; on some bones have broken or worn through the skin. Limbs of others whose flesh has not vanished, are swollen with dropsy and scurvy, discolored, yellow and brown. In many cases ulcers appear—sores from wounds that never heal, and gangrene is having an unchecked if not undisputed reign. Myriads of lice and flies swarm over helpless men; maggots infest gangrenous sores that may have originated from a scratch, a sunburn or from ulcerous eruption caused by corrupted blood.

These matters, seemingly, have reached an uncontrollable stage. There is scarcity of medicine, scarcity of physicians. Nurses are dumbfounded; if they have any sense of the situation they are in despair; can do little to comfort and it seems that those detailed have no adaptation for the work. Except now and then one, would they be retained and for just that reason, in a hospital well ordered for work. From first to last there is nothing provided, nothing arranged, nothing expected but death, and the quicker the better. If doctors had ordinary skill, and nurses had any idea of sanitation, some police regulations would be visible. If this were so and the Richmond government had meant to do anything but murder, better facilities would be provided. I have met a doctor or two apparently of skill, good sense, and humane intent; but they seemed to have despaired of doing justice to their profession or to patients, lacking means and having to contend against conditions which no skill and no medical supplies can meet until conditions change. They have no hope of that. There are some bunglers in charge with a slight knowledge of surgery ready to improve their quack skill by revolting practice. Amputation has been performed where no hope was possible or expected, and in cases where there was a lingering hope, yet the bodily condition of patients did not justify amputation. In no case as I can hear, has gangrene been cured by amputation. Slight wounds are not healable owing to weak blood. Some of these fellows are perfectly brutal, and enlisted in this capacity rather than be conscripted and carry a musket. These conditions are known at Richmond. The prison has been inspected by military and civil officials of high rank. Reports of surgeons, Drs. Reeves, Pelot and Thomburg in preceding months expressly stated not only general conditions but that there were men that were living masses of putrifaction; hospitals without bunks, beds or straw; as above stated, speaking of corn bread raw and sour and the effects of such diet on sick and well that they could not practice successfully, that sickness could not be prevented nor patients cured until made comfortable; appealing for "beds if any in Dixie." All was unanswered. Confidentially these facts are told me by a doctor.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, pp. 107-13

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop, Saturday, August 1, 1864

Fresh calls for shoemakers. A few weak ones give their names but are not accepted. Negroes have begun additional fortifications working all night and Sundays, falling trees and making the night air ring. Last night my mind was filled with thoughts of the misery of this place; I could not sleep. One poor boy near cried all night and wished to die and suffer no longer; he is an awful object; his clothing is gone but a rag of a shirt; his body is a mere frame, his hair has fallen from his head; his scurvy ankles and feet are as large as his waist. I never saw a sight more appalling. Then the awful thought that he is a man, somebody's darling boy, dead and yet breathing. And he is but a sample of many. To think of it blunts one's faith in men as brothers.

This forenoon a priest came in saying he had great news; we are to be exchanged. He read his news; it stated nothing definite, a mere if-so-to-be-perhaps, and yet he tried to make us believe it did. Then he preached about the blessed apostles and dealt out hell-fire in big rations unless we accepted certain theories. It was not consoling. It is true Fremont and Lincoln are both nominated. I [visited] an Ohio 100-day man taken in Maryland since the nomination. He thinks the Fremont ticket will be withdrawn.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, pp. 94-5

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop, Sunday, August 2, 1864

The policy of enlisting negroes renders it harder for prisoners. So does the emancipation proclamation. The government having enlisted negroes, it is bound by laws of war and all honorable considerations to protect them as soldiers. To do otherwise would be dishonorable, cowardly, pernicious. Their enlistment more excited the unreasonable hatred of Southerners toward the North. The only way they can punish the North for what they deem insulting, is through their military prisons and they open their vials of wrath on "Lincoln hirelings," as they call us, who are wholly in their power. But the ever present fear of retaliation, man for man, men would be slain by hundreds, lined up and shot after being brought beyond the seat of war. As it is they come as near as they dare without displaying the black flag. Exchange was blocked last fall because Rebel authority disregards the negro as a man. That has long been a civil code of Slavedom. They adhere to it with a vengeance when he appears in arms against slavery. He is saved from slaughter if captured, on the theory that he is property, a theory in practice here for 100 years, or more. If any are escaped slaves they are to be returned to masters or used for war purposes indefinitely. If free they are appropriated as laborers, never exchanged, and if their war succeeds he can be sold. Hence the case of a white man is worse than that of a colored. He is deemed deserving of death because his government puts whites and blacks on an equality. The slave codes of the South, written and unwritten are in force, emphasized by the war power. This cruel and absurd animus of "Southern civilization," this unrighteous despotism, is of long standing. It is unquestioned by Southerners; woe be to him who disregarded it during the long arbitrary reign of Slave Kings. The mass accept it as right which is equivalent to thinking it right, and as men think so they are. Hence the critical situation of the white war prisoners at this time. We are wholly at the mercy of this cruel spirit which has transformed the South into a foe of everybody antagonistic to their customs and laws

Shall Lincoln recall his emancipation proclamation for the reason which as surely exists as we are at war? It makes it the deadliest war of any century. Nor should the policy of allowing negroes to fight for liberty be recalled. Shall free men cower and longer concede the injustices of this hell-born slave power? Indeed not. That is the issue-deadly issue to be fought to death. How well do I remember the word passed along the lines at Mine Run and other places last fall and winter: "No exchange of prisoners, men, remember." The same word sounded along the lines in the fiery ordeals in the Wilderness. The die was cast. We fought with it before our eyes. Who does not now realize its import? Davis seeks to supercede the laws of war with his old slave code. Soon after Lincoln's emancipation Davis notified his Congress that he proposed to turn commissioned officer's thereafter over to State authorities in States where captured to be punished under State laws providing for criminals engaged in inciting civil insurrection. That is his disposition, overlooking the fact that codes made to hang "abolition fanatics" can not be safely applied to war prisons in a state of war, where the States he represents are belligerents fighting for independence and asking for foreign recognition. Davis' blood-thirsty fanaticism for slavery, supercedes the intelligence he has been supposed to have and displays his savage inhumanity, thus seeking excuse to hang all U. S. officers.

[Note.—January 12, 1863, Davis, in a message to the Confederate Congress, said: "I shall, unless you, in your wisdom, deem some other course more expedient, deliver to the several State authorities all commissioned officers of the United States that may hereafter be captured by our forces in any of the States embraced in the proclamation, that they may be dealt within accordance with the laws of those States providing for the punishment of criminals engaged in inciting servile insurrection." Confederate War Records now at Washington. The same records show that in May, 1863, the Confederate Congress in its "wisdom," passed a law embodying the above suggestion, but confining its operation to commissioned officers of negro regiments. Negro soldiers, when captured, by its provisions were to be delivered to authorities of States where captured, to be disposed of according to the laws of those States. This law was never repealed, so that, as a legal proposition, any officer of a negro regiment who became a prisoner was liable to be hanged, as John Brown was at Harper's Ferry. The records also show that the prisoner problem was much discussed early in the war. A Yankee caught in slave States to "free niggers" prior to the war could be safely hanged under slave codes. Shallow minds, like Davis, assumed that it could still be done, others saw that having gone to war in the spirit that enacted the codes, they had barred themselves from exercising that sacred function. Some said make Uncle Sam feed them at his own expense though they be kept in the South. Others said starve them; others give them poor bread and water; others, break their legs and turn them loose. Some said make them build railroads or work in other ways to boost the Slave Confederacy.]

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, pp. 95-7

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop, Tuesday, August 4, 1864

Several men of our regiment are failing fast. H. D. Merritt is an object of pity and getting worse. We have cut his hair close to keep the myriads of lice out. He has lost all disposition to try to save himself. About 400 of Gen. Stoneman's command captured in the vicinity of Macon, were turned in here today. They report Maj. Gen. Stoneman captured. His expedition to that point with the intention of coming here has proved disastrous. Rations suspended. Sick ordered to the gate at night; and ordered to be brought again in the morning. None to go who can walk.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 97

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop, Wednesday, August 5, 1864

Sick come to the south gate in horrible crowds. Every inch of ground covered. What sights, what groans! Nine hundred admitted outside, the remainder carried groaning back about noon to be returned in the morning. Oh, for the Messiah, the hem of whose garment they might touch and be healed!

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 97

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop, Thursday, August 6, 1864

At daylight a man shot and instantly killed. He had no particular stopping place, had become partially crazed; in the night had crept beyond the dead line and fell asleep. As soon as seen, the guard shot him while yet asleep. He had just been seen by two of our men who were calling him to come out. He lay until "dead call" and was carried out. Those who have helpless friends are eager to get them out. So at an early hour this morning they are crowded forward. Regulators are clearing every passage to make room for the sick. The main street on which I stop from the gate to the east, is filled with prostrate men. There is a greater number than yesterday. The doctors are making special efforts and one said yesterday, "The sick must all come out. The condition of the prison will breed pestilence that will spread through the country." It is through their importunity that this movement is made. They appear frightened. I heard another say, "Conditions are shameful." Long have doctors complained that their government furnishes neither medicine nor decent quarters; that men can not be successfully treated on such fare and in these quarters. One told Steward Brown that men could not live long on the rations given us; that well men will soon be sick. They have 'some new tents up; some are being carried thither in army wagons. The Rebel sergeant who counted us today said:

"Captain don't care how many Yankees die; he says he has killed more men than Joe Johnston," then added: "What did you'ns come down heah for if you'ns didn't want tough fare? But we can't help it."

After two hours laying in a crowd, "no sick call," is announced. The sick are being returned to all parts of the prison. I am living on rice alone, draw some, trade meal for some.

Report is rife that our government has offered the Richmond dignitaries to accept a parole of all prisoners, especially sick, and take care of prisoners of both parties. Undoubtedly this is the disposition of our government. This evening I met an intelligent talker who knows what he sees more than most men. Having frequently met him, I inquired his name. "Buerila," he replied; "I am from Illinois, have been a prisoner ten months, came here from Florida; I will stay ten more, I will be eaten up by lice and maggots before I will ask our government to get on its marrow bones to these Rebels. I am glad to see Lincoln stand square on his feet. I was a Douglas man, not that he was a better man, but had had more experience. I knew both personally and now believe Lincoln the best man for the place. If I can get into God's country in time he will get my vote." I referred to the report; he said:

"I asked the old Dutch if that thing was true myself. The old bummer looked mad, but answered more than I expected: 'Py Cot ve vills to no such ting! Py Cot, ve vill starf every son of a pitch! Now, I tells you, you vills all tie pefore ve vills parole ye-an pefore exchange. Py Cot, your Covment is too tevilment. Ve cot you foul!' Turning his horse around to go away, he said: 'Py Cot, you as vell pe schoot as stay here, and ve no trust damn Yankees.'"

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, pp. 97-8

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop, Thursday, August 6, 1864

The sick carried early to the gates but not received; ordered to be brought at 2 p. m. Doctors have got it into their heads that some system is necessary, and so much crowding at the gate was unnecessary and detrimental; so they ordered all back but the sick of eleven detachments and that none come tomorrow but those designated. Many are taken out. It gives hope that they are going to try to help us. Men persist in flattering themselves that we are soon to be relieved. I guard against disappointment and defer hope while action is deferred. The wolf at the door will not go away bloodthirsty until driven. They brought us to Georgia according to a decision of powers that be, that no shelter should be furnished Yankee prisoners. They will not release us for our sake, have disregarded our rights and purposely wronged us. Their cause is desperate; they fight for unprovoked revenge. They fiercely kill with bullets and designedly and half disguisedly plot our lingering death, seeking to profit their cause by our suffering. They began the war in hasty spite; it will end in hellish revenge. If they believe in their cause, need we hope for mercy? Has the government raised its hand to strike out one right the North claims for itself? Have we not compromised our sense of justice to appease unreasoning wrath, and have they not placed the dagger to our hearts? Now shall we be delivered by the murderers from the hands of their agents? Not till the last pillar has been broken and the hell-born spirit that incited this war shall rule no more, will their nefarious plotting cease. Yet we have hope which all of this surmounts, they must fail.

A PRISONER'S SONG.

Strident, yet more strident,

Sound the notes of war.

In our hearts confident

Behold the end afar.

Patient, yet more patient,

We'll bear the pains of fate.

Awake, oh, spirits latent,

And ward the blows of hate!

Higher, and yet higher,

Raise the hope of love;

Let faith new strength inspire

And make us stalwart prove.

Calmer, and yet calmer,

Wait we for the light,

Through savage din and clamor,

The passing of this night.

Freedom, on forever,

O, swiftly onward stride,

Enslaving bonds to sever,

And in this land abide!

Steady, and more steady,

Let our armies go;

They are strong and ready,

They move-it seems so slow!

Starving, we are starving!

We are sinking in distress;

Disease is gnawing-carving;

Our foes do sore oppress.

Help us to see the sunlight

Of victory and feel

Treason's bane has ceased to blight,

E'er death our eyes shall seal.

There is no danger from robbers and Thompson and I walk in the cool of the evening and talk about these things. A sensible companion in tribulation, is worth a thousand fools in peace if one appreciates him. The happiest man I ever saw was a man happy under miserable circumstances; the most miserable man is one wretched when surrounded with the benefits of life, with a vacant heart, a volcanic head, an iceberg and a fiery furnace freezing and burning his nature at the same time. To be contented, to be happy here, in one sense, is a mysterious art, yet the plainest fact.

"There is a Divinity that shapes our ends,

Rough hew them as we will."

We know now how to appreciate a man who is a living statue, not a human straw, a weed, jostled by every breeze, whipped about by adverse winds. We feel like him, believe in him; we are encased in steel. He is one, at least, who appreciates us. He has not only got the poetry of our best poets, but he has the heart, and the head; not only the rhyme but the sentiment.

Recently an interesting episode occurred, but it was not devoid of cruelties incident to this place. It reveals qualities of noble patriotism and keen foresight with a tinge of stern romance. A Georgian is a prisoner here.

Early in 1861 when the war-spirit had become rampant and Georgia was swayed by men like Toombs a man whose name is said to be Hirst, probably assumed, lived not many miles from this prison, who resolved for the Union. He went North, leaving his wife at home, and joined a Western regiment. In a battle between Sherman and Johnston's armies he was captured. He was recognized by a Georgia Reserve, while carrying a sick man out, who in peaceful days lived near him. The recognition was mutual and friendly. From him he got some news of his wife, the first in three years. It was arranged to get a note to her, telling of his imprisonment. In a few days the guard was on duty and tossed the wife's letter over the dead-line in a ball of clay. Two days later the woman came before Wirz and asked an interview. It was granted, the lady to stand outside the gate thirty paces, the man at the gate, neither to speak. At sight of each other they spoke each other's names endearingly. The interview was abruptly ended, the woman ordered away, the man driven into prison. The next day she came again bringing clothing and provisions which she begged Wirz to send him. Wirz promptly ordered her away, warning her never to come again, and sent soldiers to escort her off the ground. The husband was then brought before him and an effort made to enlist him in the Rebel service. This was resented, when he was bucked and gagged and locked in the dungeon, being brought out and maliciously punished at intervals for several days. Failing to impress him into the service, by advice of doctors he was turned into the stockade. [Note.—After leaving Andersonville I, learn he escaped from a train conveying prisoners from there, after Atlanta fell. He probably visited his family and later joined Sherman's forces.]

STACK ARMS.

 

See, an officer in quest of men,

To do some work the Rebels need;

Invites us from this prison pen

To work for them while brothers bleed!

Foreswear our country, Southron? No!

For its cause is true and high!

Join the hosts of Freedom's foe?

Far better starve; in prison die!

We fight for section, Southron? No;

We fight that liberty may spread

O'er all the land that freemen know,

Where, too long, the slave had tread.

We fight for justice in the land

Where freeman's voice has been suppressed;

It shall be heard, from strand to strand,

And every wrong shall be redressed.

Patriotic to fight for wrong

Because 'tis in your section built?

To fight this evil to prolong

Does but enhance the master's guilt.

Patriotism knows no line

That shall Freedom's law restrain;

The die is cast, 'tis God's design

That slavery shall no more remain.

Ah, heed the call of destiny!

The black and white shall both be free;

And stack your arms, for liberty

O'er North and South alike shall be.

Stack arms, brave Southrons, and repent

You ever raised them 'gainst the right.

You know the force of brave dissent;

'Tis murder now to longer fight!

The "Stars and Bars" pull down, pull down;

They lead you wrong, in Slavery's ways,

More hateful than King George's crown

Our fathers spurned in other days.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, pp. 98-102

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop, Saturday, August 8, 1864

No sick call; the poor fellows are disappointed. Well dressed officers ride out the street and back. Passing near us they inquire of a fellow who is whittling a bone: "What State you from, young man?"

"Massachusetts."

"Do you rather live here than in Massachusetts?"

"No, sir."

"Well, you'll be apt to live out your days here, for there'll be no exchange till the war closes and that won't be in ten years if Lincoln is your next President."

"There'll not be a corporal's guard left of this crowd before that time, Colonel," remarked the other.

Before they reached the gate they halted to buy a watch, and a few of us followed up and I asked:

"Colonel, will you come back into the Union if Lincoln is not elected?"

"Ho, ho! You Yankees are not fighting for the Union; that's your mistake. It's the nigger you want."

"If McClellan is elected will the South come into the Union?" I repeated.

"Ah, the Union! The Union's gone up!"

By this time the Major had got the watch by paying $100 in "Confed" and they spurred up. We are often taunted by the slur that we are no better than niggers. They say:

"You fight with niggers; you think it's all right to fight us with niggers."

We retort by saying that it is no worse for a nigger to fight with us than to work for them, and that they would put a gun in his hands if they dared. It is not so bad for them to be hunted by niggers as it is for us to be hunted helpless and half starved, by blood hounds.

A little after noon a man shot and killed. I hastened and learned that he was dipping water from the brook. The sentinel had been observed to be closely watching. The ball passed through the forehead, tearing out his brains. The guard was immediately relieved by the officer of the day as they all are when they make a sure fire. It is a story never denied that for every Yankee killed a furlough is granted. In a few minutes a stretcher smeared with blood and brains bore another Yankee to the dead house.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 102

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop, Tuesday, August 9, 1864

Terrible rain; it swelled the stream to a river. The stockade fell in several places. On the east side through the swamp about eight rods fell. One place on the west a sentry box fell carrying the sentry in it. Soon as it occurred the sentinels fired and two cannon shots over the camp succeeded, to warn us to be quiet or shot would be rained on us. Meantime we were amused to see the Rebls get out of their quarters and double quick to the weak points. The camp was in a hurrah to see the Rebs getting drenched as well as ourselves. Some prisoners plunged into the flood to bring out floating timber or pieces of boards that came down as if they were a God-send, for we would not be allowed to pick them up if we were outside. At these places the Rebels stood in line of battle for more than an hour and when the rain ceased, they had only time to temporarily repair the damage before night; so fires were built and a strong guard kept out all night.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 103

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop, Wednesday, August 10, 1864

Soldiers and negroes are rebuilding the fallen wall. Prisoners stand at a distance often shouting: "That is good for you, Rebs"; "That's the way your Confederacy will fall; Grant and Sherman are making bigger holes than these." "Ho, Reb, what are you doing with dat nigger dar; 'pears to us you're reduced to the level of the nigger." "It's hard enough to starve on cob-meal and be hunted by dogs, but when you come to build bull-pens for us with niggers, working by your sides, you are hyenas, you are black abolitionists, you are barbarians." Plenty of other taunts are indulged till men get sick of it.

Two new walls are being built outside of the main one. The most hopeful believers in immediate exchange, are puzzled as to what it means. Tunnelling cannot be successfully done more than sixty or eighty feet horizontally, the air becoming insufferable. The vacuity is necessarily small, just admitting a man as he draws himself along. It cannot be larger for fear of exposure, besides the dirt is dug with hands, sticks, etc., and passed to the opening to be carried to the swamp, or whereever it can be concealed. It cannot be ventilated for that might be a key to discovery. Likely these new walls are to obstruct the digging of tunnels.

For several days barracks have been in course of erection in the north part, the work being done by our men on parole who bring the lumber in on their shoulders. They are allowed an extra ration and occasionally opportunities to trade for their benefit. What do these barracks mean? Are we to stay here all winter? men asked. At the rate they go up, I think we will, if we wait for them. Some say they are for hospitals.

Steward Brown, who is an Englishman and not a soldier, on parole, expresses the belief that it was fortunate for prisoners that Stoneman's expedition failed, for it was the intention of Gen. Winder to use the Florida battery on the prison had any considerable Union force approached Andersonville within seven miles, and had so ordered in the regular way in writing, on July 27th.

[Note-Here is the order. It was found on file among the records at the Confederate War Department at Richmond, and is with other records in possession of the government, so it is plain Steward Brown knew his statement was true. This is the diabolical order:

 

Order No 13.

 

Headquarters Military Prison, Andersonville, Ga., July 27, 1864.

 

The officers on duty and in charge of the Battery of Florida Artillery at the time will, upon receiving notice that the enemy has approached within seven miles of this post, open upon the stockade with grapeshot, without reference to the situation beyond these lines of defense.

 

JOHN H. WINDER, 

Brigadier  General Commanding.]

Five men sunstruck and reported dead; most of us are stupefied by heat. For more than a month it has been almost unbearable. The dazzling rays reflected by sand flash through us like flames of fire. The stench of the filthy earth rises hot and vapory to our nostrils. Oh, that I might feel the shade of the beautiful forest yonder, whose green trees look pityingly over upon us! How relieved we would be by an hour of repose on the fresh earth beneath them!

Go to the gate to help William Kline. A number of the sick are carried through the gate and laid in the yard by the stockade. A Rebel sergeant soon ordered us back, no doctors appearing. The sick had been notified at roll call to go for treatment, and their feeble spirits were animated with hope. Some wept bitterly and sank into despair at the disappointment. The Confederate sergeant, in answer to questions, remarked, "They might as well go to hell as to the hospital. It is a right hard place; the doctors can do nothing."

Naturally we believe the word hospital means something. In this horrid distress men long for its benign influence; many are consoled with the thought of being admitted, even when we know it is a cruel, wicked mockery.

Near the sinks a sentry fired tonight, the ball grazing a man's thigh, near where I walked, and whizzed by into the swamp. No rations today; nothing to eat. Men have loitered near the gate since noon hoping for something but in vain. We lay down to-night hungry, sick and sad. Not a crumb of anything all night, all day and all night again, with no certainty of anything to-morrow.

ODE TO WIRZ.

 

Cheating them who truly trust

Is a coward's villainy;

But when we yield to whom we must,

We suffer viler tyranny:

If venom doth full license wield

To feed the vengeance and the hates

No virtue has for years concealed,

And which a misled South elates.

A brutal knave were he who slay

A child that slumbered on his knee;

But we are thrown within his sway

Who lacks sense and magnanimity,

And glories in a brutal way

Toward men who fight 'gainst slavery.

Looking at the swamp with its deposit of ordure, intensely alive with billions of flies and maggots, today, it came to me that not only the early but the late bird can catch worms and catch them continually, if fool enough to visit the place. But no bird have I yet seen in this foul realm. Mingled with a sense of disgust, I am prone to wonder. Out of this mass I see a new creation, an emerging of animate life of low order. The flies that feed on the excreta, deposit germs from which, in connection with the deposit, when operated on by solar energy, the sun being the battery, these lives germinate in form of maggots totally unlike the fly, unlike any worm I ever noticed. These millions of loathsome things, squirming in roasting sun, in a few days develop into winged insects larger and darker than maggots, an inch long. From among a cloud of flies and acres of worms I see them rise and fly from the filthy bed of their inception, seemingly seeking existence elsewhere. Interest was first incited in these low fledglings, when they appeared on ground bordering the swamp, where they fell in the mush when men were at repast. Indeed there is life, or principles of life in matter dead. Here is a low order of exhibition of Nature's power to evolve and produce phases of animation degrees above their physical source.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, pp. 103-5

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop, Thursday, August 11, 1864

Recent improvements in camp are timbers laid across the swamp on the west side north of the stream for 20 rods, this will help escape the filth in passing from north to south. A flume and bridge has been made which improves washing facilities; also a road from the north to the stream in the east part. We have more variety of food but scanty allowance, to-wit: corn bread, rice, a curious kind of bean, old and wormy. For several days a small piece of poor beef has come with cooked rations, hardly a mouthful, and in lieu a little sorghum molasses. We have built bake ovens of sand and clay. When several of us have raw meal, we club together to bake it, it being sweeter baked than smoked on a small fire. It economizes fuel, encourages the hope it will not have to be eaten raw. There are five very sick men within a few feet, groaning day and night. It is remarkable with what tenacity life clings to emaciated, corrupted frames.

Williams of the 111th N. Y., of Lyons, N. Y., a boy of education, talent and refinement, a nephew of Hon. Alex. Williams, visited us. He is declining rapidly and engages our sympathy It is a joy to cheer such a sweet spirit. He showed us the likeness of a beautiful girl, remarking that he never expected to see her again, and wept bitterly. We all parted with him regretfully. (He died in September).

I was again struck today by one of the daily duties of men. Passing from north to south through camp I see them stripped, examining clothing for lice. Immediately after roll call they "have a louse," or a "skirmish" or a "peeling off" as they express it from head to heels to give the "gray backs" a cleaning out. These pestering varmints infest clothing, sticking along the seams. Where the torments come from, how they grow in a day, or an hour, is a mystery. Drawing our minds down to hunting lice is humiliating; but the man who don't isn't respectable; we feel disgraced in his company Once a day is tolerable, twice better, three times makes a man of the first order. Neglect this, and he is soon over run, pitied, loathed, hated, sneered and snarled at. Lice polute and sap his blood, he loathes himself and dies. They crawl in droves over the sick, herd in his ears, gnaw him, shade in his hair deep as the hair is long. Talk about "gophers" in the army, no name for this! They sap the life of the strongest. Men who fight their lice effectually every day are brave, meritorious. But wouldn't we be pretty guests for parlor bedrooms! Trousers under the pillow! What would the tidy chambermaid say at Hotel Eagle?, Charming guests for ladies, lousy, brown, yellowed bloated, dirt-eating, wallowing Yankees! And we do laugh though it is not a laughing matter. But I am the only bachelor in our notable family of eight; should we be wafted to Northland from Dixie tonight, no one would be obliged to submit to my embraces. Poor, indeed!

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, pp. 105-6

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop, July 21, 1864

A weak and disagreeable state of body since last date has waived my practice of noting; but everything has been as now—"hell upon earth." We have a few dottings of this kind: the Rebel quartermaster is from Baltimore, and to counteract some suspicions of his speculating in rations, makes lots of promises when he comes in of late. One of our fellows got thick with him and told him where to find a tunnel, for a plug of tobacco. Soon after he came with a squad of negroes armed with feeling rods and spades, found and filled it. It had baffled their scrutiny for three days. The man who revealed the secret betrayed himself and that evening was hunted out, given a clean shave of his head and on his forehead was tattooed the word. "Traitor." Next day rations were ordered withheld till those who did the job reported at the gate. I don't know that anyone reported but rations came the day after leaving us a vacuum of one day.

Petitions have been circulating praying our government for relief. I did not sign. They are sanctioned by Rebel authority, intended to produce political effect and to leave the impression in the North that the prisoners condemn government policy in reference to exchange, therefore to serve a purpose of its enemies. It abounds in dictation and censure, suppressing facts.

Reports of movements in north Virginia are true. Sherman is up to Atlanta; Johnston relieved by Hood. They think Johnston, fights on the principle that "He who fights and runs away will live to fight another day." Federal cavalry at Montgomery and Taladega, Ala., and at Macon, Ga., only 60 miles away, which causes great excitement here. The Rebels are fortifying. Droves of negroes are brought here from plantations and put to work. Troops and citizens, all sexes and sizes, flock in and quarters are being built, making a ville of the place. We look over to it from high ground and reflect that it is one of the new born of Secessia. A man near the stream cut his own throat today. Several hundred Rebel soldiers are shipped by rail for Macon. Three men brought in whom the Rebels suspect were scouts. They were put in the stocks several hours, but gave no information. James English of our company, of New York City, died July 17th.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 92