Another night
cramped up on the cars; another night of painful nipping at napping amidst the
roar, the heat and jogging of the train. Everybody wanted to lie down, but
everybody was in the way; everybody wanted to straighten out, but no one could.
Once in a while one lifts his aching legs over heads and bodies, or stands up
to straighten them. Oh, the weary night, the sweat, the heated air of the car,
wherein were jammed 80 men till no more could get in, with the doors closed. It
is sickening to endure! Not a drop of water to cool thirst, not a moment of
ease for weary bodies; no rest for aching heads; not an overdose of patience
for one another. Morning came and we were still rolling on through the pine,
the barren waste, the plantation, with its mansion aloof, and slave huts; the
thatched roof shanty of poor white, and now and then halting at small stations
"to feed the hoss."
Villages of any
account are far apart. At all these places the negro is chief; Nig does the
work, eats the poorest victuals, is an all around man. At every depot, every
shed, wood pile and water tank, the darky "am de man." He engineers,
fires, he brakes. This animal runs the Confederacy. Everything is very unlike
our Northern routes, in wood, in field, in civilization. It appears to me like
"Reducing the white man to the level of the negro “—indeed it does, Jeff!”
These motley crowds, these black white faces, these white black faces, look
like amalgamation, you conservators of an oligarchial, doomed institution upon
which you seek to rear an oligarchy!
At 6 a. m. the
whistle blows at Macon, Ga., and we stop. The doors open and a few slide to the
ground to straighten out, to limber up and to try and get a drink; but few
succeeded in getting out, however. A citizen told me the population of Macon
was 20,500. It is located in a basin formed by sloping hills around it, near
the Ocmulgee River. At 7:30 a. m. we start southward towards Americus about 70
miles south. The country is more thickly inhabited, is a richer region. Fort
Valley is 30 miles south of Macon. Here were plenty of customers for anything
we had to sell. Men came out with corn bread to exchange for wallets and it
didn't take them long to "get shut on't"; both sexes, all colors, all
grades. We were not the first load of "hyenas" that had gone down, so
they did not come out to see the show, but wanted to know "Whar you'ns all
from" and to traffic. It began to be hinted that we were not going to
Americus, where the guard had told us our prisoners are; that it is a splendid
camp, greensward, beautiful shade trees, nice tents and a right smart river,
those that had "been thar a heep o' times with you'ns fellers." We
had hoped that such might be our lot; but now everyone was wonderfully
ignorant. When asked they would say, "can't tell you sar." At
Oglethorpe I asked a citizen how far it was to Americus.
"Oh, right
smart, I reckon; you'ns not going thar though."
"Where are we
going?" I asked another.
"Oh, just down
thar where all o' you'ns fellers goes."
"How far?"
"Right smart
bit, I reckon."
"Well, how many
miles?"
"Good bit, fo'
mile, reckon—you'ns got any rings?"
"What
place?"
"Andersonville,
they call it I reckon."
"How do they
fare?"
"Right good—don't
know; die mighty fast, I har."
A gentleman of
leisure said, "You bet they do.”
"It is a hard
place, is it?"
"You will see
all you want to see before long"
"Have shelter,
of course?"
"Guess
so-you'll see, pretty soon.”
Heaving a long sigh
we cursed their blasted Confederacy and black infamous cause, then took it
cool. In 30 minutes the train halted again. There was a newly built storehouse
consisting of pine slabs set up on end, and appearances of a hastlily constructed
military station. Preparations were made to disimbark. I looked out, saw but
one house in the place, country looked barren, uninviting. About half a mile
east was a large pen filled with men. At a glance I caught a view of thousands
of prisoners; ragged, rusty blankets put up in all conceivable modes to break
the blistering sun rays. It was a great mass of grim visages, a multitude of
untold miseries. It reminded me first of a lately seared fallow, then a foul
ulcer on the face of nature, then of a vast ant hill alive with thousands of
degraded insects. The degradation that pervades the lowest and meanest beings
in nature struck me as beneficent compared with the desperately barbarous
conditions imposed upon the inmates of those roofless walls. Not a shed or a
sheltering tree was in the place. Some whose senses were not benumbed,
exclaimed, "My God that is the place, see the prisoners; they will not put
us in there, there is no room! By this time men were getting off and straggling
along the sandy road to the prison. About half way we halted to form and an
officer on horseback met us heading a new guard. "Git into fo's
thar," was the order. We moved to the right near the south side of the
prison near Captain Wirz's headquarters, and formed into detachments of 270 in
charge of sergeants. We were suffering from thirst, heat, hunger, fatigue.
Presently the commandant of the prison with a lieutenant and sergeant came down
the line. I asked to go to the creek and fill some canteens, pleading our
suffering condition. In a passion, pistol in hand, the officer turned with a
ferocious oath, putting the pistol to my nose saying, “I'll shoot you if you
say dot again." Stepping back he yelled:
"If another man
ask for water I shoot him."
To the left a poor
fellow had squat in the ranks. This officer whom I found to be Captain Wirz,
rushed upon him with an oath, kicking him severely and yelled savagely,
"Standt up in ter ranks!"
The ground was
covered with small bushes. While waiting some worked industriously pulling and
packing in bundles to carry in for shelter. After two hours we started, but all
were forced by bayonets to drop the bushes. As the column was pouring through
the gate, a comrade said "Take a long breath North; it is the last free
air we shall breath soon." Oh, how many lingering looks and despondent
sighs were cast, as we were driven like brutes into a worse than brutish pen!
We entered the south
gate. A narrow street runs nearly through the prison from east to west, the
narrowest way. I had reached nearly midway when the column halted. Old
prisoners gathered frantically about, begging for hardtack, or something else.
The air was suffocating, the sights beheld are not to be described. The outside
view was appalling; contact a thousand times more horrible!
On my right, as we
entered, I saw men without a thread of clothing upon their dirty skeletons,
some panting under old rags, or blankets raised above them. One was trying to
raise himself; getting upon his hands and feet, his joints gave way; he pitched
like a lifeless thing in a heap, uttering the most wailful cry I ever heard.
Such things are frequent. The simile strikes me that they are like beings
scarce conscious of life, moved by a low instinct, wallowing in the filth and
garbage where they happen to be. On the left the scene was equally sickening.
The ground for several yards from the gate was wet with excrement, diarrhoea
being the disease wasting the bodies of men scarce able to move. Need I speak
of the odor? Then the wounds of eight months were visible and disgusting! We
dare not look around! At a halt we asked where are we to go? Why do they not
take us on?
"You can't get
no further; as much room here as anywhere,” said an Ohio man.
"For God's
sake," I said to the anxious gazers that thronged around asking to be
given something—"Give me just one hardtack," begged starved creatures—"stand
back and give us a chance! We have no hardtack."
Finding a spot eight
of us deposited our luggage and claimed it by right of [“]squatter
sovereignty." Eight of us are so fortunate as to have five woolen
blankets, our party consisting of Orderly Sergeant G. W. Mattison, Second
Sergeant O. W. Burton, W. Boodger, Stephen Axtel, Waldo Pinchen, H. B.
Griffith, Lloyd G, Thompson and myself. Here we took up our abode together. I
obtained three sticks split from pine, saved at the time the stockade was
opened, four and six feet long, upon which we erected three of the blankets in
the form of a tent. For these I paid 50c, each.
Nothing of the rules
and regulations of the prison were announced by the authorities, in consequence
of which, I learned after, many a man lost his life by being shot. Soon after
arriving I went to the stream to drink and wash. Being ignorant of the supposed
existence of a dead line, and, to escape the crowd, I stepped over where it was
supposed to be. Immediately I was caught by a man who drew me back shouting:
"Come out, they will shoot you!" Looking up I saw the sentries, one
on each side with their pieces fixed upon me. I then learned that the order was
to shoot any man, without a word, who steps beyond the line, or where it should
be. I was partly forced, by the crowding, into that vacancy, and partly tempted
by the clear water which was pouring through the stockade a few feet to the
west, the water in the stream appearing very filthy. With feelings of
thankfulness towards the strangers who frightened that rule into me, I shall
ever remember. I thought of the maxim in Seneca, "Let every man make the
best of his lot," and prepare for the worst. So I determined to do what I
could to inform new men of the danger at this point, for I soon learned that
nearly every day, since new prisoners had been coming in, men had been shot at
this place under the same circumstances.
After being settled
Thompson and I took a stroll to find, if possible, a better place, without
avail. Passing down the older settled and thickly crowded part where there are
small dirt huts which were early erected, I observed a man sitting under an old
tent with a book. This was unexpected. "Here is a book of poems," I
said to Thompson, halting.
"Yes, sir,
Milton's 'Paradise Lost," said he, handing it to me. He was an old
prisoner from Rosecrans army, having wintered at Danville, Va., a prisoner
since Chickamauga. He told us freely all he knew about our new world, appeared
a perfect gentleman, manifested very friendly feeling, urged us to accept his
book and call often. The mellow beam of a genial nature shone in his face.
Although we did not learn his name that day, we felt him to be a friend. I had
a paper, purchased at Augusta, having accounts of Johnston's run before
Sherman, how one of Johnston's men cried, "General, we are marching too
fast; we don't want to retreat, had rather fight." "We are not
retreating, boys, we are only falling back so Sherman won't get round our
flank," said Johnston, which I gave him.
The stockade is made
from pine trees cut, from the prison ground, into 25 feet lengthts, feet of
which is set into the ground, and the timbers are strongly pinned together.
Until last winter this was primeval forest, heavily timbered with pine. The
sentry boxes are six to eight rods apart near the top of the wall, each box
having a roof, the platform being reached by stairs. The ground is said to
contain 13 acres, including the lagoon of about two acres, which cannot be
occupied except a few islands
in the midst. A
small stream runs through from west to east. The water is nearly as black as
the mud of its mirey banks, and tastes of it, and nearly divides the camp
equally, both the north and south parts sloping towards it. There are some log
huts built by the first prisoners when the stockade was opened, from the waste
timber left on the ground. Now even the stumps have been dug up for wood. Two
large tall pines are left standing in the southeast corner; otherwise there is
not a green thing in sight. The dead line is a board laid and nailed on tops of
posts, four feet high, about six yards from the stockade. There are two gates
on the west side, north and south of the brook. Sinks are dug on the bank near
the swamp on the east side, but not sufficient to accommodate a tenth part of
the persons on the south side to which it alone is accessible; so the north
edge of the swamp, parallel with the stream, is used for the same purpose. Just
at dark two mule teams were driven with rations, to be delivered to sergeants
in charge of detachments for distribution to their men. We get two ounces of
bacon, a piece of corn bread 2x4 inches for one day. There are over 14,000 men
here, mostly old prisoners from Belle Isle, Libby and Danville prisons. The
bacon is so stale, that a light stroke from the finger knocks it to pieces,
leaving the rind in the hand.
SOURCE: John Worrell
Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville
and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 55-60
