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 Lieutenant-Colonel John Beatty, February 4, 1862

We closed up the day with a dress parade, the Colonel in command. The camp is more boisterous than usual. No more petitions have been presented.

The Major received a package from home to-night containing, among other articles, a pair of slippers, which, greatly to my advantage, were too small for him. They were turned over to me, and it happens that no little thing could have been more acceptable.

The bright moonlight of to-night enlivens our spirits somewhat, and fills us with new courage. The days have been dark and gloomy, and the nights still more so, for many days and nights past.

From the band of the Tenth Ohio, half a mile away, come strains mellow and sweet. The air is full of moonlight and music. The boys are in a happier mood, and a round, full voice comes to us from the tents with the words of an old Scotch song:

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale!

Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward in order?

March, march, Eskale and Liddlesdale!

All the blue bonnets are over the border.

Many a banner spread flutters above your head,

Many a crest that is famous in story;

Mount and make ready, then, sons of the mountain glen!

Fight for the King and the old Scottish border!

SOURCE: John Beatty, The Citizen-soldier: Or, Memoirs of a Volunteer, p. 102

Diary of Colonel John Beatty, February 24, 1862

Routed out at daylight and ordered to make Nashville, a distance of thirty-two miles. Many of the boys have no shoes, and the feet of many are still very sore. The journey seems long, but we are at the head of the column, and that stimulates us somewhat. Have sent my horse to the rear to help along the very lame, and am making the march on foot.

The martial band of the regiment is doing its utmost to keep the boys in good spirits; the base drum sounds like distant thunder, and the wind of Hughes, the fifer, is inexhaustible; he can blow five miles at a stretch. The members of the band are in good pluck, and when not playing, either sing, tell stories, or indulge in reminiscences of a personal character. Russia has been badgering William Heney, a drummer. He says that while at Elkwater Heney sparked one of Esquire Stalnaker's daughters, and that the lady's little sister going into the room quite suddenly one evening called back to the father, "Dad, dad, William Heney has got his arm around Susan Jane!" Heney affirms that the story is untrue. Lochey favors us with a song, which is known as the warble.

Thou, thou reignest in this bosom,

    There, there hast thou thy throne;

Thou, thou knowest that I love thee;

    Am I not fondly thine own?

 

Ya-ya-ya-ya.

Am I not fondly thine own?

 

CHORUS.

 

Das unda claus ish mein,

Das unda claus ish mein,

Cants do nic mock un do.

 

On the banks of the Ohio river,

    In a cot lives my Rosa so fair;

She is called Jim Johnson's darky,

    And has nice curly black hair.

Tre alo, tre alo, tre ola, ti.

 

O come with me to the dear little spot,

    And I'll show you the place I was born,

In a little log hut by a clear running brook,

    Where blossom the wild plum and thorn.

Tre ola, tre ola, treo la ti.

 

Mein fadter, mein modter, mein sister, mein frau,

    Undt swi glass of beer for meinself,

Undt dey call mein wife one blacksmit shop;

    Such dings I never did see in my life.

Tre ola, tre ola, tre ola ti.

SOURCE: John Beatty, The Citizen-soldier: Or, Memoirs of a Volunteer, pp. 109-11

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, 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

Louisa May Alcott: With A Rose, published 1860

WITH A ROSE

That Bloomed on the Day of John Brown's Martyrdom.

In the long silence of the night,

    Nature's benignant power

Woke aspirations for the light

    Within the folded flower.

Its presence and the gracious day

    Made summer in the room,

But woman's eyes shed tender dew

    On the little rose in bloom.

Then blossomed forth a grander flower,

    In the wilderness of wrong,

Untouched by Slavery's bitter frost,

    A soul devout and strong.

God-watched, that century plant uprose,

    Far shining through the gloom,

Filling a nation with the breath

    Of a noble life in bloom.

A life so powerful in its truth,

    A nature so complete;

It conquered ruler, judge and priest,

    And held them at its feet.

Death seemed proud to take a soul

    So beautifully given,

And the gallows only proved to him

    A stepping-stone to heaven.

Each cheerful word, each valiant act,

    So simple, so sublime,

Spoke to us through the reverent hush

    Which sanctified that time.

That moment when the brave old man

    Went so serenely forth,

With footsteps whose unfaltering tread

    Reechoed through the North.

The sword he wielded for the right

    Turns to a victor's palm;

His memory Bounds forever more,

    A spirit-stirring psalm.

No breath of shame ran touch his shield,

    Nor ages dim its shine;

Living, he made life beautiful, -

    Dying, made death divine.

No monument of quarried stone,

    No eloquence of speech,

Can grave the lessons on the land

    His martyrdom will teach.

No eulogy like his own words,

    With hero-spirit rife,

"I truly serve the cause I love,

    By yielding up my life."

— L. M. Alcott.

SOURCE: James Redpath, Editor, Echoes of Harper’s Ferry, p. 98

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop: Monday, July 4, 1864

Eighty-eight years this day since our fathers gave to the world that important document setting forth the immortal truth that all men are born free with equal rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, and declaring the independence of these states from foreign domination—the Declaration of American Independence. On these great truths they founded a Republic. Today their posterity are in mourning for the loss of sons. In painful expectations, in earnest hope and fear, their eyes are turned toward two mighty armies contending on the same soil, one for those principles and that Republic, the other battling to maintain a dying rebellion inaugurated to overthrow the work of their hands, and to found a government on principles the reverse. Nothing was ever more plainly asserted in both words and deeds than this. Here within the scope of my vision, are 26,000 men suffering for the great sin that has cursed our people, offered a living sacrifice that it may not be destroyed but saved free from the contaminating influence that has stained our fair emblem—the boasted emblem of liberty; that the Union of the States shall not be broken by the hands of Treason; the foul assassin of Liberty! O, that the day of glorious triumph may soon come and with it the right, and stop the horrid evil of war! Let the demon that actuated it be destroyed! Apropos to the day are these beautiful lines from Longfellow, which Thompson recited:

* * * Sail on, O Ship of State!

Sail on, O Union, strong and great!

Humanity with all its fears,

With all the hopes of future years,

Is hanging breathless on thy fate!

We know what Master laid thy keel,

What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,

Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,

What anvils rang, what hammers beat,

In what a forge and what a heat

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!

Fear not each sudden sound and shock,

'Tis of the wave and not the rock;

'Tis but the flapping of the sail,

And not a rent made by the gale!

In spite of rock and tempest's roar,

In spite of false lights on the shore,

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee.

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,

Are all with thee,—are all with thee!

Have had but little rest for two nights, owing to the storm and severity of my complaints. No rations since the 2nd. Two hours of terrible thunder storm. At the Sutler's "Shebang" I purchased a small wheat biscuit for 35 cents. This is my feast (after two days' fast) for July 4th, 1864.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, pp. 84-5

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop: Saturday, July 9, 1864

SCENES AMONG SICK.—RAIDERS CONVICTED.

Strong these men had been;

In vast army camps had duty done;

Had useful service in field and fort performed,

Some also on the sea and river fleets.

Strong on marches and in battles' strife;

Strong in perilous trenches behind belching guns

On skirmish lines at opening frays,

And bravely stood the shock of charging lines

That brought the battle's final test.

—From The Vision of North.

More than a week since a sick call. The Doctor came to the gate this morning; and many sick go forward. Crowds are carried who cannot walk and are laid over a large space. Still in a bad state and quite weak, I go, hoping to get a prescription, for "camphor pills," which sergeants of "nineties" draw, after the examination. Doctor comes in and looks them over hastily, going among them some, touching a few as though he felt squeamish. Two hours would be required, at least, to get along with the "nasty job," the doctors think, and only wink at them at that. I could not endure the hot sun, the awful stench, the sight of those sickening objects. I soon lost faith, if I had any, that I should be healed by a slight hem touch. I came to doubt, upon viewing the condition of so many others, whether I needed anything. More curious than charitable charity is a cripple here, begins and ends at home. I looked them over, and was not curious.

"Here pity doth most show herself alive

When she is dead." —Dante.

There were stronger forms and more robust constitutions than mine, weaker than infants; more loathsome than if they were dead; so they soon must be once a part of the bone and sinew of the Union army! What ten times worse than ghastly expressions! What pitiful complaints! What peevish, unmanly cries, calling for the doctor to "Come quick, for Christ's sake, quick!" constantly begging for water! Aghast, I stepped hurriedly, shamblingly, but carefully over those wasted, corrupted bodies, once beautiful caskets of immortal spirits, and hastened here and sit down with the boys under the shade of the blanket, my heart sinking, is it not hardening with gloom? I shudder while I write lest my fate shall be like theirs.

"What did you get, North?" they asked.

"Nothing; didn't try."

"You ought to."

"It wouldn't amount to shucks."

"Perhaps it would; at any rate, get all you can out of the Confederacy."

"That would do."

"Then go back and try."

"That makes me think of a man standing all night in the cold to freeze an ugly dog. The soundest man in the bull-pen would be sick to stand in that dying crowd an hour."

"That's what's the matter."

Tonight some of the sick are still at the gate; no attention paid, but ordered left till sent back. Many of the worst cases were admitted to hospital, a large number carried back by friends. Out of those who remain, six have died during the day; others on the verge of death. Doctors claim they have no means to care for the sick, therefore neglect them, let them rot rather than parole and send them to our lines. They are not admitted to the hospital, which is little better than this den, until in a condition of death; nor are we allowed to go out for brush and timber to build shelter here though thousands would volunteer for that service and the timber is all about us.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, pp. 86-7

Diary of Lieutenant-Colonel John Beatty, September 19, 1861

Reached camp yesterday at noon. My recruits arrived to-day.

The enemy was here in my absence in strength and majesty, and repeated, with a slight variation, the grand exploit of the King of France, by

"Marching up the hill with twenty thousand men,

And straightway marching down again."

There was lively skirmishing for a few days, and hot work expected; but, for reasons unknown to us, the enemy retired precipitately.

On Sunday morning last fifty men of the Sixth Ohio, when on picket, were surprised and captured. My friend, Lieutenant Merrill, fell into the hands of the enemy, and is now probably on his way to Castle Pinckney. Further than this our rebellious friends did us no damage. Our men, at this point, killed Colonel Washington, wounded a few others, and further than this inflicted but little injury upon the enemy. The country people near whom the rebels encamped say they got to fighting among themselves. The North Carolinians were determined to go home, and regiments from other States claimed that their term of service had expired, and wanted to leave. I am glad they did, and trust they may go home, hang up their guns, and go to work like sensible people, for then I could do the same.

SOURCE: John Beatty, The Citizen-soldier: Or, Memoirs of a Volunteer, pp. 67-8

Diary of Lieutenant-Colonel John Beatty, September 23, 1861

This afternoon I rode by a mountain path to a log cabin in which a half dozen wounded Tennesseeans are lying. One poor fellow had his leg amputated yesterday, and was very feeble. One had been struck by a ball on the head and a buckshot in the lungs. Two boys were but slightly wounded, and were in good spirits. To one of these-a jovial, pleasant boy—Dr. Seyes said, good humoredly: "You need have no fears of dying from a gunshot; you are too big a devil, and were born to be hung." Colonel Marrow sought to question this same fellow in regard to the strength of the enemy, when the boy said: "Are you a commissioned officer?" "Yes," replied Marrow. "Then," returned he," you ought to know that a private soldier don't know anything."

In returning to camp, we followed a path which led to a place where a regiment of the rebels had encamped one night. They had evidently become panic-stricken and left in hot haste. The woods were strewn with knapsacks, blankets, and canteens.

The ride was a pleasant one. The path, first wild and rugged, finally led to a charming little valley, through which Beckey's creek hurries down to the river. Leaving this, we traveled up the side of a ravine, through which a little stream fretted and fumed, and dashed into spray against slimy rocks, and then gathered itself up for another charge, and so pushed gallantly on toward the valley and the sunshine.

What a glorious scene! The sky filled with stars; the rising moon; two mountain walls so high, apparently, that one might step from them into heaven; the rapid river, the thousand white tents dotting the valley, the camp fires, the shadowy forms of soldiers; in short, just enough of heaven and earth visible to put one's fancy on the gallop. The boys are in groups about their fires. The voice of the troubadour is heard. It is a pleasant song that he sings, and I catch part of it.

"The minstrel 's returned from the war,

      With spirits as buoyant as air,

 And thus on the tuneful guitar

      He sings in the bower of the fair:

 The noise of the battle is over;

     The bugle no more calls to arms;

A soldier no more, but a lover,

     I kneel to the power of thy charms.

Sweet lady, dear lady, I'm thine;

     I bend to the magic of beauty,

Though the banner and helmet are mine,

     Yet love calls the soldier to duty."

SOURCE: John Beatty, The Citizen-soldier: Or, Memoirs of a Volunteer, pp. 68-9

Diary of Lucy Larcom, March 2, 1861

What does cause depression of spirits? Heavy head and heavy heart, and no sufficient reason for either, that I know of. I am out of doors every day, and have nothing unusual to trouble me; yet every interval of thought is clouded; there is no rebound, no rejoicing as it is my nature to rejoice, and as all things teach me to do. We are strange phenomena to ourselves, when we will stop to gaze at ourselves; but that I do not believe in; there are pleasanter subjects, and self is a mere speck on the great horizon of life.

A new volume of poems by T. B. Aldrich, just read, impresses me especially with its daintiness and studied beauty. There are true flashes of poetry, but most carefully trimmed and subdued, so as to shine artistically. I believe the best poetry of our times is growing too artistic; the study is too visible. If freedom and naturalness are lost out of poetry, everything worth having is lost.

SOURCE: Daniel Dulany Addison, “Lucy Larcom: Life, Letters, and Diary,” pp. 84-5

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop: Monday, June 20, 1864

Yesterday a sentry fired on a man who was attempting to kill a snake near the dead line, but missed him, the shot taking effect on four others; wounding one in the face, one in the thigh, both lying under their blankets, and grazed two others. Gen. Sturgis has blundered in a fight with Forrest in Tennessee; lost 900 men. Sigel has been relieved by Hunter for fighting Breckenridge with an inferior force, less than at his command. These seeming disasters fill Rebels with bombast and are not encouraging to us.

These little triumphs seem to raise their wind;

But great defeats they never seem to find;

They cut loops, but not the ropes that bind.

We look at them, then coolly turn aside,

Annoyed that Jonnies have such narrow pride,

That it should never enter in the mind,

'Tis but a wave blown up against the tide,

For surely Forrest breaks not the comet's tail,

And Joe E. Johnston goes down before it pale;

While flirting in Virginia are but attempts to rise

When U. S. Grant rolls Lee upon his thighs.

Robbers more desperate and bold. Two men have lately been murdered, and a number hurt and robbed. We watch nightly, fearing attack. Two guards are reported hung for attempting to escape with prisoners a few nights ago. The old guard leave this morning, probably for the front; we have a new set on.

Passing up from the creek this morning I saw a crowd standing around a dying negro boy about one-fourth white. A white man stood over him holding in his hand a stick, to one end of which was attached a stiff paper, with which he brushed the swarming flies from his face and fanned his dying breath. He was emaciated and bruised. Presently the feeble breath stopped the man bent and lay his bony hands on his breast. Again there was a faint heaving of the breast, the eyes brightened and glanced meaningly at him, then rolled back, and he breathed no more. I cannot tell why I forgot every thing for the time—

And intense interest took in him,

When hourly almost, each day, I see the dead

Of my own race, far loftier brows

And comelier forms, pass by.

Involuntarily, almost, my face turned towards the skies, my forehead and temples felt the soft, thrilling, intangible pressure of an electric band; my left arm and shoulder, for a moment, electrified. Then I looked at those about, and wondered what they thought. Turning to one, I remarked:

"I should have thought he had a soul, were he not a negro." He replied: "I know, if the human is immortal, he had a soul. I almost felt it when it departed."

This is what is going the rounds tonight: "They say Davis has sued for peace." Too sensible to be true!

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 76-7

Diary of Horatio Nelson Taft, Saturday, February 1, 1862

Nothing of any particular note has occured today. The ground was covered with Snow this morning, but it has thawed all day. Went down after dinner and with the three boys and got them all new boots with which they were highly pleased, paid $4.25 for the lot. Got “Bud” also a pair of pants $2.50, paid the Baker $4.25, Milkman $1.90. Got my Drawings today, shall put in my application in two or three days. I have not been out since dark, have been reading the papers, writing &c. Wife rc^d a letter from her Uncle Sullivan & [Mis Rec^d Cook?]. It is now ½ past ten. The boys went to bed at 8. Wife busy mending as usual evenings. Julia is writing off Poetry from a newspaper and I am going to bed.

SOURCE: Horatio Nelson Taft, The Diary of Horatio Nelson Taft, 1861-1865. Volume 1, January 1,1861-April 11, 1862, Library of Congress, Manuscript Division, Washington D. C.

Diary of Horatio Nelson Taft, Friday, February 21, 1862

It has been pleasant today, it was frozen up this morning. I have been in the office as usual. Willie Taft spent part of the day with me at the office while his Ma & the other boys went to the Presidents. The illumination will not take place tomorrow night in consequence of the Presidents affliction. The news from Tennessee is favorable for our cause, Nashville is probably in our possession. I have not been out tonight. Julia interested us for an hour reciting poetry from different authors. She quite surprised me with the accuracy of her reading (or rendering) Schillers Battle piece, E A Poe^s “Bells” &c. She recited whole pages from memory. “Bengen on the Rhine” was finely done, also “our Flag.” Near 11 o'clock. Julia and the boys were abed long ago. I have been Drafting some. Wife is frying doughnuts in the Kitchen.

SOURCE: Horatio Nelson Taft, The Diary of Horatio Nelson Taft, 1861-1865. Volume 1, January 1,1861-April 11, 1862, Library of Congress, Manuscript Division, Washington D. C.

Diary of Private John C. West, Wednesday, April 22, 1863

Got up this morning feeling pretty well and concluded to leave to-morrow; went up town and mailed a letter to my wife; saw Dr. Johnson and got a certificate from him accounting for my delay, and a mixture of chalk and laudanum to take on the road; had a long talk with the doctor and Rev. Mr. Wilson about the Downs and Sparks, citizens of Waco; the doctor refused to charge me anything. I borrowed seventy-five dollars from Major Holman and gave him my note. Have been reading Bulwer's “Strange Story" a good deal to-day. Mrs. Weir came in this evening and talked very kindly to me; wants me to stay longer, but I must go; every man ought to go. Witnessed a cock fight in the streets a few minutes ago and rather enjoyed it; wonder how my chickens come on at home, and what my dear wife and dear little Stark and Mary are doing now. Mrs. Bacon has just brought me a pocketbook, and she and Mrs. Brownnigg and Mrs. Weir have offered me money. Miss Gregg has brought me a toddy and I must drink it. Oh! these women!

"The world was sad, the garden was a wild,

 And man, the hermit, sighed till woman smiled."

SOURCE: John Camden West, A Texan in Search of a Fight: Being the Diary and Letters of a Private Soldier in Hood’s Texas Brigade, p. 22-3

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop: Wednesday, June 1, 1864

Scalding heat during forenoon; heavy showers follow. Water is running through camp like a flood. Prisoners reported missing, rations suspended; Rebels are making a stir on the outside.

Finished "Paradise Lost"; called on Harriman. He supplied us with Pollock's "ourse of Time." We had read this, but it is now more acceptable. In our view it is a work of more natural thought and imbibes less of the unnatural. Milton has soulstirring passages, alive with truth, significant expression and beautiful simplicity. Then he goes deeply into themes beyond most conceptions; we don't wish to not, unless this is "Paradise Lost." Confederacy when he said:

follow him, or cannot, have Did he mean the Southern

"Devils with devils damned firm concord hold."

Did he mean the North when he wrote:

"Men only disagree of creatures rational,

Though under hope of heavenly grace"

how they should save the Union?

The following lines express a truth in human experience:

"God proclaiming peace,

Yet men live in hatred, enmity and strife

Among themselves, and levy cruel wars

Wasting the earth, each other to destroy,

As if man had not hellish foes enough besides,

That day and night for his destruction wait."

Milton seems to have designed to impress the thought that man had hellish foes distinct from his race, awaiting his destruction, which originated through rebellious war in heaven. I think the causes of our troubles lie in our lack of knowledge and misconception of our social relations, wicked ambition, foolish pride, and that these lines better fit an earthly than a heavenly realm.

The usual monotony except an unusual amount of firing by sentry. Prisoners arrive daily from both our great armies. Men crowd near them to get news and hardtack; occasionally old friends meet. About half the camp draw raw meal; we are of that half this week; have the trouble of cooking it without salt or seasoning or wood, half the time. We stir it in water, bake it on plates held over a splinter fire with a stiff stick, or boil it into mush or dumplings, baking or boiling as long as fuel lasts.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 70-1

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop: Wednesday, June 15, 1864

Last night "raiders" attempted to profit by their vile practices. "Moseby's" (this name is given one of the chiefs) whistles blew and was responded to by the subleaders. Suspicious-looking chaps move through parts of the prison. Presently the cry of "thief," "raiders," and suppressed voices are heard, like men in a struggle. Again cries of "catch him," "murder," "Oh, God, they've killed me!" Now and then one is caught, and cries, and begs dolefully. Then a squad of twenty strong savage-looking men ran through the streets with clubs; soon there is a desperate fight. Blows are plainly heard, and savage oaths and cries of fright and distress. For a time the desperadoes vanish, then reappear. The disturbance kept up all night; we did not feel safe to lie down unless someone of our tent watched. I hear of two watches and other things being lost; have seen some men who got hit. Some Massachusetts boys near us had their blanket seized. Luckily one awoke as the last corner was drawn from him. He sprang up and so closely pursued the thief that he dropped it. This morning a fellow had his head shaved for stealing rations. Toward noon excitement attracted attention to the north side. Going thither we found a fellow had been seized and was being shorn of one-half of his hair and whiskers. He had been outside shoemaking and had been commissioned by the Confederates to come in and take the names of others, of the same trade, with the view that they might be induced or impressed into the service, for Rebels are in need of men of all trades; especially men are wanted to make "government shoes." I saw a man playing the same treasonable game yesterday and a group of us resolved he should not go unnoticed. Shame on those men who are willing to sell their birthright for a loathsome crust! Turn their hands against the cause for which they fought, and virtually balance the power of brothers in the field! The blood of our brothers would cry out against us. For a Southerner to do this is treason; for one of our own men to do it, what is it?

Twice, the first in two days, has the sun appeared today, but it is still rainy. Several hundred men arrive from our army in Virginia, the majority of whom are stripped of blankets and tents. The number of deaths within 24 hours ending at 9 a. m. today is stated at 160.

A hermit wrote of his situation in solitude as "a horrible place"; "Better dwell in the midst of alarms." But we have no choice; we both—

"Dwell in the midst of alarms,"

And "reign in this horrible place."

It was not poetical to call Nature's solitude horrible; nothing is so horrible as subverted, debased, cruelized, distorted, dying human nature.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 75-6