We left Harper's
Ferry in the morning. During the afternoon, the battery was loaded on railroad
cars at Sandy Hook. The train started by seven o'clock in the evening, for Washington.
SOURCE: Theodore
Reichardt, Diary of Battery A, First Regiment Rhode Island Light
Artillery, p. 36
Revelie at 3 A. M.
Raining Regt moves out of camp at 6:30 a. m. & are on the cars at 8, a. m.
cars were crowded, 1/3 of men on top, at Duvalls Bluff at 1. P. M. on board
steamer Paragon at 4 P. M. 50th Ind on board Rowena we tie up 30 mile below.
Duvalls Bluffs a perfect mudhole. Left mail at the Rock, which was not
destributed. Rained almost incessantly all day.
SOURCE: “Diary of
John S. Morgan, Company G, Thirty-Third Iowa Infantry,” Annals of Iowa,
Vol. XIII, No. 8, Third Series, Des Moines, April 1923, p. 574
On the cars between Meridian
and Selma tried to get transportation at Jackson to Augusta, but the
quartermaster declined to give it to me; took it to Atlanta and will try to get
it to Augusta from there. Left Jackson at 6 o'clock yesterday evening; Greggs'
Brigade had just come in from Port Hudson; met several regiments at Meridian
going to Vicksburg and to the fortifications between Vicksburg and Jackson;
reached Meridian at 3:30 a. m. and floundered about the depot until 5 o'clock
and got a pretty good breakfast for a dollar and a half, and started at 6
o'clock for Selma; reached the landing at 11 o'clock; had a tedious time
changing baggage and then only went four miles up the river to Demopolis and
went through another tedious lugging of baggage from one point to another, and
finally sat in the cars for an hour and a half bored and hungry; got off at
last and went rattling through beautiful fields of corn nearly all the way to
Selma; took the steamer Cherokee from Montgomery and am now on my way up the
river, and, Oh! what would I not give to have Mary and the children with
me now, for the route is comparatively easy from here to Columbia.
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. 36-7
Reached Montgomery
this afternoon about 5:30, just too late for the cars, hence must be detained
another night on the road. I walked up town a little while ago and met Mr. John
A. Elmore; inquired about Culp, my old college chum, and found he was a lieutenant
in the army at Vicksburg; his family is with his father-in-law. Heard here of
"Stonewall" Jackson's death; it is a sad calamity for the south, but
I doubt not God will raise up other great spirits to aid us with their counsels
and to fight our battles for us. I wrote a letter on the steamboat, which I
intended to hand to some one to mail across the Mississippi, or else mail it in
Augusta.
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. 37
Left Montgomery in a
crowded train of cars; when we reached the coal station found a suspicious
personage, of whom the guard took charge; he had no papers and said he was a
substitute for a nephew of Dr. Green, of Fort Valley, and that his papers were
in possession of a squad who had left him at Montgomery, he having some other
friends there, and becoming too convivial to leave. He said he had paid a
policeman one hundred dollars to let him out and then walked to the coal
station. I wrote a letter for him to Dr. Green, explaining the circumstance
and asking his assistance. This little affair gave the curious some excitement.
About the time I
reached West Point a gentleman named J. J. Thrasher, of Atlanta, introduced
himself and made inquiries about Mrs. Nelson, wife of Col. Allison Nelson, or
"Mary," as he affectionately termed her. He seemed to know all about
the family and gave me their history and said their father, Mr. Green, was one
of his best friends. He also asked after Mr. Knight; spoke very highly of him
and said that his father, his uncles and aunts, Mr. and Mrs. Mangum and Avery,
had all died within the last three months. I gradually became sociable enough
with Mr. Thrasher and his daughter to enjoy their lunch very much, the first
delicacies of the kind that I have seen since I left Texas.
Soon afterwards a
very kind old gentleman named John A. Broughton asked me to take a seat by him,
and informed me that he had once been to Texas and farmed in Fayette county,
but concluded to return. He is about the third man I have met who was ever able
to get away from Texas after being once fixed there. He is, however, worth a million
of dollars and has only two children. He offered me money and divided his lunch
with me. I parted with him at Madison about 12 o'clock at night.
The cars being very
much crowded, I offered a neat looking person a seat by me. He seemed to be
very communicative, and gave me a full history of his experiments in distilling,
and of his daughter's progress at Northern schools, which he greatly preferred
to Southern. He told me his name was ———, and that he was a first cousin of
Judge ———, of —— in Texas, whom I knew very well. He gave me a very minute
account of the circumstances under which the Judge left Georgia. It amounted in
substance to this: The Judge took part and assisted an editor in writing a very
scurrilous article, commenting on the conduct of a state senator, Mr. ———.
The senator was
offended and was about to call the editor to account for the article, when the
editor shot and killed him, and Judge ——— left because he feared that his
testimony would convict his friend. My informant added further that it was
thought by some that the trial would develop facts which might show Judge to be
accessory to the killing, etc. This entire circumstance, of which I had heard
vague and indefinite rumors in Texas, was related to me voluntarily, without a
hint on my part that I had ever heard of it before, and without a question to
draw him out particularly on the subject. He seemed to be very candid and
loquacious on all subjects, and gave me a very minute history of his own
domestic affairs.
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. 37-9
Gen. Grant passed
through here this morning on the train. The division of Denver's, (ex-governor
of Kansas, for whom Denver City was named) passed through here today also. The
troops are all coming up further north. The cars are going north loaded with
cotton. I think this is a cotton expedition.
SOURCE: Seth James
Wells, The Siege of Vicksburg: From the Diary of Seth J. Wells,
Including Weeks of Preparation and of Occupation After the Surrender, p. 21
we left Chickahominy
And went to Richmond and taken the cars and went to the Junction that night And
the next morning we left thar And about a hour befour the sun set we arived at
Linchburg
SOURCE: Bartlett
Yancey Malone, The Diary of Bartlett Yancey Malone, p. 21
we got on the cars
about dark and the next morning we found our relief at Sharlottsvill
(Charlottesville) which was about 75 miles from Linchburg And we chainged cars
at that plase
SOURCE: Bartlett
Yancey Malone, The Diary of Bartlett Yancey Malone, p. 21
[On the morning of
the 21th] we taken the cars at Mitchiners River and road up to Sharlottsvill
And then taken a railroad thar that went to Gordnesvill And we got to
Gordnesvill about 2 oclock in the eavning and we taken the Richmond Railroad
thar And road about 25 miles toward Richmond at a station cauld Frederickshall
And thar we got off
SOURCE: Bartlett
Yancey Malone, The Diary of Bartlett Yancey Malone, p. 21
Our camp yesterday was enlivened by the joyful news that we had orders to take the cars for some unknown destination, and it is generally believed that Gregg's Brigade is to join Bragg's army, a petition having been sent up some time since with this request, if any are allowed to go; in it it was urged that most of this brigade were Tennesseeans, who had not seen their families since the day of their enlistment, in 1861. With a day's ration cooked, and another of crackers and bacon in haversacks, we were on the cars ready to start at 5 The entire night was consumed in going to Meridian, a distance of sixty-one miles. While waiting this morning, a train load of paroled Vicksburg prisoners, under the influence of whisky, made a charge upon a lot of sugar lying near the depot, and guarded by a detail of the Fourteenth Mississippi. In the melee a guard fired a blank cartridge at the crowd, when a lieutenant shot him in the head with a pistol, making a severe, but not dangerous, wound. The guards then left their posts, and the sugar was given up to pillage. Our brigade is now at Enterprise, from which place it can reach any needed point very quickly.
SOURCE: Edwin L. Drake, Editor, The Annals of the Army of Tennessee and Early Western History, Vol. 1, p. 281-2
GOLDSBORO.
There was no time
this morning to cook coffee, so we started on a cold-water breakfast, after
another cold night, with little good sleep, and marched without incident until
four P.M., when we heard the usual cannonade at the front. As soon as the noise
of the cannon was heard, then commenced the usual straggling. All have some of
course. The attention of our boys was called to a scene upon which we looked
with surprise, and which many of our company will never forget. As we passed
from the main road to take position on the hill, we saw a man, or what was
dressed as a man, in Uncle Sam's clothes, importuned by another to join his
command. He would not budge; and the concluding words we heard as we passed by,
were: "Damn it, man! just look here: look at this regiment going in; there
is not a man there; they are all boys with no hair on their faces, and you
afraid!" We pitied the fellow, and often wondered if he joined his
company. His pride had evidently gone on a furlough. We halted on a high hill,
from which we could see all that was going on, and soon found we were in
reserve, which pleased us all. After getting turnips and sweet potatoes,—of
which we found a plenty (all planted for us),—we straggled to the edge of the
bluff and watched the fight. In a tree close to where we stood was a signal
station, and by that we supposed Gen. Foster was near. On the left we could see
the railroad which leads into Goldsboro, and the fighting over it; to the
right, the bridge; while in front, close to the river, there seemed to be a
continuous sheet of flame from our advance and the rebels. Some of our men
worked their way to the mill; and a story was told by one of the 17th Mass.
Vols., who reached the bridge on his own account, that he saw a train of cars
stop there, and, just as it halted, a shot from one of our batteries struck the
engine in the head-plate, smashing the engine badly. He could see men jump from
the cars in all haste. (This story was told several years after the action; and
the fact of those men coming as they did, and perhaps others behind, may have
been the reason we left so suddenly, and went to New Berne.)
About seven o'clock
Gen. Foster rode past our line, saying: "The object of the expedition [the
burning of the bridge and partially destroying the connection between the Gulf
States and Richmond] is accomplished. We are going to New Berne."
We were immediately
formed, and started on the back track with cheers for the general; but we had
not gone three miles before we found we were not "out of the woods."
Orders came to countermarch, so we turned about, wondering what all the
artillery firing meant. We tramped back about two miles or so through the
woods, on fire on both sides of the road, turned to the left down hill, and
formed line in silence, waiting. We were not allowed to speak or light our
pipes, but waited, it seemed, for two hours. The regiment was formed in
division column closed in mass; the company behind us being only a few feet
away, and in front nothing but the pickets and supposable rebels. After staying
here a while we heard the artillery go along the road, and soon followed. We
reached camp about ten o'clock, tired and hungry, but no chance to get anything
to eat, and a man missing. He turned up afterwards, having settled himself for
a nap when we were in the woods. Not finding any one near when he awakened, he
concluded to strike out for himself—happily remembering that old broken caisson
beside the road, and recollecting on which side he left it on going in, he soon
came Russelling" into camp with the rest of us.
SOURCE: John Jasper
Wyeth, Leaves from a Diary Written While Serving in Co. E, 44 Mass.
Dep’t of North Carolina from September 1862 to June 1863, p. 27-8
Awakened by the guard
at 4 a. m.; at daylight go on the street receiving a small day's ration, the
fourth issue since our capture. Rain is over; we are delighted to get out-door.
I shall not soon forget the morning. We are starting on a long, tedious journey
southward dependent on the mercies of enemies whom we had justly counted
barbarous in respect to the motives of the war they precipitated and are
needlessly waring. The fates of many seem desperate. How many of this long line
of Unionists will return to their Northern homes! How many and who of us will
sleep the last sleep in the far South!
We pass two large
buildings used as hospitals which appear filled. It was an hour and a half
before we reach the cars, a long train of flat and box. I take a seat on the
bottom of a flat. At 10 a. m. we start on a new road from Danville, Va., to
Greenboro, N. C., 48 miles. A guard near me, a man about 55 years old, ventured
to say that he believed the South missed it in going to war; it was not true
that they were forced to it. He believed President Lincoln just such a man as
Henry Clay in his principles, and he was a Clay man all his life.
"That is so,
the South can settle with Abraham Lincoln as easily as with any living
man," I replied. He said:
"I believe
it."
"Then why do we
find you with your gun in the Rebel service?"
"Because I had
to be somewhere; I enlisted in the militia, rather be here than fighting. Had I
not gone in they'd 'scripted me and sent me to the front; but being pretty old
and willing, they have me to do such duty as this."
"How do you
expect to come out with this war and how long will it last?"
"There's no
telling, not right away; there will be some right smart fights before you get
Richmond."
"Will they give
up then?"
"Well, no; I
reckon— it's the hardest place we've got; I reckon it can't be taken."
"Clinging to
Richmond will only continue the war until we completely besiege it; the
shortest way to end it, unless the whole South lay down their arms."
"You are
divided in the North; we think you will get sick of fighting. Heaps o' people
believe you to be a hard race; they want to get rid of you. This is what we
people are told."
"If the South
wants to settle as it is claimed they do, why don't they lay down their arms
and ask for terms?"
"That's it;
they no more want peace than they did when they commenced."
Looking about him,
he said: "Plenty of men have been put in prison and hung for saying what
they believed, they'd send me to the front sure for what I have said."
"We must have
Union and liberty as the ultimate result of this war, or there is no salvation
for North or South. The triumph of the South would be the greatest calamity
that could befall; our triumph the blessing of both."
"You're
right."
"Then as a
Union man whose election do you prefer this fall?” "I think Lincoln is a
good man."
This was an
interesting conversation; I am really in the Confederacy in conversation with a
Union man but a Rebel soldier. After going 25 miles we were ordered off the
train, there being a piece of road six miles not completed. We moved off across
the plantation till we came to a road. Long trains loaded with army supplies
driven by the raggedest negroes I ever saw, began to meet us as we went on the
road. It was amusing to hear their answers as to the distance to the railroad, which
the men were frequently asking. It was very hot several men died on this short
march. We reached the road about 4 p. m. and waited for the train. I was here
introduced to James B. Hawks of the 7th Michigan, by Thompson, which was the
beginning of a new friendship. Hawks had the advantage of a collegiate
education, and pleased us with several declamations still fresh in his memory
although he had endured the hardships of the peninsular campaign. A pile of
supplies lay beside the road. A group of ladies and men came to look at us
though there was few houses in sight. Just dark the train backed up with
several hundred soldiers for Lee's army. Here as at Charlotteville a few
contemplated escape if possible, should we remain after dark. But by dark we
were all driven on board. The order was "Shoot every man that tries to get
out," so Boodger and I were again flanked. It was midnight before we
started. As to the mode of our lodging we were like the Dutchman's hen that
stood up and set.
SOURCE: John Worrell
Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville
and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 49-50
Arrive at Columbia,
S. C., at dawn. The night passed disagreeably. Although our destiny is prison,
men are impatient at delays, growl at "such engineering" though the
best we have had, a negro at that. I ate my last bread yesterday morning; hoped
for rations here; none came. We picked up corn scattered in the cars which
served some purpose. We are mingling freely with our officers, sitting beside
the track some ways from the city. This is the capitol of South Carolina;
population 8,000. A paper I saw today says of the armies in Georgia that
Johnston had retreated from Dalton towards Rome, Hooker and Thomas pressing
him. Details are given of skirmishes and glaring headlines of great disasters
to Yankees; but in important movements they concede failure, then attempt to distort
facts. Lincoln has issued a proclamation for thanksgiving. It looks as well for
us as we ought to expect; we have had to contend against disadvantages; a hard
struggle is before. Some gentlemen engaged in conversation with us. They
evinced a spirit narrowed to mere State pride all for slavery. The bane of
State right had been so profusely imbibed, that they had forgotten what Edmund
Randolph termed the "rock of our salvation" which gave "safety, respectability
and happiness to the American people," namely, "The Union of the
States," and plunged into that which brings destruction. Particularly was
this addressed to the South; nevertheless we are cursed for loving the Union.
They ask us to give it up, to give up principles for which we would preserve the
Union.
Gen. Seymour had his
buttons cut off by Rebels while asleep. He has no hat, it having been lost in
battle; he seems very disconsolate. General Shaler sits beside him with one arm
about his waist trying to console him.
Rebel officers have
been here and offer $5 to $15 Confederate for $1 in greenbacks. They have a
curious faith in success. At noon we left the junction for the South.
Kingsville is a junction of two roads, one for Charleston, the other north to
Wilmington. Four or five miles below we cross the Santee River, or one of its
branches, and an extensive swamp on a tressie, seemingly two miles long. Here I
saw several live alligators. We reached Branchville at dark and switched to the
west. Country is level, woody and in poor cultivation. On much of the cotton
lands trees are standing dead. Fields look like vast swamps. Land is worked in
this way wholly by slaves with little knowledge how to improve land, with
neither facilities or encouragement to do so, and when exhausted, it is left.
We could see the [slaves] toiling in "the cotton and the cane."
SOURCE: John Worrell
Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville
and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 53-4
Arrived at Augusta,
Ga., at daylight, one of the nicest towns of its size in the South; the home of
Alexander H. Stephens, long celebrated as one of the ablest Southern men, now
the Vice President of this so-colled Confederacy. Business appeared dull.
Trains from Savannah had troops to reinforce Johnston beyond Atlanta. After an
hour we run out of town and changed trains. We have had no rations since the
20th, resort to various means to obtain bread. Brass buttons, pocket books,
knives, any Yankee trinket are in good demand; bread is scarce, prices enormous
when we find it. They like Yankee notions emblazoned in brass and gutta percha,
but they are too supercilious to adopt Northern principles. I succeeded in
trading a silk necktie and an ink stand for a loaf of bread. These fellows are
the queerest traffickers I ever saw. The Esquimaux and native Indians have no
greater hankering for a ten-penny nail than these people have for brass
ornaments. A good jack knife counted in their cash, is worth about $25; a
wooden inkstand $3 to $15; brass buttons from $3 to $10 per dozen. The country
around Augusta looks nice; it is on the Savannah River; population about 8,300.
In the afternoon we drew rations for a day; moved on at 3 o'clock.
On, on, on we go down to the Rebel jail;
I reckon this is rather rough a riding on a rail.
Oh, here are boys from many a hearth,
Dear to many a breast,
Many a mothers heart is dearth,
Many a wife with woe is press'd;
And many a kin and many a friend
Will long to know their fate;
[But] many a precious life will end
Within that prison gate;
And many a day ere we can see
That dear old home again,
And rest beneath that banner free
That traitors now disdain.
Many a long, long weary day,
Many a dismal night,
Our hope and strength may waste away
By hunger, pain and blight;
And many a vow may be forgot,
But we shall not forget
The glorious truths for which we fought.
The cause that triumphs yet.
But we hear their vauntings everywhere;
They never can prove true;
And yet what devils ever dare
These Rebels dare to do;
And matters look a little rough,
Things look a little blue,
You bet it is a little tough,
Going down to Rebel jail;
'Tis not so very pleasant, though,
This riding on a rail!
SOURCE: John Worrell
Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville
and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 54-5
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
Relay House Station,
on the Northern Central R. R. Just where that is I haven't yet found out. We
stood up or laid down in the street from noon yesterday until 3 a. M. this
morning, when cars came and we went on board. They are box cars, no seats, but
they have a roof, and that is what we most needed. We shivered and shook so our
teeth chattered when we first got on board, and it was 5 A. M. before the train
started. We were no longer curious to know where we were going. We were wet,
cold, hungry and thirsty, and from lying on the pavements were so stiff we could
hardly get on our feet. The major had to give it up—his leg was hurt worse than
he thought. We are sorry not to have him along, for next to Colonel Smith, he
is the most soldierly soldier in the regiment. Our two days' rations are gone
and we are wondering when we will get another feed.
Noon. We are at
Hanover Junction, Pa. We now feel sure we are after the rebel horse thieves,
but unless we get a faster move on than this, they will get away with all the
horses in the country before we get there. We are waiting for further orders
from General Wool. The 144th N. Y. just stopped here, on their way to
Baltimore. They are just out, and to hear them complain about being kept on the
cars a whole day and night made us laugh.
5 p.m. We are full
once more. Doesn't seem as if we could ever get hungry again after the feed we
have just had. We are at Hanover, Pa. As the train stopped it seemed as if the
whole population were standing beside the track, and nearly everyone had a
basket of eatables or a pail of coffee. Men, women and children were there and
they seemed to enjoy seeing us eat, even urging us to eat more, after we had
stuffed ourselves, and then told us to put the rest in our haversacks. But they
are terribly scared at the near approach of the rebel cavalry. We told them to
fear no more. We were there, and the memory of the feast we had had would make
us their special defenders. They distributed tracts among us, some of them
printed sermons, and wound up by asking us to join them in singing the
long-meter doxology. We not only sang it, we shouted it; each one took his own
key and time, and some, I for one,—got through in time to hear the last line from
the others. We left them with cheers and blessings that drowned the noise of
the train, and I prayed that if I ever got stranded it might be in Hanover.
GETTYSBURG, PA.
Night. The train has stopped outside the village, and a citizen says the Rebs
are just out of the village on the opposite side. It is pitch dark and the
orders are to show no lights and to keep very still. I have a candle and am
squatted in the corner of the car trying to keep my diary going.
The officers are
parading up and down along the train trying to enforce the order to be quiet. I
am hovering over my candle so it won't be seen, for I must write, for fear I
won't get a better chance.
SOURCE:
Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 48-50
Orders got too
strict for my candle and I had to put it out. We made so much noise that the
doors were shut on us finally and we were in pitch darkness in a closed car,
with only room to lay down in. As the noise could be traced to no one in
particular we kept it up until tired out and then slept as well as the
circumstances would allow. Company B has a new name, "Bostwick's
Tigers." It seems the colonel sent to find out who was making such a noise
and was told it was Bostwick's tigers.* However, morning finally came, and the
people of Gettysburg came down with a good breakfast, which in spite of our
Hanover stuffing we began to need. They say the Rebs have gone on about five
miles beyond the place. Lew Holmes and I got permission to go into the village,
and I took the opportunity to write a letter home and to catch up with my diary.
SOURCE:
Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 50-1
Well, I have had a
good sleep, if I did have a hard time getting it. Our cornstalk bed which
promised so well, did not prove so. The stalks were like bean poles, and the
ears big in proportion. After turning and twisting every way, Walt and I left
the others and started on an exploring expedition. It was pitch dark, and we
had to feel our way, but finally came to a building. We felt along until we
came to a door and went in. It appeared to be an empty barn, but soon after we
spread our blankets and got into bed we found we were in a henroost. We got
outside much quicker than we got into the building and soon after came against
another building. This we felt our way around, and on the opposite side found
it to be a house, and the people not yet gone to bed. We urged them to let us
sleep on the floor by the fire, but while the man seemed willing, the wife
objected, and there was nothing to do but try elsewhere. Finally we decided to
try and find the cornfield again, and by taking the back track we succeeded in
getting back where we started from. We made a bed under the fence and at last
got asleep, being too tired to be very particular. We were not going to say
anything about our adventure, but the others woke up first and in some way
found out about it. We had breakfast, the stragglers were called in, and were
soon in line waiting for the order to march.*
2 p. m. In Hanover, Pa., again. About 8 o'clock we marched through Gettysburg
and tumbled into the cars. We soon reached Hanover, where we have since been.
Along towards noon, we began to wonder if we would get another such feed as
they gave us on Sunday. Somehow the people didn't seem as glad to see us as
they did then. In fact they seemed rather to avoid us. Not all, for some were
handing out everything eatable they had. Rather than ride these free horses to
death, Snyder and I decided on another plan and it worked beautifully. We saw a
house where the people were ready to sit down to the table—a man and a woman
were already at the table—when we set our guns by the door and walking in, took
seats at the table without as much as saying "by your leave." I
passed my plate to the man, who all at once seemed to see a funny side to our
impudence and burst out laughing. We had a good dinner and a jolly good time,
and felt as if we had gotten even with one of them at any rate.
Night. Have stopped,
and the report is that a bridge is broken down somewhere ahead of us and that
we must stay here all night; a lonesome dismal spot, not a house in sight and
only the remains of our army rations for supper.
_______________
*I was in Gettysburg
in 1909 and was told by people who remembered our visit in 1862, that there
were no Rebels anywhere near Gettysburg except in the imagination of the
people, who were scared out of their senses.
SOURCE:
Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 51-2
Cold and wet. Throat
and lungs sore, head and bones ache; I am nearly sick; got no rest. It grew
warmer about 10 a. m. I lay down to get a little ease when orders came to get
ready to leave. After a long parade, a great deal of threatening and ordering
by officers to "slap the bayonet into them," we started out. In
passing the guard we marched by twos. Going up the hill I slipped and fell
behind. The officer that counted us was enraged; seized me by the collar, pushed
me down the hill, then jerking the other way struck me across the shoulders
with his sword a blow that staggered me. Had it not been death I should have
struck him in the face, it was my first impulse. Our eyes met, I wanted to know
him if we should meet again. He flourished his sword and with an oath ordered
me on. It rained hard so there was not many to look at us on the street. Nearly
noon I got aboard the car. It was after dark before we reached Burkville, a
junction of the South Side Richmond & Danville Railroads. The most
important place was Farmville, 70 miles west of Richmond on the right bank of
the Appomattox River, a place of nearly 2,000.
Near this place we
passed a high, long bridge. The car I was in was an old-fashioned coach with
seats, although not cushioned we thought they were doing well by us. Shortly
after dark I got as much out of the way as possible, for the boys were inclined
to be "gay and happy still," and lay down on the floor. I felt much
worn; my throat pained me constantly. Fortunately I had some camphor gum, sent
from home during the winter, a pill of which I frequently took, which gave
relief.
SOURCE: John Worrell
Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville
and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 45-6
VIRGINIA GIRLS OF SWEET SIXTEEN DID NOT LOVE
US.
Weather hot; two
more trains of Rebel wounded pass. Report that General Wadsworth and others of
our valuable generals are killed. At 2 p. m. our train moves for Lynchburg. It
is composed of horse and cattle cars all crowded. Charlotteville is beautifully
located in a fertile valley. About one mile west is the University of Virginia,
founded by Thomas Jefferson. In the vicinity of this edifice were about
twenty-five girls. Observing us, they waved their hands in greeting; we waved.
We were going slowly; they ran across the green toward Discovering their
mistake they bounded up and down and cried "You damned Yankees!"
Screaming contemptuously they went back as fast as they came. Procuring a Rebel
flag they flirted it at us.
Sweet Virginia maids,
You love the soil where born;
But you bear a flag that fades;
Yet I forgive your scorn.
You know not what you do,
Nor do I court debate;
I'll fling a kiss to you,
As you bestow your hate.
I wish I had a flower;
I'd toss it on the lea.
It might perfume this hour
You sour so on me!
Indeed, I love you, quite
You so much remind
Of Northern girls as bright,
Sweet girls I left behind.
Your scorn is hot and keen
As Yankee girls, I trow;
Though you are sweet sixteen,
Still sweeter girls I know!
But when this war is o'er
And purged your blood, that's bad
The Union we'll restore
And you'll not be so mad.
Yes, when this war is over
And the Union is restored,
You may want a Yankee lover,
And not try to feel so bored.
Coquette with old Secech!
Indeed,, it seems quite sad
That such could make a mash
On girls and be their fad!
Some brutal nigger-driver,
Who glories in his lash,
Some slavery conniver
Might favor such a mash.
But your dear Alma Mater
Is Jefferson's own school;
He was a slavery hater;
T. J. - he was no fool!
Haughty maids, good-day-
When shall we meet again?
You don't seem to like my way,
Mad maids of Old Virgin.
A woman passing,
said: "It is hard times; the people had not reckoned on the possibility of
failure; for myself I did not deem it possible that all their lofty
expectations would be realized."
SOURCE: John Worrell
Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville
and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 41-2
