To-day we are in sight of the blue hills of Western Virginia. Many years have rolled by since I roamed over those hills and with boyish ardor pursued the flying game. But, alas! Yankee soldiers have taken the place of that mountain game, and I hunt them now, though I don't like to catch too many at once.
We camped to-night in Orange county, about two miles from Gordonsville.
SOURCE: William S. White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, p. 127
At daylight a man
shot and instantly killed. He had no particular stopping place, had become
partially crazed; in the night had crept beyond the dead line and fell asleep.
As soon as seen, the guard shot him while yet asleep. He had just been seen by
two of our men who were calling him to come out. He lay until "dead
call" and was carried out. Those who have helpless friends are eager to
get them out. So at an early hour this morning they are crowded forward.
Regulators are clearing every passage to make room for the sick. The main
street on which I stop from the gate to the east, is filled with prostrate men.
There is a greater number than yesterday. The doctors are making special
efforts and one said yesterday, "The sick must all come out. The condition
of the prison will breed pestilence that will spread through the country."
It is through their importunity that this movement is made. They appear
frightened. I heard another say, "Conditions are shameful." Long have
doctors complained that their government furnishes neither
medicine nor decent quarters; that men can not be successfully treated on such
fare and in these quarters. One told Steward Brown that men could not live long
on the rations given us; that well men will soon be sick. They have 'some new
tents up; some are being carried thither in army wagons. The Rebel sergeant who
counted us today said:
"Captain don't
care how many Yankees die; he says he has killed more men than Joe
Johnston," then added: "What did you'ns come down heah for if you'ns
didn't want tough fare? But we can't help it."
After two hours
laying in a crowd, "no sick call," is announced. The sick are being
returned to all parts of the prison. I am living on rice alone, draw some,
trade meal for some.
Report is rife that
our government has offered the Richmond dignitaries to accept a parole of all
prisoners, especially sick, and take care of prisoners of both parties.
Undoubtedly this is the disposition of our government. This evening I met an
intelligent talker who knows what he sees more than most men. Having frequently
met him, I inquired his name. "Buerila," he replied; "I am from
Illinois, have been a prisoner ten months, came here from Florida; I will stay
ten more, I will be eaten up by lice and maggots before I will ask our
government to get on its marrow bones to these Rebels. I am glad to see Lincoln
stand square on his feet. I was a Douglas man, not that he was a better man,
but had had more experience. I knew both personally and now believe Lincoln the
best man for the place. If I can get into God's country in time he will get my
vote." I referred to the report; he said:
"I asked the
old Dutch if that thing was true myself. The old bummer looked mad, but
answered more than I expected: 'Py Cot ve vills to no such ting! Py Cot, ve
vill starf every son of a pitch! Now, I tells you, you vills all tie pefore ve
vills parole ye-an pefore exchange. Py Cot, your Covment is too tevilment. Ve
cot you foul!' Turning his horse around to go away, he said: 'Py Cot, you as vell
pe schoot as stay here, and ve no trust damn Yankees.'"
SOURCE: John Worrell
Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville
and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, pp. 97-8
No sick call; the
poor fellows are disappointed. Well dressed officers ride out the street and
back. Passing near us they inquire of a fellow who is whittling a bone:
"What State you from, young man?"
"Massachusetts."
"Do you rather
live here than in Massachusetts?"
"No, sir."
"Well, you'll
be apt to live out your days here, for there'll be no exchange till the war
closes and that won't be in ten years if Lincoln is your next President."
"There'll not
be a corporal's guard left of this crowd before that time, Colonel,"
remarked the other.
Before they reached
the gate they halted to buy a watch, and a few of us followed up and I asked:
"Colonel, will
you come back into the Union if Lincoln is not elected?"
"Ho, ho! You
Yankees are not fighting for the Union; that's your mistake. It's the nigger
you want."
"If McClellan
is elected will the South come into the Union?" I repeated.
"Ah, the Union!
The Union's gone up!"
By this time the
Major had got the watch by paying $100 in "Confed" and they spurred
up. We are often taunted by the slur that we are no better than niggers. They
say:
"You fight with
niggers; you think it's all right to fight us with niggers."
We retort by saying
that it is no worse for a nigger to fight with us than to work for them, and
that they would put a gun in his hands if they dared. It is not so bad for them
to be hunted by niggers as it is for us to be hunted helpless and half starved,
by blood hounds.
A little after noon
a man shot and killed. I hastened and learned that he was dipping water from
the brook. The sentinel had been observed to be closely watching. The ball
passed through the forehead, tearing out his brains. The guard was immediately
relieved by the officer of the day as they all are when they make a sure fire.
It is a story never denied that for every Yankee killed a furlough is granted.
In a few minutes a stretcher smeared with blood and brains bore another Yankee
to the dead house.
SOURCE: John Worrell
Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville
and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 102
We learn from the
New York Herald that that branch of the great Yankee nation, of which Greeley
is the organ, is very much dissatisfied with the generalship of McClellan, and
an agitation is on foot to compel him to resign. His dilatory proceedings are
sharply commented on, and incompetency and treachery both assigned as reasons
for the slow progress in subduing the Rebels. In the number of soldiers, field
artillery, rifles, muskets and ammunition, they have (says the Tribune,) twice
as many as the rebels—and surpass them in discipline, valor and all the
essentials for successful war, except rulers and officers. In this latter
particular it is admitted that the Rebels outstrip them. McClellan’s pretense
that the Grand Army is not ready to advance is pronounced a falsehood. The
whole Yankee nation is eager for fight—and is only restrained by the cowardice or
venality of their officers. These last are directly charged with prolonging the
war for the sake of high pay. “They don’t mean (Greeley says) that the Rebels
shall be too severely whipped.” What suits them best is a war, all expense and
little or no fighting, until the loyal States shall be exhausted, discouraged,
disgusted and ready to buy a peace of Jeff. Davis by almost any possible
surrender. The Government is said to be on the verge of bankruptcy by the
preparations already made—tho’ no decisive result has been reached. The
philosopher is convinced that without a change of men and measures, there is
very faint prospect of any decisive result being attained at all. The removal
of Cameron is a change in the wrong direction, and tends rather to inflame the
spleen of the philosopher.
There is some show
of justice in Greeley’s complaints. With all their vaunted resources the
Yankees have achieved very little. It is not for us to point out the blunders
of their strategy. But their failure so far corroborates the opinion we have
long entertained, that they are not capable of public affairs or the conduct of
a war.
SOURCE: “Discord at
the North,” Richmond Daily Whig,
Richmond, Virginia, Tuesday Morning, January 21, 1862, p. 2 col. 1
There was no fighting anywhere near us yesterday, though the occasional
boom of a heavy gun reached us, and it is now pretty certain that the Yankees
have, by extraordinary exertions, made their escape to the river.
SOURCE: William S. White, A Diary of the War; or What I
Saw of It, p. 124
Yanks brought up three or four thousand to E. and shelled our Boys for some time.
SOURCE: Ephraim Shelby Dodd, Diary of Ephraim Shelby Dodd: Member of Company D Terry's Texas Rangers, p. 11
Went out beyond Maj. Winn's, brought his family and negroes out, skirmished with the Yankees for some time, nothing serious.
SOURCE: Ephraim Shelby Dodd, Diary of Ephraim Shelby Dodd: Member of Company D Terry's Texas Rangers, p. 11
And the 16 day was a
very pritty warm day and we had orders to cook too days rations we was
expecting the Yankees to cross the River again but they did not
SOURCE: Bartlett
Yancey Malone, The Diary of Bartlett Yancey Malone, p. 28
Our battery moved
back last night about one mile and camped on Hogan's farm. This morning when we
awoke we found a party of eight hundred Yankee prisoners at Hogan's house.
Amongst them were several surgeons, and they actually refused to attend to
their own wounded, but insisted, as surgeons were non-combatants, that they
should be sent to Richmond and immediately returned to the North.
A great number of
wounded Yankees have been brought in by our men, and are receiving all proper
attention. We moved forward to Gaines's house, where we remained all day, but
near us there was no more fighting.
SOURCE: William S.
White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, p. 122
Brigade went out on
scout. Our Company supported battery, drove the Yanks back to their main camp
and returned.
SOURCE: Ephraim
Shelby Dodd, Diary of Ephraim Shelby Dodd: Member of Company D Terry's
Texas Rangers, p. 10
Went on a scout out
to Eaglesville. Met a Yankee scout just this side of E. We charged them and run
them one and a half miles, capturing six and wounding several.
SOURCE: Ephraim
Shelby Dodd, Diary of Ephraim Shelby Dodd: Member of Company D Terry's
Texas Rangers, p. 11
we stade at the same
plase untell sun down And then our Regiment had to go on picket And we marched
down in about a mile of the Yankees and sent out our detail
SOURCE: Bartlett
Yancey Malone, The Diary of Bartlett Yancey Malone, p. 23
General Hood came
riding up and said well Boys you all did such great works hear last nite that
you scard the Yankees on the other side of the river but we staid thar all day
SOURCE: Bartlett
Yancey Malone, The Diary of Bartlett Yancey Malone, p. 27
we still went on and
about 3 oclock in the eavning we come up with the main body of the Yankees (at
Cold Harbor) and attacked them And from that time untell dark we had a wright
warm time of it But we whipt them And in our company A. Burk was kild and A.
Tucker and Page was slitley wounded
SOURCE: Bartlett
Yancey Malone, The Diary of Bartlett Yancey Malone, p. 22
we was rousted up
about too oclock in the night and about day break we started out again And
crost the Chickahominy River and marched untell we came to the York river
Railroad 8 miles below Richmond And then we taken down the Railroad and about 2
hours befour sunset we come to a little creak whar the Yankees had burnt the
bridg And left sum of thir peases thar to bumb us so we couldent build the
bridge untell they could get thir armey futher along, And we never got the
bridge built untell next morning about a half of a hour by sun
SOURCE: Bartlett
Yancey Malone, The Diary of Bartlett Yancey Malone, p. 22
Nashville, Tenn., Thursday Evening, April 7.
The present week, thus far, has been to me, full of new and thrilling experiences.
On Sabbath, the day after our arrival, I entered an ambulance and visited a camp for the first time. The company consisted of three, besides myself—Rev. Dr. D., a young theological student who is passing vacation here, and Miss T. The day was warm and springlike; the hyacinths, crocuses, and peach trees in blossom. It was the camp of the 7th Pennsylvania Cavalry, and situated upon one of the hights overlooking the City. The tents were white, the soldiers well-dressed, the uniform bright and everything tidy. A new and gaily painted banner pointed out the tent of the Colonel. As we entered the grounds, that gentleman, with the Major, met us cordially, a seat was prepared for the ladies at the opening of the Colonel's tent, while a huge box in front served for a speaker's stand. The bugle then summoned such as wished to listen, and service was held by the two gentlemen of our party. Books and papers were afterward distributed, for which the soldiers seemed eager. The Colonel informed us that the Regiment had just been reorganized, and new recruits filled the vacant places in the ranks, made so by the heroes, who fell at such battles as Lookout Mountain, Mission Ridge, and Chickamauga. There is a long list of such inscribed upon this banner, of which they are justly proud.
On Monday, visited a hospital for the first time. Was accompanied by Mrs. E. P. Smith, Mrs. Dr. F. and my travelling companion Miss O, beside the driver. As the ambulance halted, we saw through the open door and windows the homesick, pallid faces raised from the sick beds to greet us with a look of pleasure. Upon entering, almost the first object was that of a dying boy. His name was John Camplin, of Co. G. 49th Illinois Vols. He was a new recruit of only seventeen, and the victim of measles. He "did'nt want to die," but, after the singing of such hymns as "Rock of Ages," and "Jesus lover of my soul," he grew more resigned. I took the card which hung in a little tin case at the head of his bed, and copied the name and address of his father. The dying boy had been watching, and he then with difficult speech asked me to write to his people and tell them "good bye,” and that he was "going home." I tried to obtain a more lengthy message to comfort them, but speech was soon denied nd reason wandered. He died a few hours after, and the sad tidings was sent next day.
Found another poor boy quite low, with pneumonia. He knew his condition, but with an heroic smile upon his wasted features said, that "if" his "life would do his dear country any good" he was "willing to give it."
The Masonic Hall and First Presbyterian Church constitute Hospital, No. 8. We visited that on Tuesday.
As we enter the Hall, past the guard, we find a broad flight of stairs before us, and while ascending, perceive this caution inscribed upon the wall in evergreen.
"Remember you are in a hospital and make no noise." Up this flight, and other cautions meet us, such as "No smoking here"—" Keep away from the wall," &c. We here pause at a door, and are introduced to the matron who is fortunately just now going through the wards. It is Miss J-tt, of Ann Arbor, Michigan.
Ascending another broad flight, and asking in the meantime of her duties, she throws open the door of the linen room where are two clerks, and says:
"This department comprises all the work assigned to me whatever else I do is voluntary and gratuitous. "But today," she adds laughingly, "it would be difficult to define my duties. I think I might properly be called 'Commandant of the Black Squad,' or Chief of the Dirty Brigade;" and she explained by saying that she had seven negro women and two men, subject to her orders, who were cleaning the building. She next throws open the door of a ward which contains but a few patients, and has a smoky appearance. She tells us, they are fumigating it, having had some cases of small pox, most of which have been sent to the proper Hospital.
We pass to another, where she tells us, previous to entering, is one very sick boy. He is of a slight form, only fifteen, and with delicate girlish features. His disease is typhoid fever, from the effects of which he is now quite deaf. As we approach, he says to her faintly, "Sit down here, mother, on the side of my bed.”
She does so, when he asks her to "to bend her head down so he can tell her something." This she does, when he says, quite loud, but with difficulty;—“There's some money under my pillow, I want you to get it, and buy me some dried peaches."
"I don't want your money," she says, "but you shall have the peaches if I can get them," and she writes a note and dispatches it to the sanitary rooms for them." "This boy always calls me mother," she says, "and the first day he was brought here, he sent his nurse to ask if I would come up and kiss him. He has always been his mother's pet, and I now correspond with her on his account."
His fever is very high, and we pass our cold hand soothingly over his forehead and essay to speak words of cheer, and as we turn to leave, he looks up pleadingly and says:
"Can't you kiss me?"
"Yes, indeed, I can—am glad to do so," and we press our own to his burning lips and receive his feverish, unpleasant breath, not a disagreeable task though, for all, when we remember that he is the pet of his mother, who misses him so very much, and who may never look upon her boy again.
Of one-a middle-aged, despondent looking man we ask cheerily, how he is to-day.
"About the same," he replies coldly, but with a look which is the index of a thought like this:
Oh, you don't care for us or our comfort,—you are well, and have friends, and home, probably near you, and you cannot appreciate our suffering, and only come here to satisfy an idle curiosity."
He does not say this, but he thinks it, and we read the thought in the voice, manner, and countenance. We determine to convince him of his mistake, if possible, notwithstanding he looks as if he prefers we should walk along and leave him alone.
"Were you wounded?" we ask.
"No-sick," was the short gruff answer.
"Your disease was fever was'nt it?" we persist," your countenance looks like it."
"Yes, fever and pneumonia,” he replies in the same cold, but despairing tone.
"Ah-but you're getting better now."
"Don't know about it—reckon not."
"Well, how is it about getting letters from home?"
His countenance, voice and manner undergo a sudden change now, and his eyes overrun with tears, at the simple words "letters from home."
And as he raises his hand to his mouth, to conceal its quivering, he tells us with tremulous voice that he has sent three letters to his wife and can get no answer. She has left the place where they used to live, and he does not know certainly where to direct. We ask who we can write to, to find out, and learn that a sister would know. We take the probable address of the wife, and that of the sister, and after some farther conversation leave him looking quite like another man as we promise to write to each in the evening. (Subsequently, we learned that he received a reply to both, and was comparatively cheerful and very grateful.)
Down stairs, and we enter a ward on the first floor. Here is a thin sallow visage, the owner of which piteously asks if we "have any oranges," "No," but we provide means, by which he can purchase.
"I'm from North Carolina," he says, "I hid in the woods and mountains and lived on roots and berries for weeks, before I could get away."
In reply to our query as to whether he would like a letter written home, he informs us that his wife and father arrived in town only a few days ago,
"Then you have seen them," we say.
"Yes, they both visit me, but my wife comes oftenest."
Just now, his nurse, a young man who should know better, interrupts him by telling us that "it isn't so, and his family are all in North Carolina."
"That's just the way," said the sick man, turning to me with a flushed and angry look, "that they're talking to me all the time, and trying to make everybody think I'm crazy. I reckon I know whether I've seen my wife or not!"
"Of course you do," we say quietingly; "does she bring you anything nice to eat?" and we add that we wish she would come while we were there, so we could see her.
"Well, she don't bring me much to eat," he says in a weak, hollow voice, but earnestly, "she don't understand fixin' up things nice for sick folks, and then she's weakly like, but she does all she can, for she's a right gude heart. She doesn't fix up, and look like you folks do, you know," he added, “for she's sort o' torn to pieces like by this war."
“Yes, we can understand it."
Upon inquiring about this man a few moments after of the Ward-Master, we find that he is really a monomaniac upon this subject, persisting in the declaration that his wife and father visit him often though no one sees them.
"He can't live," said the Ward-Master, "he has lost all heart and is worn out. The chance of a Southerner to live after going to a hospital is not over a fourth as good as for one of our Northern boys. They can do more fighting with less food while in the field, but when the excitement is over they lose heart and die.”
We find upon several subsequent visits that he is growing weaker, and at the last when his countenance indicates that death is near, we are thankful that he is still comforted by these imaginary visits from father and wife.
We crossed the street and entered the First Presbyterian Church, which constitutes a part of the hospital. This place is notable for the promulgation of secession sentiments from its pulpit in other days. A specimen of the style was given here a short time before the entrance of our troops, by Prof. Elliott of the Seminary, who in a prayer besought the Almighty that he would so prosper the arms of the Confederates and bring to naught the plans of the Federals, that every hill-top, plain and valley around Nashville should be white with the bones of the hated Yankees!”
“After hearing this it was doubly a pleasure, in company with Miss J., another "Northern vandal," to make the walls of the old church echo to the words of "The Star Spangled Banner," with an accompaniment from the organ; and it would have done any loyal heart good to see how much pleasure it gave to the sick and wounded soldiers.
SOURCE: Elvira J. Powers, Hospital Pencillings: Being a Diary While in Jefferson General Hospital, Jeffersonville, Ind., and Others at Nashville, Tennessee, as Matron and Visitor, p. 13-19
All quiet along our lines, and we have come to the conclusion that the Yankees have postponed their attack upon this place.
SOURCE: William S. White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, p. 112
The 26 day of May was a nice one but about 12 oclock in the night it comenced raining very hard And about 1 oclock we was rousted up and did expect to attack the Yankees about day but it rained so hard we did not go
SOURCE: Bartlett Yancey Malone, The Diary of Bartlett Yancey Malone, p. 20
The 28 day was clear and about a hour befour the sun set we left our camp And march all night down toward Hanover Coathouse And we past in about three hundred yards of the Yankeys pickets And then we stopt and rested about 3 hours And about 8 oclock the next day we started back and went about 5 or 6 miles and stopt for the night
SOURCE: Bartlett Yancey Malone, The Diary of Bartlett Yancey Malone, p. 20
The incident at the
creek, where I nearly drew the fire of two sentries, led me to inquire as to
methods prison authorities have for informing new arrivals, of their rules in
reference to the dead line, especially where no line is visible, which is the
case for 60 yards at the point mentioned, parallel with the crossing from south
to north. I learned they never published their rules, every man learns at his
peril, just as I did, or by hearsay. Old prisoners say there never has been a
visible line at this creek crossing; that no man knows where it is except as he
judges the distance from the stockade, or guesses where it would come by
looking at the line where it stops north and south of the creek. The sentry is
left to guess when a man gets over the line, that is not there and shoots
according to his guess. It involves upon the prisoners to post new men, as much
as possible, but comparatively few think to do so. It is a serious matter as
new arrivals nearly every day are apt to transgress the rule ignorantly and
innocently, and if shot they have been murdered in cold blood. During new
arrivals this happens often, as guards are mostly young fellows whose chief
education is to despise Yankees whom it is a Southern virtue to kill, and to
perform this patriotic duty he has been trained to shoot well, and to watch for
a chance. At this point he finds opportunity. Guards are composed of Alabama
and Georgia youths reared under the fire-eating doctrines of Yancey, Cobb and
Toombs, and to believe in the infallibility of the chivalric South, its
institutions, peculiar rights, as superior to all else, whose leaders have led
the Southern mass to engage in a bad war for a bad cause. Probably these
shooting imps know nothing of this, are ignorant of the crime they every day
commit. Not a single instance, so far, were men who were shot seeking to
escape. They were ignorant of any rule and unhindered in their approach to the
stockade by a visible dead line at this point. Hence the shooting has been
unjustifiable by ordinnary prison discipline prescribed by treaties or laws of
war.
It is one
continuous, irksome every day recurrence of unpleasant scenes. But one event is
looked for with hopeful pleasure, that is the issuing of rations which never
lacks serious, if not total disappointment. After roll call the sick are helped
to the gates; those ready to die are put on stretchers and carried to the
hospital outside near the south end of the stockade. Of all the grim and
ghastly sights imagination ever depicted, those we see at this hour far excel
in horror. Poor, squalid, yellow faces, eyes sunken and glassy, cheeks hollow
or swollen with scurvy, fevered lips drawn tightly across the teeth, the mouth
agape to breathe or let escape fetid breath, some borne by comrades, others
tottering by the help of staffs or supported by friends; some without half a
suit to cover them, some with terribly swollen limbs, putrid sores, dropsical
distensions and bent forms. One holds his breath to look at them, nay turns
away! Men walk about whom we would call bad corpses if seen in coffins anywhere
else. Such a pitiful look as they give I never saw; their voices are as if the
dead speak.
Two rods to the rear
of us I witnessed the death of a Tennesseean, the last of three brothers who
died on the same spot since March. All were Belle Isle victims. He had laid all
day in the heat and will not be carried out till morning. He gradually wasted
and died without a struggle. It is more remarkable than anything I ever read,
how men lose their sense of life; imperceptibly degree by degree, it goes out
leaving only a latent consciousness of what they have been, what they are, and
a vague, unintelligent hope. Even that departs and his mind ranges in the
narrowest sphere the human spirit can. For weeks he is robbed of himself; an
infant is not more childish or weak; age not so whimsical or broken. He is a
mere human worm! Another singular phase of these conditions: We frequently see
men unable to arise from the sand, threatening to knock down strong men for
trivial things they deem insulting. Men of skeleton forms lock in each others
puny arms in a rage, falling on the ground unable to rise, they still boast of
what they can do. So long bereft of comfort, so long have they only hoped for
bread and liberty from day to day at the hands of merciless authorities, that
reason is extinguished in many, and the lowest, blindest, selfish passion
clings to the rotten thread of life. The phases which life assumes in this
degraded condition, is inconceivable. Some retain the tenderest affection and
the broadest faith, as long as consciousness remains.
I saw a man today in
the last stages of starvation having sickened of his scanty food. His cry was
bread, but when offered that given us, his stomach heaved; he turned his face
with expressions of hopeless agony and exclaimed: "They can get me
something else! could I be at home!" There are many cases which doctors
might term chronic innutrition, where they eat with avidity all they get and
still starve, the food doing no good. Doctors have been made acquainted with
many of these cases, but will not admit to the hospital. Bell Isle boys tell me
they have often dreamed of eating and woke up to go through the motions
frothing at the mouth. In one instance they begged the guard to throw over
pieces of a cow that had been delivered of a calf three days before, some of
which they devoured, raw. They exhibit some rings claimed to have been made
from the bones of a dog, eaten at Belle Isle, kept as a memento.
SOURCE: John Worrell
Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville
and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 66-8
