ANDERSONVILLE PRISON PEN.
Source: Lyons Weekly Mirror, Page 8, Feb.
19, 1876
Last week we copied from the Joliet Sun a notice of an
address read by Mr. E. A. Nattinger, Adjutant of Bartleson Post G. A.
R., of that city, and following we copy a portion of his
"Recollections," vividly setting forth some of the terrible realities of
the prison pen at Andersonville.
Anderson station was chosen as
the location of the largest military prison of the Confedercy on account
of its utter seclusion from the outside world. Before the prison was
located there, there was only a wood yard, a shed, and an old church. A
writer in Appleton's Journal describes it as the most dreary and
desolate spot in the State of Georgia. When we arrived there we were
ordered out of the cars and marched to an open field alongside the road.
Here we halted, and from this spot I first obtained a glimpse of the
prison pen. It looked from a distance like an immense stock yard teeming
with human beings. -- Before we were allowed to proceed we were again
searched. The Rebel sergeants divided us into squads and with the utmost
dexterity went through us. Every man was forced to strip to the skin,
the pockets of our clothes were turned inside out, and the linings
examined. We were made to open our mouths lest a greenback might be
concealed therein. They thrust their hands roughly through our hair,
looked between our toes, and even with sharp eyes peered into our ears.
A member of my company played a neat Yankee trick upon them. He had a
$50 green back, and rolling it up in natural leaf tobacco he placed it
in his mouth. When the sergeant came to look into his mouth, in his
search, he took the valuable cud out and said, "Johnnie, you don't want
this, do you?" The Rebel answered, "No, but a chew of tobacco is about
the only thing we won't take." Not until we were stripped of everything
valuable, many of us losing our coats and blankets, did the Rebels
consider their robbery complete.
Arriving within three hundred
yards of the pen, a terrible stench greeted our nostrils. Words cannot
convey an idea of it. It poisened the air in vapors so thick that it
caused a sickening dizziness. On we went, past the Rebels' camp, past
the immense cook house, and following the contour of a small creek, we
arrived before the great gates of Andersonville prison -- Beside these
wooden arches Death stood and counted his victims, for every third man
who passed under them died.
Like a drove of cattle we passed in
and stood in the narrow street. No tongue can tell, no pen describe, the
site that met our startled gaze. Could it be that those walking
skeletons were our own Union soldier comrades? The blackened skin,
sunken eyes, emaciated limbs, long matted hair and hairy faces, did not
leave much for us to recognize. The hard, sharp tones of the strongest,
and the plaintive, piteous voices of the weak, sounded strange and
unearthly to us. The first words they said were "Boys, don't go near the
dead line." Then they asked for the news from our lines, and when we
told them of some Union victories, they clenched their fists and
exclaimed, "Bully, we'll give them enough before we get through with
them."
I think there were about six hundred new prisoners in the
squad that entered with me. We were immediately assigned to detachments
and messes. A detachment consisted of 270 men, which was divided into
mess of 90 men each. On this occasion it was not found necessary to
organize any new detachments, but we were each assigned to a dead man's
place in old detachments. The death rate at that time averaged 99 each
twenty four hours, so you see there was plenty of vacant places.
When I went into prison there were 35,000 prisoners there. The pen
enclosed an area of ground 27 acres in extent -- Taking out the space
occupied by the creek and swamp, the space from which we were excluded
from occupying by the dead line, and the ground actually taken up by the
necessary streets, there was left a space of three and half square feet
to the man.
The prison was surrounded by a stockade made of pine
logs 20 feet in length. They were set on end in a trench six feet deep,
and placed together so close that it was impossible to get your fingers
between them. Outside of the inner inclosure were place platforms for
guards, about 60 feet apart, from which they could command a full view
at what was going on in the pen. Several hundred yards distant from the
stockades were two forts, mounting, if I remember right, twenty pieces
of artillery, some of the twenty-four and some as heavy as sixty
pounders. It required six regiments of infantry and two batteries of
artillery to guard us.
The existence of the dead line, which I
have heard moated, was a terrible reality. It was placed about 18 or 20
feet from the inner stockade, and consisted of posts driven into the
ground with a strip of board nailed on top. If a Yankee placed his arm
or foot beyond this line his life was the penalty.
Through the
center of the prison ran a creek, the bed of which was perhaps 20 feet
wide. The depth of the water in it was from three to four inches. On
this little stream, just above the prison, was the Rebel camp. They
watered their horses in it, washed their clothes in it, and in fact
threw the refuse from their camp into it. Just above the stockade was
located the great cook house, for which this creek was utilized as a
sewer. On each side of the stream the ground partook of the nature of a
morass, and hence could not be occupied by the prisoners. It was springy
and spougy and was utilized as the great sink of the camp. From it arose
a stench, like the presence of which to the windward of the prison could
be detected for the distance of ten miles. The filth in this swamp was
so offensive that nausea would attack all who came near the prison. It
was so impregnated with poison that the mud, coming in contact with an
abrasion of the skin, would produce "hospital gangrene" and inevitable
death. In it maggots festered and fattened.
In the whole prison
there was not a blade of grass or a single tree. The ground was sandy,
barren and dry. Below the sand, luckily, there was a bed of reddish
clay, from which, after it had been thoroughly dampened, small huts were
constructed. Into the sides of the small bluff many of the prisoners had
made burrows, which answered in dry weather for protection against the
sun. Not a single building of any kind was furnished the prisoners to
protect them from the burning southern sun or fierce rain storms. Pieces
of tents, ponchos and blankets, stuck up on sticks, answered as a
protection for many; but in Andersonville there were at least 25,000
prisoners, like myself, who had no covering whatever.
My first
morning's walk in the prison revealed to me sights too terrible for
description. I had seen men weeping, praying and cursing. I had seen
them beg for bread and cry for water, which they were too weak to get. I
had seen twenty skeleton bodies laid out and ready for the dead call.
During my hour's absence I found two men had died within 80 feet of
where the boys of our company slept. I was sent after water. Arriving at
the creek I found it impossible to get a chance to dip my pail. Several
hundred men were there on the same errand, and the croud increased
constantly. Near the creek I saw some of the boys dipping water out of
the spring holes in the banks. I went to them, and to my horror
discovered great long maggots laying on the sandy bottoms in the holes.
"What are you going to do with that water?" I said. "Drink it, of
course," they answered; "you're a fresh fish, I guess."
We drew
our rations about five o'clock each day. A full ration consisted of a
piece of corn bread three inches square, with a piece of bacon about the
size of an egg. Every other day we received a cup of mush in place of
the bread. This was cooked ration. The raw ration consisted of two to
four gills of meal, a small piece of bacon, five to ten spoonfuls of
rice, and about a teaspoonful of salt. We preferred raw rations, but
found great difficulty in cooking them with our limited supply of fuel.
One stick of common pine wood was issued to 90 men for a day's
allowance. We had to split it very carefully with our pen knives to make
it go round, and then club together to do our cooking. For my part, the
first ration I got in Andersonville I disposed of in about five minutes.
I had to wait twenty-four hours my next meal. I continued to do so the
five months I remained a prisoner. The bread we got came to us in loaves
two feet long, sixteen inches wide and three inches thick. It was simply
meal and water, sometimes with salt, oftener without. The cooked beans
and rice we received were emptied from the bags into cauldrons of water
in which the beef or bacon had been boiled, and cooked -- beans, bugs,
dirt, pods, and all. The rice was cooked in water so filthy as to color
it, and generally burned. In the bread we often found that the dry meal
had not even been warmed through.
Perhaps you will think I am
dwelling too long upon the subject of rations, but I wish you to
understand that it was not homesickness that made me lose fifty-five
pounds of solid flesh in Southern prisons. When I went into prison I
weight 140 pounds; when I came out I amde the scales balance at 85
pounds. It was starvation! The causes of the death of at least 12,000 of
the 18,000 Union boys who died in Andersonville were starvation and
exposure.
Not withstanding our unhappy condition we still
maintained our Yankee characteristics; we would trade and sell. About 9
o'clock in the morning business opened upon the principal thoroughfares,
Main and Market streets. Many times I have seen five or six thousand men
speculating upon the board of trade. Talk about your bulls and bears of
New York. Every man had something to sell, from a few parched beans up
to a plate of nice warm cakes. A perfect bedlam of cries, such as the
following, would greet you on every side: "Who wants to trade for a nice
soup bone, only boiled once." "Right here for your sour meal beer, a
sure cure for scurvy, only five cents a glass." "Who'll trade beans for
rice." "Step right up and look at this bundle of wood." &c &c. Business
was business there -- The transactions though not large, were lively,
and the trades as sharp as are made in any part of the mercantile world.
There was a rebel sutler in the prison, who kept on hand a large
stock of goods -- all prisoners were not robbed before they entered the
prison, and many managed, in spite of the strict search, to retain their
money. The object of the sutler, who was also an officer in the rebel
army, was got possession of this money, and he succeeded remarkably
well. The following was his scale of prices:
Flour, $1 per pound;
beans or peas, 25 cents per pint, molasses, $1.50 a pint, salt $1 a
pint, soda $8 per pound; Irish potatoes $1.0 per dozen, tea 80 cents a
drawing; soap, $1 per bar, apples 50 cents a piece, onions, $1 each,
pepper 25 cents a spoonful. These were greenback prices. In
Andersonville there were stores kept by the prisoners, where the
groceries were sold by the spoonful, chuck-luck boards and faro banks,
regular evening prayer meetings and barbers shops.
Few men ever
escaped from Andersonville, though constant efforts were made. The
favorite way was by tunnels. Those were dug in the clay soil with great
success. Sometimes the tunnels were started in the side of a hill,
sometimesin the bank of the creek, but generally the first opening was
made in the floor of the tent. The aperture had to be concealed with
great care. The cups and case knives were the favorite implements used
in digging. The dirt taken was thrown into the creek or well. Night
after night of hard work was required to get beyond the stockade. When
the tunnel was ready to be "tapped," a very dark or raining night was
selected. Many prisoners succeeded in getting out of the stockade, but
blood hounds were put upon their tracks, and they were almost invariably
captured. The Rebels would discover the break in the ground, and then
pursuit commenced. Often have I seen Captain Wirz with a number of
mounted men, and a large pack of hounds, start out to hunt the escaped
Yankee down. "Nigger hunting" had educated alike, in men and dogs, a
zest for the sport. Often the capture runaways were horribly torn and
bitten by the savage hounds.
We had great fear of the dead line,
and with sufficient cause. No halt or challenge was given to one who
happened to cross it. If a new prisoner stepped over the line he was
shot, without a word of warning. A prisoner in his sleep rolled under
the dangerous railing; a portion of his body only was beyond the line,
but, taking deliberate aim, the guard fired. The ball passed through the
prisoner's thigh and produced a fearful wound, from which, within a few
days, he died.
The prisoners, anxious to get the cleares water,
at the creek, would reach above the plank. At one time three men were
struck by the same bullet. Two of them afterwards died. Men were so
frequently shot here that a man was kept on guard constantly, to warn
the prisoners. In September, Geo. Robinson, a noble hearted boy of my
company, was shot on the dead line.
On the 9th of August there
was a terrible rain storm. It continued for hours, and the exposed
prisoners became chilled through, so that a great number died. The
stockade was washed away at the creek, but the rebels formed a solid
line at the break and placed two pieces of artillery so that they
commanded the opening. The next morning after the rain we discoved a
little stream of water rippling through the sand. We were allowed to
convey the water in troughs across the dead line. Its purity and
coolness filled us with delight. The rebels told us that the morning
after the rain the spring was found bubbling up and seeking its way
between the logs of the stockade. It was called the "miracle spring."
And I believed the words of a comrade when he said, "It is a gift from
God."
Impure air, filthy water, hunger and exposure, soon showed
their effects upon the new prisoner. It took only a few weeks to settle
upon his face a look that showed plainly the fight for life had
commenced. In the grim features it could be seen that every power was
strained in the battle. Sickness, misery and unhappiness prevailed
throughout the camp. The effects of hunger were terrible. The rations,
poor as they were, were consumed with ravenous avidity. I have eaten my
meal, and even rice, raw, because I could not restrain myself long
enough to cook it. When the raw beans or pease were carried in, I have
seen long lines of prisoners follow, searching the ground with their
eyes, hoping some beans might have fallen in the street.
Dysentery, scorbutus, and diseases of a like character, were the most
frequent, though scury, gangrene and many other diseases were common.
The rebel surgeon, Jones, sent by the authorities at Richmond in
September, to ascertain the cause of the great mortality in
Andersonville, said the real cause was starvation.
A favorite
place for the sick to gather was at the creek. I have often seen a
hundred of them on its banks at once. There they would lay, begging for
water or something to eat. Sometimes they would crawl to the water's
edge, and then, too weak to hold up their heads, would fall upon their
faces in the stream. One or two, at night, were drowned in that way.
Some of the prisoners lost the use of their lower limbs through
scurvy, and would go dragging themselves along by their hands. One poor
fellow, located in the old stockade, had half of one of his feet eaten
off with the gangrene. The toes were entirely gone, and the maggots were
rioting in the purple flesh. John January, a member of my company,
through scurvy, lost the use of his feet. They became dead and useless,
and he actually amputated them himself with a jack knife, and saved his
life. He now lives at Minonk, Ill., andwill verify this statement if
anyone should desire him to do so. Some of the prisoners went blind,
others crazy and very few had strength enough to walk a mile without
resting.
Death came easily and quietly to nearly all. I know of
one case where an Ohio boy went to sleep between two comrades, and in
the morning he awoke to find them both dead. Let a prisoner but say, "It
is of no use, I must die," and in a few days he was no more. When the
last dread hour came, the silver thread was broken so gently, that the
change was almost imperceptible. It verily seemed as if they had stolen
away by night to another and better land. On the face of the dead there
was an expression of unutterable relief. With them the battle of life
had ended, the war was over. "They slept their last sleep," and they
looked, indeed, as if they had simply "wrapped the drapery of their
couch about them and laid down to pleasant dreams."
When a poor
Union soldier died in prison, his comrades tore from his garments a
piece of cloth, and covered the staring features of the pinched face.
Then crossing the bony hands upon the breast, they tied them withcloth
strings. The lower limbs were straightened, the boots or shoes being
removed, for the living had need of them. On the breast was pinned a
piece of paper on which was written the name, rank, company and regiment
of the deceased. The body was then ready for the stretcher-bearers.
The dead of Andersonville numbered twelve thousand nine hundred and
nineteen. All the killed of the battles of Fort Donaldson, Bull Run,
Perryville, Fredericksburg, Stone River, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg,
Chickamauga, Pea Ridge, Franklin and Pittsburg Landing, did not equal in
number the dead of Andersonville. The average number of deaths per day
in August, 1864, was 99. On the 27th of August, there were 127 deaths,
or one death every eleven minutes.
Two thousand nine hundred and
seventy prisoners died in Andersonville in August, the average number of
deaths for eight months were 1500 per month. The graves of the dead of
Andersonvill fill an area of ground forty-seven acres in extent.
Friends and comrades. In conclusion, I have no favors to request for the
uninjured survivors of the horrible place I have feebly endeavored to
describe for you; but I do most sincerely ask you, never to let slip
from your minds the memory of the 13,000 boys in blue, who there,
uncomplainingly and silently, gave their lives for our own land of
freedom and equal rights. For now it can truly be said:
"The hopes,
the fears, the blood, the tears,
That mark the battle strife,
Are
now all crowned with victory,
That saved a nation's life."
