Read Ebook: Three years in field hospitals of the Army of the Potomac by Holstein Anna M Anna Morris

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Early in November, we left, expecting to return, after a few weeks' rest, and resume our position in the corps hospital; but Mr. H.'s health was so much impaired that it was not thought prudent for us to do so until cold weather. With a glimpse of home and its comforts, in three days we again commenced visiting the "Aid Societies" and schools, and continued uninterruptedly until January; during that time, met several thousands.

First Visit to Annapolis.--Stories of Starved Men.--Burial at Andersonville.--Neely's Life in the Dungeon of Castle Thunder.--Sergeant Kerker.--Captains Wilson and Shelton in the "Iron Cage," in Buncombe County, Tenn.--The Boy and the Flag.--Gould's returning Consciousness.--Mr. Brown in Danville Prison.

In this closing period of the war, and of our labor in the hospitals, comes the darkest, saddest page of all--too terrible to be lightly spoken, and too painful in its remembrances to be dwelt upon any longer than is needful for the connected continuance of the narrative. The inhuman, fiendish treatment of our soldiers in Southern prisons has now become a matter of history, the truthfulness of which cannot be doubted. Would that it could be!

In another ward were five, all very low: two of the most fearfully emaciated men that we had yet seen; one from Iowa, the other from Michigan; they were too feeble to speak; we could only take the nurse's account, which varied but little from the others; both died during the night.

In the same building is a man whose mind seems quite gone: he is always looking for his mother; unconscious as he is, they cannot tell where to write, or whether she is living. As I entered the door, he sprang up in an excited manner, calling out; "Yes, yes, there is my mother!" With a few soothing words, he was soon quieted; but when the nurse attempted to give him medicine, threw it from him, saying: "They are always trying to poison us in prison."

Directly after our return to Annapolis, while waiting in the Sanitary Commission Rooms, a train of ambulances, containing nineteen bodies, passed, the first and last of the number covered with the flag; we followed the procession to the cemetery, and saw them laid side by side in their quiet resting-place--Chaplain Sloan officiating. Upon the head-boards of all the prisoners should be inscribed "starved to death!" that in future years Southern "chivalry" might read and know the fact.

In the officers' ward, at Naval School, was Capt. Washburn, of Boston; he was ill when he came from prison. His father, who had five sons out of six in the service,--all who were old enough to go,--was waiting upon him.

In the chapel were a number of very bad-looking skeletons; several with frozen feet.

A few days since an old gentleman came, inquiring for his son: he had died two hours before his arrival--the last of seven! Four starved to death in rebel prisons: all were in the service. Well might he exclaim: "Behold, and see, if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow!"

"Here's your good, nice beer, five cents a glass! Good, cool, and tart! walk up and try; If you don't like, you needn't buy!"

When the prisoners were moved from Andersonville to Florence, they left behind them all their cooking utensils, as they were told they were to be exchanged, not sent to prison; but finding they had been deceived, asked permission of a rebel, Major Brown , to use the tin-roofing of the cars which stood near; he consented, and they took off the entire roof of one. The only tools they had were a cold-chisel, a railroad spike, and an old table-knife; in a marvelously short time, cooking pans, cups, and buckets were cut out and hammered together; and when the variety was shown to the rebel major, he remarked: "They might turn a Yank into the woods with nothing, and he would soon have all he needed." Buckets, plates, and spoons were made of wood. For the buckets, they split staves of wood, the negroes furnishing poles for hoops and handles. As far as ingenuity could go, they made the best they could of their wretched surroundings. The men were divided by thousands, then hundreds, for convenience in distributing rations: while at Florence, Newman entered his name three times in one thousand,--giving, of course, two feigned names,--that he might draw sufficient food to sustain life; fortunately, he was not found out; if he had been, the penalty of one hundred lashes, in his enfeebled health, would have killed him.

Staunton, Pete Obrey, and Hoover were the men of infamous notoriety, who did more lashing of our soldiers at Andersonville than any others. Staunton was chief of police: the few picks and spades within the stockade were under his control; Newman asked permission to use one, to repair his sleeping-pit; instead of a reply, was felled with it to the earth; when consciousness returned, he dare not complain; suffering with the blow, and ill as he was, could only crawl away to his ditch, thankful to escape with life. The two first named were at Annapolis while we were there; their lives had been so often threatened, if found outside the hospital, that they were glad to keep within its walls for safety. Pete disappeared one night, no one knew where. These men all wore the Federal uniform: while doing so, possessed the entire confidence of the rebels in command--proving that, though wearing the "army blue," they were rebels in disguise.

A Massachusetts sergeant said when his regiment entered Anderson, one hundred and thirty-five men answered roll-call; after a captivity of eight months, nineteen only could be found. An Illinois man remarked that twenty of his company were taken prisoners with him; at the end of five months, five were living. A little Massachusetts fellow, wounded in the leg when captured, cut crutches from the woods, and by their aid marched, for sixty miles, with his comrades. He was afraid the rebels would do as they threatened, leave him to starve to death if he did not keep up with the party. When they reached prison, he was sent to the hospital. The ball is still in.

A fresh arrival of prisoners to-day, 27th of March; the most of them can walk; if these were the first we had seen, we would think them all bad. Among them was a young German who had lain for three days beside his dead comrade, that he might draw his rations; representing all the time that he was too ill to get up for them; and keeping him covered with their rags, when the "dead-cart" passed along. Many are suffering with frozen feet: some have lost all their toes, others only on one foot.

A Maryland infantry boy, belonging to the ninth corps, was a prisoner eight months; had had a furlough, and was now back ready for duty; had "asked to be sent front," saying, "the rebels had boarded him eight months, and he was anxious to go back and settle his bill of fare!"

April 29th. A boat, with three hundred, just arrived: the drum calls the "stretcher-bearers" to fall in line; and all who can, rush to the landing. Following the crowd, we come to the wharf just in time to see the unsteady column begin to move. On board the vessel the hospital band is playing cheerful strains of welcome, and they come ashore to the music of familiar tunes.

"Back to the North, where the air is free; Back from the land of pain."

Tottering and feeble, bronzed and smoke-blackened, tangled hair and matted beards, some in rebel garb, many barefooted and bareheaded, the majority clothed in shirt and drawers furnished by the Sanitary Commission in Wilmington, a few fortunate possessors of a blanket,--such is the walking party. It was more than some of them could do to walk, so they gave it up, and, as the line of "stretcher-bearers" followed in their wake, were added to the number. Sorry plight for three hundred brave men to come from Southern care! Martyrs for the nation, patient and uncomplaining, they do not blame the government--they censure no one!

In all the precious lives lost to friends and home, and the wrecks of noble soldiers yet remaining, is not the hand of God seen? The costly offering was asked for, and given, that the nation might be saved, and that distant lands might learn to what refinements of cruelty SLAVERY had educated a people!

Among them one was noticed straining his eyes toward the shore, and, as they neared the wharf, was one of the first to press forward to leave the vessel; he walked along the plank, eagerly looking in the distance; tottered with a few feeble steps upon our soil, and then--fell dead! his wish gratified: he died at home.

Thomas G. Spikean, from New York, while at Florence was set to work outside of their prison inclosure, building chimneys for the rebels; finding food daily becoming more scarce, determined to escape, or perish in the attempt. Thinking death preferable to slow starvation, five men broke their parole and started with him: for ten days kept together, until they were tracked by dogs, and obliged to secrete themselves in the swamps; wading about in them until they became chilled, at length reached a small island in safety; from there to land; came to Orangeburg just as Sherman's forces left it, and to Columbia as they were taking up the last pontoon; crossed in a skiff, and were then taken care of by the army.

Again assisting in distributing Sanitary Commission articles to sixteen hundred and forty men: they had been in prison but a few months; a small number among them, eighteen months; these had been resting at Wilmington, where they were well fed and kindly cared for, and now looked well and happy in their new blue. The distributions, which are made at College Green Barracks, are a source of pleasure to the recipients, while it is both gratifying and amusing to those who act as donors.

A German named Neabal, 54th New York, eleventh corps, who was captured at Gettysburg, July, 1863: stayed in that horrid Belle Island eight months; from there to Andersonville, thence to Savannah, where they had good rations; then taken to Macon and Charleston; for three weeks they were kept moving, for fear Gen. Sherman would find and release them; the corn which the cavalry horses dropped upon the ground, when they were fed, was all they had to eat for several days; he was paroled in Wilmington the last of February, and soon after sent North.

Again occupied in the pleasant duty of distributing Sanitary Commission articles, at the Barracks, to seventeen hundred and sixty men: many have been prisoners but a little while. Among them are some of Sherman's veterans, and his noted "bummers," who, smart as they were, could not always escape from the rebels. Such work as this is a most agreeable contrast to the wards, where we see nothing but skeletons, and hear their sad tales of suffering so touchingly related.

A young boy, after he was captured and robbed of his clothing, was shot in the side by a man who rode up, and without one word, fired a revolver, aiming at his heart; a quick movement saved his life, but he lies helpless, and suffering with an ugly wound.

Calder, of the 174th Ohio, is a Virginian, his wife and children living on the Rapidan when last he heard from home. He had great difficulty in eluding the conscript officers; at length crossed the lines, and enlisted in Ohio; when captured by the rebels, was tried for treason, and a rope tied round his wrists and ankles for three months; was nine months in prison, then made his escape.

An intense love of the flag is observed in nearly all who are received here. From the high flag-staff at the Naval School, the vessels can distinguish the flag floating while yet some distance out. A boy was lately carried from one of the boats who seemed wild with excitement when he gazed upon it; and when laid upon his bed in the hospital, asked that it might be placed where he could see it. A small one was given to him: his greatest pleasure seemed to be to lie under its folds; he held it in his hands, laid it upon his face, nestled close to it in sleep, and would never have it out of his sight. The poor emaciated child lingered a few days, forgetting his sufferings and all the dark, weary months of hopeless imprisonment; he was perfectly happy under its protection, and died with his flag in his hands; was carried to his grave with it resting upon the coffin lid.

Another boat load, of two hundred, just arrived: many of them in good condition, having been sent from Wilmington to Fortress Monroe, where they have been for three weeks; some skeletons in the number.

Met Mrs. Galbraith, of Ohio, looking for her son; she was lost and bewildered in the crowd, and knew not where to go or what to do; taking charge of her, he was soon found--the mother sobbing for joy that her boy was alive. He was sitting up: now, with her care, can soon bear the journey home.

Harris was one of the most revolting-looking skeletons that was landed: when brought in, his head was without hair, except a little tuft in front; his head and neck were eaten in great holes by vermin--they had burrowed in ridges under the skin; mind and body were alike weakened. He rallied for a few days: with good treatment and kindness, it seemed as though his life might be saved; but all was of no use: rebel cruelty had too surely done its work, and the victim suddenly died without any apparent illness other than starvation.

The 15th of April, 1865, came the saddest news that ever startled the American people: our beloved President Lincoln murdered! It seemed incredible, and it was long before it could be realized. Where so lately was rejoicing, all is now changed to mourning.

In one of the wards of "St. John's" is a man who had been three months a prisoner, and wounded. The flag always remained fastened to his bed: this morning it was at half-mast, heavily draped with black. Continuing our walk, found many others like it: the only token of sorrow they could give.

"The brave hearts that never more shall beat, The eyes that smile no more, the unreturning feet."

An old gentleman from Ohio could not give his son up: but telling, with tears, his affecting story, would ask help from every one he met to find his boy. All the records were searched in vain for John H. Ritchey, Company C, 122d Ohio Vols.

A mother came from New York to the Sanitary Home: after searching all the records without success, she walked through all the hospitals--gazing at every man, and inquiring if they knew her son; at length a man said there was a book here with that name in it, that the man died as they came to the wharf; as soon as she saw it, exclaimed: "It was a Bible she had given him; her writing was in it!" It was a great comfort to her to find out that much certainly.

Miller, belonging to a Massachusetts regiment, was so emaciated when he arrived that, when his father came for him, it was thought he could not reach Baltimore alive; by resting with him frequently, reached home in safety. His weight then was sixty-five pounds, his height six feet: after some weeks' stay, returned, weighing one hundred and twenty pounds. He walks very well with a cane, but cannot stoop to the ground--as there are still large sores upon his back, from lying on the ground through storms and sun.

Mr. Brown, a New York man, who enlisted in a Pittsburg regiment, is one of the most suffering cases among the prisoners. Directly after their capture, he was standing quietly with a group of others, when a brutal rebel soldier struck him down with his musket; he was never able to straighten himself afterward. He was taken to one of their hospitals, where, without any care, the wound sloughed and became offensive. When the men were taken from No. 4, Danville, he was left in the room alone--as he says, to die; calling to a rebel nurse, he implored him to carry him out with the others; but all in vain; at length some one came in to hear what he was saying, when, with the desperation of a drowning man, he clung with both arms round his neck, telling him he would not let him go until he was taken to his companions. In that way he was carried and laid upon the platform, to wait for the cars: no blanket, or covering of any kind, to cover his poor suffering body; his moans and cries from pain and the cold were constant, until a rebel, more kind than his fellows, came to him, saying "he had been in our prisons, and knew how well they were treated; and would do all he could for him." He succeeded in procuring some whisky, which he gave him--that warmed and quieted him; then finding a piece of blanket, wrapped him in it and laid him near the fire. When the cars came, lifted him in, bidding him "good-by," with "Yank, you will soon be in your lines, while I go to the front to bring over a crowd with me." That was the last he saw of the man who, at that time, saved his life. During all the time he lingered, his sufferings were intense; his sister, Mrs. Clark, of Alleghany City, waited upon him most devotedly until death released him from all pain.

Two Georgia women, wives of prisoners, came on the boat with them, and were brought to the "Sanitary Commission Home." While the prisoners were at Macon, these girls worked in a woolen mill near: whenever they could do so unobserved, would take some of the cloth and divide among them. The men assisted in some kind of work outside their prison, and there the girls could take them food; when released, they were married, and marched with them fifty-eight miles--until they were put upon the cars, and sent on by boat. This is the third party of the kind we have seen here.

The "Sanitary Commission Home" at this place, Annapolis, has been to hundreds a place of shelter when the town was crowded to overflowing, and a home at all times to those who were received beneath its roof: here the relatives and friends of those in the hospitals were provided for, meals and lodgings furnished gratuitously, and all made comfortable. Mrs. Hope Sayers, the estimable matron who presided so efficiently and pleasantly over the establishment, will ever be kindly remembered by all who were its inmates.

May 13th. Eleven hundred and fifty men landed at the Barracks: again employed distributing articles among them, which are always received in the same pleasant manner. Those sent to the hospital are very dark with smoke and sun, and skeleton-looking like those who preceded them. They tell the same stories of their prison life, and repeat what others have said--how they dug wells at Andersonville fifty feet deep, their only tools the halves of a canteen and an old table-knife. An arrival of rebel officers and privates with several hundred "galvanized Yanks,"--an expressive term in army parlance, meaning that these men, in their desperation for food, accepted the tempting offers of the rebels,--but they were never trusted or kindly treated by them--and despised by their old comrades.

Among the wounded is Sergeant Black, State color-bearer of the 67th Pennsylvania Vols., who lost a leg while carrying the flag. He was shot by a rebel not a yard from him: as he fell, they caught the colors; it was but a moment ere his company had them back again, and their rebel bars with it. The fight was through a swamp, which varied in depth from four inches to as many feet.

The wife of one of these skeletons arrived directly after they landed. She had heard, in her home in Western Pennsylvania, that he was living, and was here. She came, dressed in the deep mourning she had worn for him for two years: for so long was it since she had heard of his death; but--

"Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, And yield their dead into life again."

There was a happy meeting: he recognized, and could converse with his wife for a few hours--and then death came. The following morning a few sympathizing strangers stood with her, in the little chapel, as the last impressive service was performed; and then he was carried to rest beside the thousands of his fellow-soldiers.

A man from the 15th Massachusetts, whose name I neglected to take, was captured at the battle of the Wilderness eight days after re-enlisting. He had with him a blackened, soiled Bible: the binding and paper had once been handsome, but now, from exposure to storms, like its owner, looked badly; he said the rebels often tried to get it, but he managed to secrete it: it was his best friend, and very precious to him; he hoped to take it with him to his home in Massachusetts.

Two brothers were lying side by side: one had lost half his foot and was in the hospital, while his brother was in the stockade at Andersonville. The one in the hospital had concealed some money, which he divided with his brother as soon as he could get out to him; thus enabling both to purchase food, and probably saved their lives.

Near them was a wounded Indian, and a Maine man six feet four inches tall--now so emaciated that he does not weigh one hundred pounds: in health, weighs over two hundred.

June 6th, came the last arrival of bad cases: among them Philip Hattel, Company I, 51st Pennsylvania Vols., from near Barren Hill, Montgomery County; he was captured at the battle of the Wilderness; from prison, sent to Fortress Monroe; from there to this place. He lingered three weeks, and died, as thousands of his comrades had, from cruel starvation.

It seems strange that one of the earliest captured should be returned among the very last. The name I have lost, but the facts are as I wrote them when the man related the story to me: After the first Bull Run fight, a number of men were making their escape to a place of safety, when some negroes offered to pilot them beyond the rebels; but they were soon surrounded, and the whole party taken to Richmond, where they were tried for abducting slaves, and sentenced to imprisonment during the war. They were kept in Richmond two years: then moved in regular rotation through all the prisons, and sent North with the very last. What became of their colored friends, they never knew. It was very mortifying to the soldier to think he had been a prisoner during the entire war: and fearful that his friends would not receive him, he determined to take the name of one who had died in prison; his comrades had great difficulty in dissuading him from doing so.

An old gentleman, from Columbia, Penna., came inquiring for "St. John's Hospital." Two days previous he had received a letter from his son, whom they had long mourned as dead; and now, overjoyed to know that he was alive, he could hardly wait to be directed to the place. The boy came in the last arrival, is convalescent, and will return with him.

This glimpse of hospital work can give but an imperfect sketch of a portion of that mighty host "who have filled history with their deeds, and the earth with their renown."

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