USA > Illinois > Ninety-Second Illinois Volunteers > Part 32
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Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28 | Part 29 | Part 30 | Part 31 | Part 32 | Part 33 | Part 34 | Part 35 | Part 36 | Part 37 | Part 38
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pany E, died in Andersonville Prison, August eighth, 1864; number of grave, 5025. William P. McWorthy, Company I, died in Andersonville Prison, September twenty-fifth, 1864 ; number of grave, 9710. What a story of death the numbers of the graves reveal! On August tenth, 1864, when Henry Miller, of Company F, died, his grave was numbered 3139; on the twenty-sixth of September, 1864, Morris R. Miller, of Company A, died, and his grave was numbered 9795 ;- six thousand six hundred and fifty- six victims to Rebel cruely, whose graves were numbered, and many graves were not numbered, in one prison pen, from July tenth, 1864, to September twenty-sixth, 1864!
Nathan C. Tyler, of Company A, Ninety-Second, was also one of the prisoners captured by the Rebels at Nickojack, on the morning of April twenty-third, IS64, and Mr. Tyler makes the following statement:
We had been nearly two days on picket duty, at Nickojack, eight miles from camp; the attack upon us was made about four o'clock on the morning of the twenty-third of April, IS64, the out- post at the top of the Gap being first to receive the enemy's fire. There were twelve men at that post. Lieutenant Scoville sent men to reinforce the post, and I was one of them. Just as we reached the post the Rebels came on in full force, and, at the same time, strongly attacked the main reserve at the foot of the moun- tain. Finding ourselves completely cut off from any support, we started toward camp, trying to reach the road leading to camp be- hind the reserve the Rebels had attacked, but we found the road blockaded with Rebels, who had taken up position in the rear of the reserve and barricaded the road. They had crossed the moun- tain on foot, in the night, and taken up position in our rear; com- pletely trapped and surrounded by the enemy, we were captured. They instantly stripped us of our boots, clothing, watches and money. Some of our men were deliberately shot down by them, after our men had surrendered and given up their arms. We were double-quicked to the top of the mountain, when they re- garded us as beyond chance of rescue by our troops, and we were permitted to march a little slower. On the opposite side of the mountain we found a regiment of Rebels that had been held in reserve. We were marched on to Tunnel Hill, where we took the cars for Dalton, and were taken to the head-quarters of the Rebel General commanding, and closely cross-questioned. We were taken from there, by cars, to Atlanta, and (from there to Macon, and then to Andersonville. We were drawn up in line,
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and the roll called. Lieutenant Scoville was sent back to Macon, and the rest of us, twenty in number, entered the prison pen. We shuddered with horror as we entered that living tomb. The first thing that inet my eyes was the Rebels carrying out the dead from the prison. They were carried on stretchers to the gate of the stockade, and then thrown into wagons, entirely nude, from twenty to thirty in a wagon, promiscuously, heads and feet to- gether, and hauled away, and thrown into trenches. When we reached the inside of the prison we found the most wretched looking human beings that it is possible for the imagination to conceive of-bareheaded and barefooted, all of them almost naked, and many of them entirely naked, mere skeletons, filthy, and eaten up with vermin. No one could keep clean. No soap or towels were furnished, and not even water to wash in. I never looked upon a sight so appalling before. Our hearts sank within us, and almost quit beating. We were divided up, and parcelled out to fill up the companies of nineties, taking the places of those who had died. Our rations consisted, at first, of one-half pint of corn meal to each man, ground with the cob. My first dough-cake I baked on a chip. After a while our rations were furnished to us cooked, but not increased. This kind of food-without shelter from the stormns or sun, huddled together in rags and filth-was too much for the strongest of us, and the weakest soon died. It seemed to me that we must all inevitably die, and not one of the thousands there be left to tell the horrid story. From thirty to fifty, and sometimes more, would die daily. I was sick a great share of the time-in fact, all of the time-for a while in the stock- ade, and afterward in the hospital, which was simply an inclosure with a board fence around it. Our only shelter in the hospitals were old tent flys, so old that the rains sifted through. as readily as through a seive. The hospitals were heavily guarded. Only the worst cases were sent there. I was in the hospital nearly three months. I speak of one ward, containing hundreds of sick, and myself and one other prisoner were the only two that ever entered that ward during those three months who came out alive. There were fifty or seventy-five such tents, or wards, in the hos- pital grounds. We were laid side by side, twelve or fifteen in a row, close together, and received very little attention during the day, and none whatever during the night. I have known men to die early in the night, and lay close by them, until the Rebels would come around late the next forenoon and remove them. I was too sick and weak to move myself, or remove the dead. If
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our strength recovered a little, we would be so overcome with hunger that we would dream about eating, and wake up with our mouths all foam and froth, and feeling as if we could eat our own hands off. Many a time I have wished for the poor privilege of skimming a swill barrel by the door of some farmer in Stephen- son county! Often I thought that if I could only get back to Uncle Sam's army rations I would never murmur or complain again. Our daily talk was about being exchanged, and rumors would be set afloat almost every day that the glorious time would soon come. It seemed to us that if our pitiable condition was known at the North, something would surely be done to relieve us, either by the Government in securing our exchange, or by the people in raising an army large enough to come and liberate us. When we went to Andersonville the stockade consisted of about eighteen acres, inclosed by a tight fence twelve or fourteen feet high, made by setting hewn timbers in the ground six or eight feet deep, and close together. On the top of the fence, six or eight rods apart, the Rebel guards were posted, with platforms to stand upon, and steps to ascend and descend by. Inside of the stockade, a light fence, two or three feet high, run all around, about fourteen feet from the stockade, called the " dead line." The guards were ordered to shoot any prisoner crossing the "dead line." I remember secing one of our poor prisoners shot for simply reaching his hand a little way beyond the " dead line" to get a chip to cook his coarse corn meal upon! Occasionally we would hear the yelp of the hounds in the heavy timber outside of the stockade, after some poor Yankee trying to escape from that earthly hell! A small stream of water run through the prison pen from west to east. One time, after a heavy rain, the water undermined and broke down from twelve to fifteen feet of the stockade. The Rebel guards raised a cry that the Yankee pris- oners were going to make a break to get out. Wirz sent in word that if any attempt to get out was made he would turn the Rebel batteries on the prisoners and kill every d-d one of them. I was inside the stockade eleven months and four days. I remember that at one time some of the prisoners formed a plan of escape by digging a tunnel, commencing thirty or forty feet inside of the stockade and coming out on the outside. They worked by reliefs during the night, under an old tent, used in the daytime by the Rebels to distribute rations from. The dirt was carried down into the middle of the stockade, by the creek, and so well was the work carried on that the plot was not discovered until some forty
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or fifty of the boys had got through the tunnel and got out of it on the outside of the stockade. But bloodhounds were put upon their tracks by the Rebels, and few of them, if, indeed, any of them finally reached the Union lines. Their effort exasperated our Rebel keepers, and made our miserable condition worse than before, if such a thing was possible. Soon after Lee's surrender, and Lincoln's assassination, I was removed from Andersonville. Lee's surrender caused an awful alarm among the Rebels, but the assassination of Abraham Lincoln cheered them up again. I was taken by the way of Jackson and Meridan, in Mississippi, to Black River, marching the last thirty miles on foot, which took us six days, so weak and feeble had we become. At Black River we were paroled, and I then saw the happiest day in my life-the day on which I bid good bye to the Southern Confederacy. Don R. Fraser, of Company I, makes the following statement:
On the nineteenth of October, IS64, while assisting in shipping ammunition from Atlanta to Kilpatrick's Division, the Rebel cavalry captured the train I was on. Obstructions had been placed upon the track, and the train was wrecked, and the Rebels, secreted in the brush each side of the railroad, cut off escape for all upon the train. The Rebels gathered up forty-six Yankee prisoners, and, after robbing us of all valuables, and most of our clothing, started us across the country toward Alabama. We trudged along down-hearted enough. After a few hours my thoughts turned upon some method of escape. Lieutenant Colo- nel Showers, of the 17th Ohio, was among the prisoners. I managed to get in conversation with him, and we began talking over some plan of escaping from our captors, but our guards soon suspected us, and we were separated. Among our Rebel guards I recognized an old acquaintance whom I had known in Jo Daviess County, a private in the First Mississippi Rebel cavalry. We had quite a chat, and he was kind enough to go to the Rebel Captain and obtain a horse for me to ride. In four days we reached Oxford, Alabama, having had rations issued but once to us, a little meal and fresh beef, about enough for one good meal. We remained at Oxford two days. I there became acquainted with Lieutenant W. D. Stone, of Clauton's Rebel Scouts. He had considerable sympathy for us. His company guarded us. He offered to assist in procuring my exchange-but he was sent to the front, and I to Castle Morgan, at Cahawba, Alabama. At Talladega we fell in with more Yankee prisoners, swelling our numbers to about six hundred. On settling down at Cahawba, I
40
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still thought much about some plan of escape, and, taking others into my confidence, we soon had made up a party of fifty agreed upon making an attempt together to overpower the guards; we had everything arranged, even to the hour that the attempt was to be made, when some traitor or spy among us told our plans. I was taken out, and questioned, and the six hundred that went into the Rebel prison when I did were sent to Millen, and I retained at Cahawba. While at Cahawba I noticed, for the first time, the effect of slow starvation upon the human system-how the never- ceasing, wolfish cravings of nature eat out of a man all human feeling, eradicating all sympathy and benevolence, leaving noth- ing but the most indurate selfishness. My experience in Castle Morgan, at Cahawba, was short, but compared favorably with the others in which I was afterwards confined. The officials did not appear to have lost all human feeling, and, although the amount of rations allowed us would certainly have led to starvation ulti- mately, the unnecessary cruelty practiced elsewhere was not adopted to the same extent. On account of our plan to escape, all who were suspected of being connected with it were started on the cars for Montgomery. We reached Columbus, Georgia, about dusk, and were taken off the train to camp there that night. While marching from the train I noticed several smoke-stacks lying on the platform-the chance of escape was tempting, and, in the crowding and contusion, I dived into one of the smoke- stacks. After the crowd had gone I found that I had company- two other Yankees had adopted the same plan-Harvey Hart, from Indiana, and William Welch, from Iowa, both of whom had been captured at the same time with myself. Hart told me that he had been in Andersonville, but, while being transferred to Florence, South Carolina, had escaped, and, after thirty-two nights of lonely travel, had reached the Union lines near Atlanta, but had been so unfortunate as to be again captured by the Rebels. Welch told me he had once been a prisoner at Macon, Georgia, and had escaped to Atlanta. We cautiously pushed out of Co- lumbus. When near the outskirts of the town we were hailed- but our hailers proved to be two more Yankees trying to escape- Lieutenant Colonel Showers, and Lieutenant Hudson. We were glad enough to meet, and, after a hearty consultation, we, a- nearly as we could guess, started northward; but it was very dark, and we frequently found ourselves during the night ap- proaching Columbus, and, at daylight, were only five miles from the town. We knew that the hounds would soon be on our
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track, and, in order to avoid them, we waded down stream in a creek for nearly a mile, and climbed into trees to hide for the day. About noon we heard the baying of hounds. With beating hearts we listened. If they were really on our track at all, either our marching in a circle during the night, or our stratagem of wading in the running stream, deceived them, and they did not come near us. In the evening we approached a negro shanty and procured a meal, and continued our march. In the daytime we lay concealed in the woods. The next night it rained, and was very cold. Hart and I approached a house, and entered; one woman soon went out, and the others told us we had better leave. As we left the house we saw a man with a torch, blowing a tin horn, as we supposed, for the hounds, and we all scooted, through briers, over fences, through marshes and creeks: it was dark as a pocket. No hounds followed us. Shortly after midnight we saw a light, and flanked it-farther on we found more fires, and flanked them-and we found still more fires, with Rebel soldiers around them. We knew we were near a camp of some kind. A wagon train moved by. Negroes afterward told us that it was a portion of Hood's army moving from Jonesboro to Macon. After a deal of dodging we passed the Rebels, or they passed us. At daylight we approached a negro shanty, wet, cold and hungry; the negroes gave us a meal. I lay down on the floor and had a chill that I thought would shake the buttons off my clothes. The negroes, not daring to keep us long in the house, took us to the corn house, where we remained until evening. On leaving, one negro joined us in our tramp for freedom. About eleven o'clock that night we reached a negro shanty where there was but one man-a miller-he had plenty of flour and bacon, and sup- plied us with a lot of biscuit. Another negro joined our party. At dawn, after flanking some Rebel soldiers, we passed around the town of LaGrange, on the West Point Railroad. Here, by some means, our party became separated, Lieutenant Colonel Showers and Lieutenant Hudson taking one road, with the two darkies, and Welch, Hart and I another. We never saw them again, but heard afterward that they reached the Union lines safely. We regretted the loss of the biscuit, which the negroes carried in pillow cases, but not the company of the darkies, as, if captured with them in our company, we should certainly meet death at the hands of our captors. . We went into the woods to sleep, but were soon awakened by the baying of hounds-we ran about half a mile, and crept into a tangled thicket of blackberry
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brambles; after a while we crawled out, and pushed on through the woods as fast as we could go, and found again a secluded spot, and slept until darkness came on, when we again continued our tramp all night, and slept the next day. The next night Welch was too sick to travel, the weather cold, and the rain pouring down, and we crawled into a cotton gin house, to rest, and went so soundly to sleep that we did not wake until after daylight. We dared not remain, and we tried to dodge along into the woods again, but it was our ill luck to be seen by two Rebel officers, fully armed, who came upon us, and again we were prisoners in Rebel hands. After considerable cross-questioning we had to own up that we were Yankees trying to escape to the Union lines, and we were turned over to two of Harvey's scouts, to be taken to Newnan. When near Newnan they stripped us of our cloth- ing, giving us the rags two negroes had on, who were with them. They turned us over to the Rebel authorities at Newnan, and we were put into the jail. The next day we were sent to West Point, and placed in jail along with six colored men. From there we were taken to Andersonville. We reached there in the after- noon, but, there being no prisoners there at that time, Wirz refused to receive us. We remained there one night, and, the next morning, were sent to Millen. It was about one week after the Presidential election. I was kept there about three weeks, when Sherman's army was getting too close, and they marched us to Savannah, Georgia. From there a part were sent north; and a part, among whom my lot was cast, were started for Black- shear, by rail, on flat cars. About five miles below Doctortown the train was stopped for wood. It was dark, and I slipped down between the cars, and lay down on the ties close up to the wheels. When the train had left I found that I had five companions, but none of my former comrades. After consultation two started back to meet Sherinan. Two, who belonged to the 17th Iowa, and myself, decided to try to reach the United States gun-boats of the blockading squadron, near Brunswick. After traveling part of the night through swamps and thickets we stopped to rest; we took off our clothing, and, wringing the water out, put our clothing on again; my clothing consisted of a pair of cotton drawers, and part of a shirt; my companions were a little better clad, and had blankets ; we lay down together; when we awoke it was broad daylight, and we found ourselves almost surrounded by water. In the evening we approached a negro cabin and pro- cured food, and directions as to the course to travel. We passed
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around a station on the Gulf Railroad, and, at daylight, dived into a swamp to remain during the day. This was our usual course; we never approached a human habitation except to procure food; every one was suspicious of us-even the house dogs appeared to know that we were Yankees. The interminable pine forests appeared to be full of Rebel patrols. On one occasion we called at a house where were two white women and some negroes, who gave us a good supper, and while we were enjoying it in came the planter himself, of course a soldier in the Rebel army, home on French leave. He seemed very friendly, and invited us to remain all night, and gave us very lengthy directions about the road, for which we were very thankful, until one of the women whispered to me: " For God's sake go away-he has sent to Waynesville for soldiers to capture you." I told her, " We will go." I said to the boys, " Well, let's go, boys." Our entertainer urged us not to be in a hurry, but we started off slowly until out of sight, and then " scooted" into the woods, and took the back track, and when beyond the house in the other direction, we heard mounted inen approach the house, and we continued our march on the back track. For six days and nights we laid low in the swamps, assisted to food by negroes, and a couple of Union ladies. We lay there hiding, not thirty miles away, when Kilpatrick's Divis- ion, under command of General Atkins, and my own regiment with them, attempted to destroy the railroad bridge near Doctor- town. We heard rumors from the negroes of troops on the road, but we did not know then how near they were to us. When we judged it safe we resumed our journey, and, on reaching Turtle River, we found a boat, and, as it proved, most unwisely pro- ceeded down the river in it, in broad daylight. About ten o'clock in the morning we heard one of the United States gun-boats whistle, and our hearts beat fast with hopes of reaching the gun- boat-but soon after a Rebel soldier hailed us with: " Halloo, thar-come in out o' thar, or I'll shoot!" On the bank stood four Johnnies, with their muskets ready to shoot, with a four-oared boat tied by the bank. The game was up. We deserved to be captured for navigating that river in a boat in broad daylight, and our foolhardiness met with its proper reward. When we landed they inquired: " Is you'ns Yanks? Whar is you'ns gwoin? Whar did you'ns cum from?" Our captors treated us kindly, gave us plenty to eat, and their officer, Lieutenant Beverly, gave me a pair of cotton pantaloons, a pair of shoes, and ten dollars in Confederate money. The next day we were sent to Waynesville,
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where we remained two days, when we were sent to Blackshear, where I again met my old prison comrades, and had many invita- tions to join in overpowering the guards and trying to escape ; but I was sick of trying to escape through such a swampy, deso- late country as that along the Atlantic coast of Southern Georgia. After a few days I was sent to Thomasville, with many others, arriving in a hard rain-storm, in which we stood all night, in a field by the railroad. In the morning Captain Bledsoe, in charge of us, gave us permission to cut timber and build us shelters; three others and I scooped out the sand about two feet, put over it a ridge-pole, and covered it with slabs, and made us a bed of pine boughs. We were allowed plenty of wood at Thomasville, and, together, we had several dollars of Confederate money, and we were very comfortable there. But, in about three weeks the Rebels again moved us to Andersonville, marching us on foot fifty-five miles, to Albany, where, at night, we were locked up in box cars, ninety in a car, so crowded and smothered that twenty died before morning in the car I was in. About nine o'clock in the morning we reached the old Andersonville Prison. We got off from the cars sick, stiff and nearly famished, and entered the prison, and were assigned to various companies, to draw rations. I remained there until about the twenty-fifth of March, IS65, when, with others, I was put on the cars, expecting to go to the new point of exchange, Jacksonville, Florida. From Albany we marched on foot, and, the first night, while going into camp, it was whispered among us that we would be sent back again to Andersonville. Sure enough-Colonel Jones, the Rebel officer in charge, came along, and said: "Boys, you are ordered back. Your authorities at Jacksonville will not receive you." Oh, how cruel-our own officers not receive us! It seemed to us that they did not want us, a lot of starved skeletons that might never be fit for duty again-better let us die in prison than be troubled with us. I watched all that night for a chance to escape to the woods and swamps once more, but got no opportunity. Lots of the men gave up trying to live, and died. In three days all that were left of us were back again in Andersonville, where we remained until the seventeenth of April, when we heard that the Union cavalry were approaching from the direction of Montgomery, Alabama. At ten o'clock at night the Rebels put us on the cars and started us for Macon, burning up the stores left at Anderson- ville, and it looked as if that hell was permanently evacuated. We did not reach Macon-the trains ahead of us came back with
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the prisoners aboard, and we all started back toward Anderson- ville. How anxiously we wondered if we would stop at Ander- sonville! We. came in sight of it, and the train rolled by! How glad we were! We grasped each other's hands, and cried, we were so glad. We reached Albany, then marched to Thomas- ville, and then to Ocean Pond. Five of us, and I among them, were set at work making out new paroles, working at it three days. We there heard of the surrender of Lee's army, and of the assassination of President Lincoln, but we did not believe either, our guards so often deceived us. They piled us on the cars and took us to Baldwin, twenty-seven miles from Jacksonville. They told us to start-we were free, and must walk. Brown, Ulmsted and I started together. After a while said I, " Boys, let's hur- rah?" "No," said Brown, " the Rebels may change their minds, and take us back! Wait until we are safely outside of their pickets." We did cheer when we got safely outside of their pickets, and with light hearts we kept on. About nine o'clock the next morning, April twenty-eighth, 1865, we caught sight of the "Stars and Stripes" floating over the city of Jacksonville, Florida. The sun grew brighter, and the air fresher. Oh, how good the old Flag looked to us as we marched on! How happy we were when we marched under its bright folds, with uncovered heads! We were at last at home!
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