USA > New York > The Ninth New York heavy artillery : a history of its organization, services in the defe battles, and muster-out, with accounts of life in a rebel prison, personal experiences, names and addresses of surviving members, personal sketches and a complete roster, pt 2 > Part 4
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As to our location, we were in a brick building, erected some years before for tobacco manufacturing purposes, but which had been pressed into the service of the Confederate govern- ment for prison use; and I have since been informed by the owner he never got a cent for it. In the list of prison-houses in Danville, it is No. 1. Just back of us, on the bank of a mill-race, is the cook-house, where Yankee workmen mix up and bake strange combinations, called corn-bread. My mother still preserves some of this bread as a Rebellion relic after more than a quarter of a century. I think it is as good now as it ever was. A small piece, shown by me on the Northern Central Railroad of Pennsylvania, on my way home, having a furlough, was provocative of great profanity; one man in particular wondering if any blanked blanked government ex- pected God to help it when it gave such blanked stuff as that to white men. I think my returning the obnoxious article to my haversack and thereby ridding him of the sight, alone saved him from an apoplectic fit. Across the mill-race and between that and the river Dan was the foundry of Mr. Holland, where many weak-kneed and empty-stomached prisoners worked for a trifle more than what they could get to eat. Further along rolled the river itself, a stream notable in history as that whose upper waters had stayed the course of Cornwallis when pursuing Greene, and which, before it reached the sea, was broadened into the Roanoke. Here it is wide but shallow, and its waters, clear or muddy, according to the season, are to furnish us liquid for drinking. Beyond it, the land rises into a high hill, topped towards the west with trees, but immediately opposite, open, and betraying, wherever the surface is broken, the pecul- iar red earth characteristic of Virginia and North Carolina, for fully 200 miles from north to south. It is surmounted by a substantial brick mansion, that of the famous Claiborne fam
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ily, and the view rests the eye that looks out from a room crowded with woe and wretchedness. Save this building and a few structures along the river's edge, there is nothing to note towards the north.
When we can get a squint from the west windows without the sight of the vigilant guard, we may see a large wooden edifice known by us as No. 2. Here are the Confederate prison head- quarters, and here, too, are the few men detailed from the prisoners to do various things for us. For instance, Negus, of Company B, makes splint brooms to be used in sweeping the prison floors, and Andrew Hall, of Company A, finds plenty to do in painting the names of the dead upon the head-boards provided by the rebels. These men convey to their friends many articles of food that serve to mitigate the horrors of the place. A passage-way separates Nos. 1 and 2. Going along to the south, on the corner of Main street, is No. 3. This is the place where the officers are quartered, save upon the upper floor, where are the colored prisoners taken at the mine ex- plosion. It was said that these negroes were placed here as an especial affront to the officers, the Confederates thinking to thus heap indignity upon the Federals on account of our employment of black soldiers. However, I never heard that any one felt particularly troubled over their presence.
Turning to the east we encounter No. 4, just facing our No. 1. So here we have these four buildings on the three sides of a square, making a convenient place for the guards to parade and occasionally to drill a little. Here, too, they sometimes punished those of their soldiers who had tarried too long with the seductive apple-jack, and a "Johnny" on a barrel, or in it, was not an uncommon sight. In other portions of the city were prisons Nos. 5 and 6, and also the hospital.
No. 1 is three stories high with an attic. Our entrance is made into an entry which runs the width of the building on the west end. It may be eight feet wide. Opposite the out- side door is a flight of stairs leading upward. In this entry, a guard with a gun keeps constant watch. Midway its length is a doorway leading into the first floor. Here are placed the wounded men who have been brought with us, and those who soon may have to go to the hospital. Here, too, the prisoners lay their dead, who die before they can be taken to the latter place, and we learn to hasten down in the morn to see if any of
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the newly placed dead are friends of ours. In this room, also, a guard is stationed. At the east end of the building a door opens into the yard, an enclosure having a length of possibly . 100 feet, and a width of twenty. At any rate, its length is the combined width of the prison and the cook-house, with the narrow passage between. In the northeast corner is a sink, and about this yard another guard constantly walks. In it only a small number of men are allowed at night, and in the daytime any disposition to unduly crowd it is resented by the guard, and "you Yanks" have to make tracks for the interior. On one side is a large trough, said to have been filled with clean water once; but this must have been before our day. I early convinced myself that I was cleaner by keeping my hands out of its contents than I was by using them. Yet I remember one man, a foreigner, who had the hydropathic craze, at least I thought he had, who, every morning, immersed himself therein, having, in December, frequently to break the ice to get at the mud. I don't know that it was bathing that killed him, but I do know that he died. Over against the building we are permitted to make small fires of little sticks of kindling, bought from the guards, and by this means we sometimes make crust coffee and cook such delicacies as beef's eyes and lights. Sometimes a rat is caught, and those initiated claim that he made excellent soup. I don't know. Through the cracks in the fence, looking out into the passage between the prison and cook-house, such converse as we have with friends outside may be had. Perhaps our friend has made us a cake of sifted meal, with a fair amount of salt in it, with just the least suspicion of grease added. If so, he will watch his chance and toss it over the ten-foot fence, or, perchance, he may secure the privilege of entering the building on some pre- text, when his quondam tent-mate and comrade will not be exactly a bloated bondholder, but for a brief time he will make his stomach the holder of a wonderfully satisfying morsel. In the heated days of summer and early fall this yard is much sought by the men, and, walking, talking, or seated upon the ground, its area is pretty well occupied. Here it is that one day I find Alonzo F-, of Company H, lying with closed eyes, his face and hands covered with flies. "Why don't you brush off the flies?" I say to him, fairly quivering myself over the sight. "Oh! what's the use! They'll come again," is the drawled
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out response. Such a want of ambition could not long survive, and very soon the sod closing over him shut out his tormentors.
Let us now go up-stairs. It is possible that under them we may find a pious Catholic telling his beads and zealously say- ing his prayers, continuing his devotions in the face of constant chaffing, for the prisoners are not over-religious. Poor fellow! His prayers did not avail so far as release from thraldom was concerned. His oratory was, ere long, vacant, and its occupant went before Him to whom his orisons had so long ascended. Up the dark stairway we climb and come upon the second floor. It covers the entire space, with no break save sustaining posts. Here, with others, the fifty-three members of the 106th New York stay, and one of their men, Sergeant Pritchard, is a sort of director for the whole building. He is a good, fair man, and every prisoner recalls him with pleasure. About 200 men are quartered in this story. Another flight of stairs takes us to the third floor, where the most of the men of the "Ninth" lie. Again there is an unbroken view of the entire room, and under the second window from the west on the south side I throw down my baggage and with my comrades rest. Between me and the stairs leading to the attic are half a dozen men, mostly from the Ninth, though my immediate neighbor is George Turner, from a New York cavalry regiment. Should we care to climb the remaining flight, we shall find, just under the roof, a poor- ly lighted and exceedingly warm place, crowded with human- ity. In winter it is correspondingly cold.
It does not take us a great while to recover from the fatigue incident to our long journey. Then begins a protracted hunger, to last till we see our own lines again. During the months of August and September we are given corn-bread and occa- sionally a soup made of refuse bits of bacon, sometimes of fresh meat-including lights or lungs. The bacon is rancid, and the vegetables in it are not very inviting, consisting of stray cab- bage leaves and a leguminous article known by us as "cow-pea." The well-worn statement that every pea has a worm in it had no exception here. In fact we thought it had a double verifi- cation, but poor as this soup was there came a time when we would have joyously hailed its advent. The bread, mentioned before, was composed of corn and cob ground together, and was baked in large tins-the whole upper surface being marked off into rectangles, so that when carried to the floor for dis-
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tribution, by a knife in the hands of the designated party, it is cut into parallelopipeds of about two-thirds the size of an ordinary brick. To each man one of these is given, and on it he may sustain nature till the next morning. If he tries to save any of it for a meal, later in the day, unless he puts it into his pocket, the chances are that it will be stolen, so really the safest plan for him is to eat it at once and then solace himself on recollection and expectation till the next meal.
From one day let us learn all. It is, we will surmise, the middle of September. Morning comes early to those who have no evenings, and the first streakings of dawn have brought us from our recumbent positions. Conversation begins. We go over the old story of possible exchange, and perhaps wonder what the folks at home are doing. At the worse we know that we are twenty-four hours nearer release than we were the day before. The day advances; but eating is yet a long way off. Anon, men begin to take off garment after garment and submit it to very close scrutiny. What are they after? Why is it that nearly all, as they talk, keep up a constant motion, slap- ping now one part of the person and now another? Now a hand is thrust up a sleeve and something is found that affords the finder a deal of satisfaction. Then a quick grab is made for something upon the neck and more satisfaction. Never let- ting the talk halt for a moment, one may turn down his stock- ing or turn up his trousers leg, and grim determination marks his movements as he applies his two thumb-nails and by a sort of quartz-crushing motion produces an easily recognized crack- ing sound. The individual who is going through his garment regularly and carefully, in army parlance, is "skirmishing." It is the Pediculus (humanus) corporis that is occasioning all this activity. This parasite is an invariable accompaniment in army life; but in prison he reaches his highest pinnacle of im- portance. The carelessness of some makes the careful suffer. and to be entirely free from him is impossible. Occasionally, indignation causes the men to take extreme measures with the offender, and I remember that C-d's blouse was taken from him and thrown into the sink. A finger could not be laid on it and not touch some living, moving object. The owner did not long survive the loss of his garment. The man who did not care for himself was doomed. The fecundity of the insect was marvelous, and, if later in the season, the cold prevented
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a search for two or three days, one's condition became nearly unendurable. Certain boys anxious to know the time necessary for incubation experimented and ascertained; but unfortunate- ly for the interests of science I was too hungry to make notes and the results have escaped me.
The first duty of the morning is roll-call-not that any one cares for our names, or ever calls them, but we give this appel- lation to the act of falling into line and being counted by a rebel functionary, who comes in every morning. We are or- dered into place by one of our own number that we may be ready for the officer, who simply counts our squad, that he may account for all. It is easy to deceive him, and in the only in- stance of escape from our prison, men were lifted up through the floor at the east end to make good the places of those who had taken French leave. They had already been counted be- low, and, though the squads were numbered rapidly, they had time to get up, and to fall in, thus covering the departure of the escaped. It took a long time and much searching before the deceit was discovered. Several times when thus drawn up, we were searched for valuables, the rebels, somehow or other, thinking that the Yanks had many greenbacks about them. Strange places of concealment were had. One man put his money well down in his bushy head of hair. Another had sewed his into the binding of his pantaloons, and "Old P-s" (any man above forty was "old" to his fellows) kept his in his mouth. Knowing this, I said to him: "Where did you put your money when the rebs searched us?" In a tone several degrees softer than butter, the old fellow replied: "Money, money-I have no money." "Why, yes you have, too! What's the use of lying about it? You know you had it back in that mouth of yours!" Now lie lays his hand upon my arm and gently beseeches me to talk a little lower, lest the guard might hear me! 1
Roll-call over, we may hug ourselves till meal-time, trying thus to pinch our stomachs into a cessation from craving. It is, however, always in vain-and when at 9.30 or 10 o'clock A. M. we hear the entrance of the bread bringers we are in a condition seemingly bordering on starvation. The slab be- longing to our squad is slammed down upon the floor. The table has no cloth, there are no knives and forks, no napkins and no grace. Very speedily the dinner is made, and with 22
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wolfish eagerness we devour the portion allotted to us. The crumbs resulting from the cutting are scraped up with the utmost care, and I have seen men fight for them till they were too weak to continue the contest longer. Two men who thus fought, one from the 151st New York, the other a Jerseyman, and who in their snarling fierceness reminded mne of starving dogs, were in a few brief weeks sleeping quietly enough side by side in the burial-ground. With us it was not auri sacra fames: but rather food, food, food. Hunger being the best of sauces, the bread, coarse though it was, was very sweet to our palates, and unless the system rebelled, as it did in some cases, life could be maintained upon it, at least for a time. Occa- sionally our hosts' supply of salt seemed to be very short, whereupon the bread was quite tasteless, and then one of the chief objects of traffic among us was the same saline matter.
Breakfast, dinner, or whatever the meal may be called, being over, we have absolutely nothing to do. We may, if we like, study our fellow captives, and what a set they are. Here are men who first saw the light in almost every state of Europe. Wandering westward, they have been tumbled into the seeth- ing cauldron, called America, and, presto, they are transformed into Yankees. The day is very hot, and clothing is voted a nuisance. Item after item is cast aside, till nothing is retained save what decency requires, and decency, it will be remem- bered, is a relative term. Here comes a stalwart Yankee who first saw the light in Green Erin. His brogue is delightful, and he can tell you of many adventures when, a sailor bold, he ploughed the seas beneath the English flag. Upon his breast is the indelible figure of a vessel under full sail. In red and blue the picture is a tribute to the fortitude that enabled him to withstand the torture from the many thousand needle stings that worked those colors in. His brawny arms bear figures of dancing girls, and he is to us almost as good as a panorama. Here is a tall, finely-formed Yankee, whose voice betrays his English birth. What is the history of the letter D, so deeply stamped into his left breast? Many times my tongue was on the point of asking, but I forbore, fearing I might learn that it stood for "deserter," and I didn't want to think of him in that light. But Hawthorne's "Scarlet Letter" was not more conspicuous than this terrible blue D, which could be readily seen across the room. The anatomist and physiologist may
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here study the human form once divine, but under the pinching prison regimen fast becoming anything but beautiful.
From this cursory glance let us walk about our prison, being careful not to go too near the windows lest some vigilant guard, anxious to show his zeal, shoot at us. I say "shoot at," for the failure to hit many of us was apparently through no lack of intention on their part, but was the direct result of poor marksmanship. On the west side we may stop at the workshop of a Teutonic Yankee named Clippard, and him we shall find diligently engaged in making chess-men, orders for which he has from the guards far beyond his ability to fill, let him labor never so faithfully. He works these exquisite figures out of bone by means of simple tools in the main provided by himself. I wonder if he be not allied to those Swiss who for so many generations have excelled in toy making? His pay is in Confederate money; but by it he is enabled to supply many a luxury for himself and for his associates.
As we reach the north side and glance at the beautiful river, and the waving trees beyond, our attention is drawn to a sad sight at our feet. Here bucked and gagged is a prisoner- and what is his offense? None that he is conscious of. His reason has fled, and, alternately praying and imprecating, he is fast wearing away. I shudder now as I recall the fervor of that prayer calling on God for help, and anon, with fierce curses, damning every object that recurred to his "heat op- pressed brain." Just a few days more and he, from earthly sorrows free, will be lying beneath the soil. He is a Company C man of my regiment, and was too old for military service when he enlisted. Here lies a cavalryman from Oswego, N. Y .. who avers that he would give a month's wages for a pint of gin and an equal amount for a pouch full of tobacco. But he gets neither, for he hasn't his wages by him. Just beyond, at that northeast window, sits an industrious man. His name is Reed, and he comes from that grand Green Mountain State, a member of the 10th Regiment. He was never a large man, and prison life surely is not conducive to growth. Day after day he has toiled by that window. Bone ornaments of remarkable beauty come from his deft touch, and Confederate money in abundance comes into his possession. He, too, is far behind his orders. The young rebel guards have commissioned him to make sleeve- buttons and collar-pins for their lady loves, while charms and
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pendants innumerable are fashioned by him. But with the ad- vance of time, his cheeks pale, and his step grows unsteady. Finally, weak and poor, he is taken to the hospital, where-I lose track of him.
'Ah! what have we here! A party of men are hilarious about something. In the centre of the group are four men playing poker. They have the only pack of cards in the prison. Soiled hands have used them till they are in truth of mother earth, and from the usual rectangular form they have been worn to a uniform oval. The pack belongs to boys on the lower floor, and these men are using them through having given to the possessors some part of their rations of bread. Every looker-on is getting enjoyment from the game, watching most intently its progress. It is safe to say that the jack-pot is not very full.
A man reading! Surely, there are no books here! Yes, just three-one volume of the Life of Charlotte Bronte, the Life of Edward Payson and certain lectures of Lola Montez. These may be hired of the owner for a small morsel of bread. I am afraid the dancer found more readers than the Portland divine.
As we turn the southwest corner of the floor, we may find a Yankee soldier, born in France, who is turning many an honest penny in the shape of extra bread, through his power to tattoo the prisoners with India ink. He has inflicted no little torture on many a boy who will carry the marks to his grave. But our Frenchy has a peculiar habit-one that I would not credit, till I watched him, and actually saw him eat the vermin caught upon his blanket.
Leaning against the wall, as we advance, is a party of men. the most prominent of whom is First Sergeant Andrew Bixby, of Company H. An animated discussion is in progress, and we are greeted with, "Well, I'm blanked glad you are here. We have been trying to decide how to make a mince-pie. Can you tell us?" Sundry watchings of mother, years before, now stand me in hand, and I am able to satisfy inquiring minds if not hungry stomachs. This is a queer party before me. The sergeant is one of the best men in the world, but he will swear. There is nothing north or south that is not an object of his maledic- tions, yet he means nothing by it. It is a silly habit he has, but one, alas, that sticks to him, and weeks afterward, like Robert Buchanan's starling, he dies swearing. Here is Jimmy
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Smith, one of the best-natured Irishmen living. With what a rich brogue would he roll out the dulcet strains of " A frog, he would a-wooing go." His "Kamer-Kimer Keemer-ko." for delicious trilling of the r, was never surpassed. If there was ever a moment in his life when he wasn't ready to laugh and sing, it must have been when I didn't see him. By his side is another Smith, an Englishman, "'Arry," he called himself. He openly proclaims that he doesn't care a d-n which side whips. He was a soldier in the Crimean War, and is a soldier of fortune. He has cast in his lot with the North; but he says when his terin is out-he is bound to serve that faithfully-he will, if possible, go into the Southern army, for he wants to see both sides. He is a good soldier, but repeated references to a favorite potation of his has secured from us the name of "Old 'Aff and 'Aff." He hasn't the slightest appreciation of humor, and my statement that an irate parent would name two cities of France to a rejected suitor for his daughter's hand, saying "U-shant Havre," is greeted by him with supreme disdain, he shouting that the word is pronounced "Us-hant."
We have been around the room, and be the time long or short, we have nothing to do but wait for night. As the dark- ness steals over us we seek our places, and on the bare floors stretch ourselves. In the warm weather, with open win- dows and the air gently blowing through, the temptation to amusement is strong, and I have heard every creature on the earth imitated with more or less success. Before the animation of our former liberty had quite left us there was often singing; but as the days grew shorter, the nights longer and colder, there was very little of sportive nature in the hours. Night meant an absence of sunlight, and consequently more misery. . We lay as close to each other as possible, those within, of course, warmer than those on the outside. The end places we took in turns. When one turned over, all must do so. George Turner's body was more sensitive to the touch of vermin than any I ever saw. I have known him to leap up from his place and dance around as some men would if stung by a bee, and this he would continue till the cause of his affliction was found and destroyed. Of snoring we have all sorts and sizes, and it is no uncommon thing to have the aggressor jerked out of his place and his slumbers by those whom he has disturbed.
Sometimes on the still air are borne sounds that leave a fade-
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less impression. From the first floor came, once, strains of harmony, so sweet that I thought myself in heaven, and that angel voices were making true the fancies of my childhood. Only the wounded men, sweet singers they were, beguiling the long tedium of night with song, and it was that delight- ful ditty, "Kitty Wells," that for the first time in my life fell on my ears. For several days delirium had possessed the brain of a young boy from Ohio, who was just beneath us. During the day, the hum of conversation drowned his voice; but when sleep had pressed down nearly all the eyelids, then it was that his plaintive tones came to us, and how he pleaded for mother! Ineffectual tears filled our eyes at the sound of his cries; but with him we wandered amid the scenes of his earlier years, and we saw that mother leading him by the hand, and we saw her bidding her darling "Good-bye" as he became a soldier, and we reflected how little that Ohio mother knew of the suffer- ings of her dying boy. His spirit, ere long, forsook the frail tenement and was at rest.
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