USA > Pennsylvania > History of the Fifteenth Pennsylvania volunteer cavalry which was recruited and known as the Anderson cavalry in the rebellion of 1861-1865; > Part 32
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knew not which way to go, we concluded to follow him to the house, and got as far as the spring when we stopped, as someone would come there for water. Presently two white men, the darkey and two dogs came by. They stepped right over my feet and went down the path we had come on, and soon the dogs took our trail, and then it did not take long to get away from that place. We jumped the fence into a large corn field and stopped in the middle of it, and then had a wrangle among ourselves as to the proper direction to take, and at last got on the main road again that passed through McDonald, the county seat of Henry County. There we found a picket post, and one of the pickets was stirring the fire, but we nicely side-stepped past him without being seen.
We were so tired of hearing that Atlanta was twenty miles off that we concluded to try and find out something more definite. When night came we went to a large house and waited till all the lights were out, and then Knapp leaped over the fence and went into a hut, where we found an old man, who was just pulling off his stockings preparatory to going to bed. Knapp grabbed him, and said, "Do you know who I am?" He said, "Yes ; your are a Yankee." "Then tell me," said Knapp, "where I am and how far it is to Atlanta." He said, "It is twenty miles-some say nineteen ; but I wagoned it many a day, and it's twenty miles-every inch of it." Then he told us what route to take. We could go by way of Decatur, but the rebel army was there ; so we took the other road, and by the time morning came we were lost again. It was raining a little and there was no sun, but we went ahead and the road began to diminish and then went to nothing.
Then we had another wrangle among ourselves, and then Charlie, in a pet, said he was going into the first house he saw and find out ; but the first house we came to had too many dogs, so he put off the first house for the second, which stood back some distance from the road. When he rapped on the door a woman called out, "Who is there?" and Charlie asked her how far it was to McDonald, and she replied, "Five miles." Then he asked, "How far have we come from Atlanta?" "Five miles," she said, and it relieved us mightily. We knew now that we could not be far from our pickets and also might expect to meet some rebels before we came to them, and were extra cautious and hid in the bushes till morning. Their cavalry was on the move all
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night long, and I enjoyed looking at them from my place of con- cealment.
When morning came we carefully took in our surroundings, and off in the distance saw the white tents of our army, and threw up our hats for joy. We saw some U. S. wagons outside of our picket line and we went right up to them. There was a big man, who looked like a rebel, sitting up to a cook stove, for it was quite cool that morning of October 5, 1864, and as soon as he saw 11s he started to run, but we called him back and began talking with him.
It was a construction train. The foreman was in bed in his tent, but he heard all our conversation and came out to us. He took in the situation at once and knew exactly what we needed. He sent for a fresh bucket of water, and we took a wash-the first one for twenty-seven days ; then we each took a drink of whisky, and went with him to breakfast. If my pen cannot do justice to that meal I know my mouth did-it was good. It was such a relief to feel safe once more. I think he appreciated our eating so heartily, and what pleased me also was to find out that he was a Pennsylvanian, from Bedford County, named Adams. He was much taken witlı the appearance of one of our guns, and offered five dollars for it, and we sold it and at once bought some tobacco ; that was another thing we had a craving for.
As we would have had some difficulty in finding the office of the Provost Marshal, Atlanta being a big place and a large army being around it, he took us in. All of our troops we met took us for captured rebels and chaffed us a good deal. While we were walking up the street a man came riding along with a dispatch under his belt, and I said to one near me "that I knew that man- it looks like Joe Wetherby," and at that the man turned and recognized me and at once took me to the headquarters of our escort companies, where I got a hearty reception. A good bath and a suit of clothing made me look and feel like a Yankee soldier again, and the only thing that occurred to mar the pleasure of my first day of freedom and anxiety was from overeating the good things we had for supper. I had cramps, and it seemed to me, pretty much of everything else, for several hours, until Corp. J. P. Fullerton got something for me which made me feel easier and want to live again.
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I was forced to stay at Atlanta for two weeks, as the enemy had swung around on our railroad and stopped all traffic, but at last the road was cleared, and with a new suit on my back and twenty dollars in cash and a furlough in my pocket, I started for Chattanooga. It was a long string of cars, and I was in the last one.
When we got near to Good Church I saw some of our men jump out of the front cars, and then heard some shots from the front of the train, and I jumped and scrambled off to a piece of thick woods near the track. It was my old enemy, the rebel cavalry, after me again, but I eluded them, and when night came tramped back toward Atlanta and met the Sixty-second Illinois Regiment coin- ing up from the Chattahoochee River. The next day I was sent back to Atlanta, but after going a few miles was again fired on, and went back to the Chattahoochee and eventually to Atlanta. This being fired on and dodging rebel cavalry got very tiresome and wearing, and when next I started North it was with a good guard of the Tenth Michigan, but I did not take a good long breath until Louisville was reached, and I felt that I was on the border of "God's country."
PRISON LIFE AT BELLE ISLAND AND ANDERSON- VILLE.
ROBT. D. COOMBS, COMPANY F, PHILADELPHIA.
B ELLE Island and Andersonville-are they real or only such things as unsubstantial dreams are made of? Sitting mus- ing in the quiet hours of the night at one's fireside, before a cheerful, blazing grate, with ease and comfort and with the gray of threescore years showing visibly-with children and grand- children passing in review before the fitful, changing light, and after the lapse of over forty uneventful and happy years, can one adequately recall and portray the weary days and nights, the long months of suffering, hunger, despair and utter hopelessness that surround the words Belle Island and Andersonville? Should we give voice to it, or repress, the murderous thoughts that filled one's mind when finally those of us that were spared set our feet in God's country again ? How little we were, how blood- thirsty we felt toward all those who were at that time classed as rebels !
Time cools greater anger and softens worse wrongs than ours, but no man, we thought, had greater cause for enmity and hate than we when released from our long imprisonment.
May I set down naught in malice is my wish. I certainly will put down no untruths, but can I do it justice and still keep within apparent truthfulness ?- for I have never yet seen such hideous- ness adequately portrayed.
Our Government was probably not the least to blame for our long imprisonment and suffering, if there was any blame, because it was a Government policy that kept us there. To have ex- changed prisoners meant the recruiting of the rebel armies by just so many new soldiers, for without them the South had no new levies to call upon. With the North the supply was always plenti-
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ful ; so that being our policy, we were only doing a soldier's duty in a new line-fighting a battle on a new field, with dead and wounded just the same, only it was more deadly and more harrowing. Think of the fatalities !- exceeding any in modern battles-for with 40,000 combatants, 12,912 died in Andersonville, and of the survivors very few lived long.
On December 24, 1863, after our previous night's ride to en- deavor to surprise, at daybreak, the rebel camp near Dandridge, in East Tennessee, our advance guard of about twenty-four men, under Lyon, found themselves, after passing through a strip of woods, but a few fields off from a small battery in the road, about to fire on us. After the interchange of a few shots we thought it expedient to fall back to the main body, under Colonel Palmer.
As we trotted out of the country road into the path through the woods we found our retreat cut off by about 100 of the rebel cav- alry drawn up parallel to the path, about fifty yards off, by the side of a fence separating the woods from a cultivated field. They opened fire as we started to charge by; there was the usual rush and clashing of sabers, the whistling of bullets and the shouts of our men. Then I knew no more.
When I recovered my senses all was quiet, and as I rose I saw Abe Thomas near me. The others had escaped. His horse had been shot, as had mine, and while we had fortunately escaped having our brains knocked out as we shot over our horses' heads among the trees, we were both bunged up. We started through the woods on a run to the opposite side, where there was another fence and field. We had scarcely gotten over and gone but a few feet beyond when the rebels appeared behind us, urging their horses over the fence, firing their pistols at us and calling upon us to surrender. We kept on, but they soon caught us, as we were afoot. It appears we were very near safety, as immediately our own men opened fire just beyond, and for a time it was pretty hot, we being between the two fires. The rebels soon fell back, drag- ging us with them, having first taken our sabers and pistols. When we reached the woods where their main body was we found they had captured Captain Airey and about ten of our own boys. The rebel forces consisted of about a brigade of cavalry and some pieces of artillery. It seems they had been marching all night, hoping to do as we had intended to do-attack at daybreak.
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Prison Life at Belle Island and Andersonville.
We were marched some distance to a small settlement and im- prisoned in a house there. Some few escaped in the night. The wounded were taken from us, and we never saw them again. This was Christmas Day. Afterward we were taken to a railroad crossing, where there was a log hut, about twenty by thirty feet, in which we were placed and kept for about two weeks. There were some other prisoners taken later, so that we numbered prob- ably fifty. It was bitter cold, and we built a fire in the center of the hut. We were so crowded that when we lay down at night to sleep we were so wedged in that it was impossible to turn. If any- one got up in the night, when he returned he would simply lie on the bodies and sink of his own weight between them to the ground. Most of us had our overcoats taken away and very few had blankets, so that we suffered from the intense cold.
When the time came at last for us to be sent to Richmond we had become so cramped and stiffened and weakened by lack of food that we found marching a delusion and a snare. Some were shoeless, and as the ground was covered with snow the blood soon came, and the suffering became intense. The line was long drawn out as we staggered along. I know I blubbered like a baby, my knees knocking together. I was scarcely more than a boy, only about twenty, so that such weakness might be excused.
We reached that night the town of Rogersville, Tenn., just about dusk. We sat on the marble steps of a bank building until they determined where we were to be kept. This building was selected for our abode; we were kept there for several days and then taken to Bristol, where we were entrained in cattle cars for the East.
When we reached Lynchburg we were kept there over Sunday, and then continued on to Richmond, reaching there about the middle of January. We were taken to a large tobacco warehouse 01: the same street and diagonally opposite Libby Prison, known as Castle Thunder.
While there for a few weeks occurred the raid which Dahlgren made around Richmond. At this time we were enjoined from looking out of the windows, and were fired upon by the sentries for doing so.
In a week or so we were transferred to Belle Island, being marched from Richmond across a bridge over the James River
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to Manchester, directly opposite, and then over another bridge from that side to Belle Island.
Belle Island contained then from 8000 to 10,000 prisoners. Our camp ran down to the edge of the water, being enclosed simply by an embankment about four feet high. Guards were placed at intervals, marching back and forth on the outside. They bartered at night with those who had greenbacks or clothing or anything to dispose of for food. There were some Sibley tents that were kept for the use of the older prisoners, but most of us were without shelter of any kind, save what we might have had our- selves. There was no wood to be had for fires, and as it was an ex- ceptionally cold, hard winter, our sufferings were almost unen- durable.
My immediate messmate, George Wall, and I had each managed to save our ponchos, which with short sticks enabled us to put up a small wedge-shaped tent, about three feet high, with the sides open and nothing on the ground. We had somehow kept one quilt, with which we covered ourselves, of course not taking off any clothes.
Our washing was done at the river's edge.
As what food we had was not cooked, wood was a necessity.
In the bartering there was much cheating, probably on both sides, when it could be safely done, but frequently the guards took fearful revenge. I have seen them fire right into the mass of prisoners, the bullet killing or wounding three at a time. The street was about six feet wide, running right through the camp, where we all congregated daily to traffic or gossip.
Belle Island, I think, was the worst place at which we were im- prisoned, considering the severity of the winter and the absence of proper food. The number of deaths was less than at Anderson- ville, but then there were fewer prisoners, and we had not been imprisoned for very long, and consequently were stronger.
Our food consisted simply of a piece of corn bread, coarsely made, about three inches square, and a small tin cup of what was called "bean soup"-thin, watery stuff, with a few wormy beans floating on the top. The worms were the only thickening and strength it had. This meal was all we got each day, so that our thin blood made the piercing cold more penetrating.
The bitter cold nights were frightful nightmares; the days were
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Prison Life at Belle Island and Andersonville.
bearable when there was some sunshine and no bitter wind. The Black Hole of Calcutta is historical, with its stench, heat and darkness. But the days and particularly the nights at Belle Island were possibly even worse. There was the absence of shelter, the want of sufficient clothing, the bitter cold and the lack of sufficient and proper food. It was horrible in the long hours of the night to hear the never-ceasing tramp, the low moans and curses and the thud of some falling bodies when nature gave up the unequal struggle.
When a dog or any animal floated down to the island, the pris- oners would beg for and eat it, raw usually, and offal sometimes found its way into the possession of a lucky few, and was devoured eagerly.
Men were freezing and starving to death all the time. One of our own Regiment had his foot frozen, which grew worse at Andersonville and developed into the gangrene so prevalent there. While undergoing the amputation of his leg, he had as close a call as any of us ever will, and live. In fact, he was cast aside as dead, but he revived, and is a living example of what a human being. can stand.
In these miserable surroundings we spent that winter-a woe- begone, desolate, diseased crowd.
When March came and we were re-marched over to Richmond, we thought an exchange had been effected, and dreamed of home and friends and food. But we were disappointed, and on March 4, 1864, were again entrained on cattle cars and started on our long six days' journey to Andersonville.
At midnight, on the Ioth of March, we arrived at Charlotte, N. C., where we were taken from the cars and encamped in thie guardhouse over night. I recall how one of us (not in our Regi- ment)-a great, big, light-hearted man-became demented, wan- dered about like a wild man, and at last laid down to die, alone and deserted.
We then passed on farther south. At the border of each State we were met by a guard of State militia, who escorted us through the State. During our journey down some of the prisoners got in the end of the cars after dark, the two guards being stationed only in the center, and cut through the bottom of the cars, so that when we stopped sometimes at night at stations three or four
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would make their escape through the holes so made. Finally they were missed, and just as soon as a stop was made guards were placed on the outside. The first thing we knew of the discovery was the sharp crack of guns, the screams of our men, and then two bodies were pitched into the car, on top of Wall and me, lying near the door. We dare not move, and so their lifeblood stained our clothes and bodies, and they lay all night on our legs. We dare not get up, as the orders were to shoot any who arose in the night, and frequently men were shot who got up uncon- sciously in their sleep. After this experience extra guards were placed over us, with orders to shoot on the slightest provocation.
Another method of escape used in our trip to Andersonville was rather amusing and enjoyable, like any sport. During the day we were allowed to stand, and naturally got near the door to look out and see the country. Those desiring to take the chance of escaping would be given leeway at the door, and as soon as the track ran near a hill two would roll out in a ball and go rolling down the hillside, the cars, of course, going on. The guards at the door and on top would try to pot them as they scampered off through the fields. It was great fun for us, as the Johnnies never seemed to hit anyone.
We passed through Augusta and Macon finally, and reached Andersonville, I suppose, about midnight. It was raining in tor- rents. As the cars came along and stopped, a double line of sol- diers was stretched out at right angles to the car, each bearing a large blazing pine knot; and as we passed out through them in the pouring rain it was a weird sight. We were marched about a half mile to the stockade and turned in-without shelter, with- out even any tents. It was at the bottom of a slope between two hills, with a small stream flowing through it, and surrounded by tall posts put in the ground upright, about fifteen feet high. close together and enclosing the grounds, with a large gate at the only entrance. It was a parallelogram in shape, and, if.my mem- ory can be depended upon after forty years, its length may have been 1000 feet and width 600 or 800 feet. At intervals near the top of the stockade, with steps on the outside, were stands for the sen- tries, and here they would stand day and night, calling the number of the post, the time and sometimes the weather. It was some- thing like this : "Post 2, 10 o'clock ; all's well; raining like h-1."
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Prison Life at Belle Island and Andersonville.
There was much buying and selling done, as the Jolinnies were anxious to get hold of Uncle Sam's greenbacks and we were anxious for food. Here the severest rules were enforced ; scarcely a night passed without the guards shooting at some one of the prisoners. My personal misfortunes commenced at my début at this new summer resort. It was a hard time, but youth triumphed, and I passed through the fire and lived to tell the tale, so that I suppose I ought to consider myself lucky for the experience. Being about twenty years old, with two years' entire army ser- · vice, I had never known a day's sickness, never a headache or any other ache, and to that I attribute my endurance.
After the cold of Belle Island and the confinement of the life there, the sun at Andersonville brought on my own misfortune. As we stood up in line one morning to be divided into squads I fell over on my face in a faint, and then and there laid down with the commencement of typhoid pneumonia. It seemed like a billet for the other world under the existing conditions-no hospital, no shelter, no food, no medicine, on the ground, inclement March and April ahead. Could conditions be more adverse ?
But I will first explain how we were arranged and guarded. We were first separated into companies of 270 men, these sub- divided into squads of ninety for convenience in issuing food, counting and keeping tabs, for every morning a rebel Sergeant came and we had to be re-counted. Our food was also issued to these squads of ninety, and then divided by ourselves, cut up and distributed by lot-somebody turning his back, and so giving it out. We then were put as squadded on the hillside, a "street" to each squad, running down the hill at right angles to the swamp. The "streets" were say four or five feet wide, and each squad butted up against the adjoining one-two squads, then a street, then two squads again, and so on all over the camp. A well was dug by each squad, others being sunk when necessity required, and these. holes were down toward the swamp. The swamp was a marshy, wet ground, occupying about a quarter of the space.
In the center of this swamp the water made a channel, through which it flowed-not enough there to wade in or to use for drink- ing, but was only a meandering, muddy, irregular little body, which, however, as it reached the stockade, broadened out and deepened, making a hole, say five or six feet wide and a foot
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or so deep, from which we got all our water for drinking and washing. And, of course, all the refuse of the camp percolated through the swamp until it reached this hole. There was, how- ever, no superfluous washing on those days, of either people or clothing. To live was the essential thing. And when the "dead line" was formed it passed over this pool, and many a poor fellow was potted for stretching over too far to get some cleaner water.
The "dead line" was created after we had been there some time, as a protection, they said, from the scaling of the stockade. It was not an imaginary line, as I have heard stated, though it was not a very evident one. It was maybe ten or twelve feet from the stockade-simply a line of upright posts, say four feet high, the posts about ten feet apart, with a strip of wood on the top. It meant almost certain death if you even accidentally fell under it. I can recall one day when skirmishing around for a little wood to cook with and seeing a stump just about under the "dead line," I started to break it with my foot, asking the guard if I could not get it, but I stood transfixed as he slowly raised his gun to his shoulder. My companions all around ran; had I done so I would probably have been shot, but I was too frightened to move. But for some providential reason he hesitated, and slowly dropped his gun as I walked away. He must have seen the sicken- ing fright on my young face and taken pity.
The lack of food and shelter and the filth we were compelled to live in brought on new diseases at Andersonville. Legs, frozen at Belle Island, thawed here and developed into gangrene. The most repulsive and horrible sights were common. I have seen a man with his face all eaten clear of flesh, with apparently millions of maggots crawling through the sores, and the man unable to lift a hand to interfere. You could clasp your fingers around their legs at the thighs, and when scurvy became prevalent their limbs would harden, become the color of mahogany and the joints be- come stiff, so they could not bend. The teeth would loosen and fall out. Then, too, there were hundreds in a dropsical condition, and their hands, body and legs would swell to double their size. Every day I saw from 125 to 150 dead comrades stretched out in their last sleep. In the morning a large, open army wagon was driven in, and the bodies were taken up by the arms or legs and tossed into it. Long trenches had been dug and the bodies were
Prison Life at Belle Island and Andersonville. 385
cast into them. There was no clergy, no burial service. But had they not done their duty quietly, uncomplainingly, under try- ing conditions ? Let them rest in peace.
I can recall no special suffering or distress from my own illness, except the misery of it all and the knowledge that I saw my com- rade thought I was to be the first to respond to the hereafter call. I was spared. After three months I commenced to mend and get about. Having some knowledge of medicine, I had charge, with another prisoner, of some of the gangrene patients-not a very healthful occupation under the circumstances. George Wall had me transferred and he remained inside. I had not been out long- about July Ist-when poor George was carried out a corpse, hav- ing died away from me. It saddened my life, as we had been close "bunkies" ever since our capture in December-slept together, shared our small rations, comforted and cheered each other as best we could. He nursed me from March Ioth, for three months, like a mother, cooking what little I required and nestling close to me in the long, cold nights, to keep me warm.
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