Andersonville Memoirs of Henry A. Harman

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The first thing every morning the prisoners were ordered to fall into line, and were counted. This generally took an hour or two; on several occasions we were kept standing in ranks all day while the rebs tried to make their count come out all right, and agree with the number of rations that they were issuing. On these occasions orders were given to the guards to shoot any prisoner attempting to leave his place in line. Twice to my recollection they kept us in line this way all day, and without rations, and once they kept rations two days trying to find who the men were that flanked from one "ninety" to the other and drew double rations. They never issued any back rations, so we were out just so much, and no extra amount to make it up with.
Just imagine what this meant to us. We were on the verge of starvation when receiving "full" rations; then to be without entirely for 48 hours and fall back on the same amount as before.
From the south gate clear across the prison grounds ran a wide street, which by common consent was not encroached upon by any "shebang" or shelter. This was the main promenade, business street, and market combined. Here the rations were issued in bulk by the rebs to the Sergeants of the divisions, and here all the trading and gambling was done.
The street was generally lined by traders of all descriptions. The most that any one trader could show as his stock was a few beans, a sweet potato, half a teaspoonful of salt, and plug of tobacco, and perhaps an onion. Some would have the beans cooked, and would sell the soup. No matter in what style or shape you wanted any of the rations we received served up, there you could find it; and no matter what you had to trade, tobacco or grub, little or much, there you could find your man.
Among the traders were the gamblers, or "chuck-luck" men; they would sit all day with the boards across their knees, with figures from 1 to 6 marked upon them, inviting all to try their luck. You placed any amount you chose in cash on any figure represented and then shook the dice-box. If the figure you bet on came up you won the face of your stake, but if not you lost your stake.
There was considerable money floating around camp, and these "chuck-luck" men managed in the end to secure the most of it. This street was crowded at all times, and the cries of the different business men singing the praises of their goods, accompanied by those wanting to trade this for that, was deafening; but at 4 o'clock in the afternoon, when rations were issued, it was pandemonium indeed.
The personal appearance of the individuals of this crowd would be hard to describe. Begrimed with pitch-pine smoke of months, which water without soap could not be removed, and probably with the majority had not been tried; clothing of such scant quantity that shirt and drawers would be considered an extensive wardrobe; shoes and stockings a luxury that not one in a thousand could boast of. Take them as a whole, they were the most forlorn-looking lot of creatures that could be imagined.
Scattered among the crowd, and stretched out on the ground (not only here but all over the camp), were men in the last stages of disease, generally that of the bowels and other kindred complaints. As the coarse food that was issued to the prisoners only aggravated complaints of this kind, which were the most prevalent, the prisoners died by the hundreds. It was such a common occurrence to see men dying in all manner of places and conditions that it was looked upon with indifference and caused no remark; it was part and parcel of the place, and we had become so accustomed to it that we thought nothing of it.
Down by the branch at any time of the day or night men by the score could be found dead or dying. They would crawl as near to the water as they could get, and then, being to weak to get over the filth that bordered and blocked the stream, would give up in despair, after trying in vain to reach the water; being too exhausted to go back where they started from they would, after terrible suffering, give up the ghost.
The dead were picked up every morning, carried to the gate and laid out in a row, ready for the dead-wagon to draw them out. Very few bodies would be left with any clothing on them; it would be in the majority of cases be stripped from them before the breath had left the body.
Many were the fights for dead mens' rags. It was pitiable to view the naked dead as they were pitched like cord-wood into the wagon preparatory to their ride to the deadhouse or cemetery. They were thrown in indiscriminately. It was horrible to see the heads, arms and legs as they swung back and forth with the jolting motion of the wagon. This wagon was made to do double duty, for it not only carried the dead out in the morning, but it brought in our rations of bread in the afternoon, not as much as being swept out. As an appetizer I think this was a success, especially after noting the condition of the load in the morning, which certainly could be classed as perishable freight.
We had now, if not before, reached the deplorable condition where everything had to give way to the question of something to satisfy the continual cravings of an empty stomach. We cared for, talked of, and thought of nothing else. All schemes of trading with and fooling the guards had long since been given up as of no account. They had been accustomed to dealing with Yankees, and were not so green as of old. Furthermore every article we had to trade had vanished long since in the vain attempt to fill that aching void.
Everything centered on rations. The one thing we had to look forward to was rationtime. No sooner were rations received and swallowed than we commenced to count the hours until the next issue. The last thought at night was rations, congratulating ourselves in the morning that we were so much nearer the longed-for hour. As the moments slowly rolled away, our nerves by 2 o'clock would be wrought to an intense pitch. Excitement ran high, and a stranger would, if he could have looked upon us, have supposed that some great good fortune was about to be realized by the whole camp.
The time for issuing rations was 4 p.m. Long before 2 o'clock the majority of the prisoners would be anxiously and eagerly watching the road that led toward the kitchen, which lay out of sight, to the northwest of the stockade.
The first indication of the expected and longed-for load of "grub" would be the tip-ends of the mule's ears, which came into view above the intervening hilltop. Then a shout would go up from the camp, which, as the balance of the mules and wagons came into sight, was taken up by the whole body of inmates, and might have been heard miles away.
From the time rations were issued until dark, the prison presented a lively scene of trading, cooking, and hustling around generally, trying to make the most of the small ration that we received. Rations were issued alternately to half the camp raw one day, cooked the next.
One great and unnecessary privation was that of wood. The 35,000 prisoners who had been confined there had, before the Summer had half passed away, used every vestige of wood, even digging down several feet for the roots where the stumps of the trees had stood. The prison was surrounded by a dense pine forest, and nothing would have been easier than to give axes to squads under suitable guard daily to cut all the wood needed. So they were allowed to suffer for that which might have been so easily obtained.
It was a great deprivation even in Summer to have no wood to cook with, but now became much more so, when the weather was freezing cold. The little wood we obtained we were obliged to split into pieces the size of matches, and use it in that shape to do our cooking with. One man from every squad of 30 was allowed the privilege of going twice a week to the woods under guard and bringing back as much wood as he was capable of carrying, for the use of himself and of the other 29 of his squad. As the wood that could be picked up (no axes were allowed) had been pretty well cleaned up near the prison, we were obliged to go over a mile before finding any. The piece of wood that one man in our enfeebled condition could carry that distance would be small indeed; nevertheless, this was all we could get, and we had to be content. The idea of having a fire to get warm by was preposterous. Most of the time we had none to cook with.
In order to go on the wood squad we had to wait our chance at the gate, and days would often elapse ere anyone from our mess would be of the lucky number. It was not unusual for prisoners to have the life crushed out of them while waiting for a chance to go for wood.
At least one-third of the prisoners had absolutely nothing to draw or cook their rations in. These poor fellows, if the rations were cooked immediately devoured them as soon as received, and if raw, would trade them for stuff that was cooked, which they could generally do by paying a large percentage for the exchange. If no one would trade with them, they would eat the meal and beans as they were. Everything was toil that came to their mill; forever "snooping" around and eating stuff picked from all sorts of places.
Every time when we drew molasses a young fellow in our mess would invariably keep his rations until evening. When everybody else had devoured all the eatables that they had, then he would turn his molasses into a half a canteen and boil it leisurely over the fire. The aroma from the cooking molasses to hungry men was tantalizing to the extreme, and by the time that he had the stuff cooked to his satisfaction the boys sitting around were about wild in their regrets that they had not saved their own. After he had commenced to eat the candy the boys would begin to bid for it. One would offer to-morrow's ration of bread. No; he would decline to sell as yet. Finally, when the candy been nearly all eaten, he would sell the remainder for, say, half ration next day's bread. When the following day's rations were issued the man that bought the candy would be so much short of his regular allowance, and would generally anticipate his rations for the next day, and so on every day until the big interest he was paying for the accommodation in bread would swamp him, and he would have to live on almost nothing to pay his indebtedness.
Many were the ways of trying to get enough stuff ahead to have one square meal. I went into the soup business for a few days. I boiled a half-pint of buggy beans in two gallons of water, and went into the market on "Broadway," and sold a dish of soup for half-ration of beans, bread, or tobacco.
It required considerable strength of will to run the business long, and not turn to and devour the capital. I stuck to it for two days, and then, having sold the most of the water off the beans, I brought what was left home, and all in our mess had quite a satisfactory meal.
There was a sutler's store in the camp run by the rebs, but so far as the majority of the prisoners was concerned it might as well not have been there, for they had no money. In Confederate money bread cost $2; onions, $5 each; sweet potatoes, $40 per bushel. I don't believe there was Confederate money enough in camp to buy a five-pound bag of salt.
Tobacco was as hard to get as anything else; a quarter of my rations went daily for it. Although I never was accustomed to chewing until after entering Andersonville. I am satisfied that but for its use I should not have survived.
The site of Andersonville was on two side hills, a brook or branch running through the center. Along the branch above the prison the rebel troops were camped. All their refuse was thrown into the brook and floated down through the prison, and, as the stream was narrow and sluggish, the water was almost always unfit for use, even to wash in.
Under these circumstances, the procuring of water fit for cooking, etc., was almost an impossibility, as the only way that it could be got was by reaching far out under the dead-line, thereby inviting a shot from the guard on top of the stockade, not 30 feet away. There was, day or night, always such a crowd at this spot after water that it was only by the utmost exertion, and after waiting your chance for hours, that any could be had.
Such was the state of affairs up to Aug. 9, 1864, when something took place that was singular, and certainly providential. During a heavy thunder storm, some of the timbers of the stockade, alongside of the branch at the upper side of the camp, were washed loose, tearing away the embankment considerably. After the storm it was noticed that a beautiful, clear stream of water flowed from out the embankment. After the stockade was replaced this continued to run. As the spring was inside the dead-line, the rebs kindly put a trough in such a shape that it conveyed the water within the reach of the prisoners. Although the stream was small it was continuous and cold.
In February, 1865, affairs in prison remained about the same. No new prisoners had arrived in some time, and exchange talk was below par. We had about come to the conclusion that we never would get out, except as we were carted out in the dead-wagon. The death rate continued to increase; from 30 to 50 were taken to the trenches daily.
The rebel recruiting officers came in every day now, and offered all the old inducements and some new ones. The rebs said that our Government had deserted us. It certainly looked so, and in reality it had, as it was the policy to sacrifice the prisoners for the general good and the early close of the war. We knew that if we were exchanged, our Government would give able-bodied men, fit at once to go to the front, for poor starved creatures, who probably never be able to fight again. Exchange would prolong the war indefinitely, and if necessary, be sacrificed for the preservation of the Union, rather than dishonor ourselves and our flag by taking the oath of allegiance to the Confederacy.

The National Tribune
June 1, 1893
Part I.

A YEAR IN SIX REBEL PRISONS.

Terrible Experiences and Sufferings of a New York Cavalryman in the Hands of the Rebels

CAPTURED AT PLYMOUTH

Hopes and Fears About Release and the Oft-Told Falsehood About Exchange

WIRZ THE HUMANE MAN

Rewards Offered Rebel Guards for Killing or Wounding Prisoners at the Dead Line

BY HENRY A. HARMAN, Troop A, 12th N.Y. CAV., WATERTOWN, N.Y.

The history of Andersonville, and the usage of prisoners during the Summer of 1864, to the time of their removal in September of that year, has been well described by many writers. Nothing, however, has been written in regard to the future movements of the prisoners, and it is therefore thought that it will not be uninteresting to learn what became of those unhappy wretches who were not fortunate enough to be exchanged in the Fall of 1864. They, after many changes of prisons, and being hustled around the country to avoid Sherman's many scouting parties, were finally returned to Andersonville.
The writer was captured at Plymouth, N.C., April 20, 1864. This place was rendered untenable by a large force under the command of Gen. Hoke in our front, and the sinking of our gunboats in our rear by the ram Albemarle on her initiatory trip down the Roanoke River - a very full account of which, and also of her final destruction by Lieut. Cushing has already been published.
After the usual trials and tribulations incident to a Southern rail trip, we arrived at Andersonville the first part of May, 1864, where we passed the Summer the same as thousands of other prisoners did, the details of which would be interesting; but I propose to omit them, as this paper will deal only with that which occurred after being shipped from Andersonville in September, 1864.
The rebels had made great preparations for defense at Andersonville, having built two extra lines of stockades around the prison proper; but they must have come to the conclusion that nothing would stop Sherman, and that if they wished to retain possession of their captured "Yanks," they had better get them to a safer place.
An order from the Confederate War Department was found among the official documents at Andersonville after hostilities had ceased, directing the batteries to open on the prison with grape and canister when the Yankee force came within seven miles of Andersonville. This shows the disposition that they intended to make of the prisoners if by chance the Federals came to Andersonville before the prisoners were removed.
A week or so before the removal the oft-told story of exchange was related in all its phases, in order thereby to more easily control the prisoners in transit. Many, of course, believed that Wirz told the truth when he said that our transports awaited us at Savannah and Charleston; so, of course, there was a wild rush to be among the first to go, and flanking was a common occurrence.
Many times at the gates of different prisons, when this old story of exchange had been told and swallowed as if it were something new and true, have I seen men crying piteously and complaining that someone stronger than themselves had flanked or crowded them out of their place.
Capt. Wirz was in his glory when handling Yanks, but was greatly depressed to see so many of them slipping through his grasp; nevertheless, he was on hand as each detachment filed out of the gates, and escorted them along with his guard, under a string of oaths, to the depot, where they were tumbled into cattle-cars filthy in the extreme.
The rations generally for a trip of this kind being hardtack, were thrown in a heap on the car floor, and no system attempted in its distribution, so that the first and strongest got the most, while the last to get in the car but little, if any.
Sixty-five men were generally crowded into an ordinary box-car, with two guards at the door and several on top, which did not give them room to do anything but stand or sit in one spot. Lying down was not to be thought of.
The hell endured in making a trip in a car of crowded, starving, lowsy, filthy, howling, swearing, despairing and dying men can hardly be imagined.
As our detachment was on its way from the stockade to the depot it was halted for a moment near the "chain-gang." As several of the unfortunates composing the gang were from my regiment -- the 12th N.Y. Cav. - I was anxious to get an opportunity to speak to some of them. They had been sentenced some time in June by Capt. Wirz to the chain-gang for attempted escape after being paroled to do work outside the prison.
I could not get a chance to say anything to them, for the guards were too watchful, but it was not necessary to talk to them to learn of their condition; to see them was sufficient. We could well imagine what their sufferings must have been, and still continued to be. It seemed to us that which we had endured was nothing compared to their hard lot. A comrade who had been on parole outside of the prison told me that he had managed to get a chance to talk with them for a few moments. They informed him that they had not had their irons taken off since first put on, and that they, as a gang, had not been changed in their location, but occupied the same spot of ground as at first, had no shelter from the sun or rain, and that the rations were far more scanty and worse in quality than those dealt out in the stockade.
OF THEIR SUFFERINGS no tongue could tell. They had given up all hope of relief, and would welcome death if it came quickly. A number of the gang had already died, and the rebs took their time in removing the decaying bodies. Those who survived saw that it was only a question of time, short of that, when they would all follow suit.
There were 10 or 15 in this gang, and when the manner of chaining them together is described, no one can wonder at their despair. Each man had an iron band or collar, about two inches wide, locked around his neck, shackles on his ankles, and at times they were hand-cuffed. They were chained together in a circle by short chains running from and to each collar connecting each, shackles on their legs, with a heavy iron ball attached thereto for each man. There was a lighter ball attached to the chain running from the collars from man to man.
The sharp edges of the collars soon began to wear into the flesh of the unfortunates' necks, and continues to aggravate the wounds in spite of the old rags that they tucked under the collars. Nothing that they could do would keep the flies from these wounds and maggots were soon the result.
Of course, as their irons were never removed, they could not keep their clothing free from lice, which consequently swarmed upon them. It is needless to say that they had no opportunity afforded to wash themselves, and were thankful if their thirst was satisfied. The tropical sun beating down on their unprotected heads, accompanied by the stings and bites of all the pestiferous insects that are bred in a hot climate; the night dews; accompanied by musketoes of such size and power that clothing of leather would have been no protection; the cramped position of which there was but little relief by change, which, if attempted, disturbed some other member of the gang, and only called forth a volley of curses, all this and innumerable other things not necessary to mention made their existence a hell indeed. What their ultimate fate was I never learned; whether they were sent away with the last batch of prisoners leaving Andersonville at this time, or kept there as a solace to Capt. Wirz until they succumbed to such terrible treatment, and finally one by one passed away. At least, they were not there when we returned to Andersonville in December.
When we left Andersonville we had little idea where we would bring up, but the majority were sure this was to be an exchange. We were satisfied that we could not strike a worse place than the one we were leaving, and if we were only exchanged from one prison to another it was apt to be an improvement and to our advantage.
Those that were left of the 35,000 that had entered the prison, which probably numbered say, 25,000 (the number on the headboards in the cemetery Sept. 19, 1864, ran up to 9, 216), were shipped to many different prisons in the Confederacy, viz., Millen, Florence, Charleston, Salisbury, and other notable slaughter-pens.
Those that went to Salisbury and other points, except Savannah and Millen, were mostly paroled in November 1864.
I became separated from the boys that were left from my company. They were paroled in November, came home and had the pleasure of rejoining the regiment before the war closed, being "in at the death" at the surrender of Johnston in North Carolina, a privilege which was denied the writer, as his fate took him with the detachment which went to Savannah and Thomasville, and finally around to Andersonville.
After crowding as many prisoners as could be stowed in a box-car, the doors partially closed, with the sentry standing in the space that was left, we started from Andersonville, and after a suffocating ride of 24 hours arrived at Savannah.
The depots and streets were crowded with negroes; very few whites were to be seen. The
NEGROES LOOKED THEIR SYMPATHY, but dared say nothing; indeed, no one was allowed to talk with the prisoners, the guards strictly keeping back any person who seemed desirous of interviewing the Yanks.
No one who had the least feeling could look on these men as they were hustled from the cars but to sincerely pity them. Most of them had been prisoners for six months, and some of them for over a year. Black with pine smoke, which it was impossible to wash off without soap, and that was an article that was never issued to them; ragged and dirty they were, for the most part over-run with lice, sick and famished, tired and thirsty, discouraged and hopeless.
Very few, as might be seen, as they fell into line, but were crippled in some way - short an arm, leg, or hand, with wounds on all parts of the body, which having no care, were growing worse instead of better. Here and there one bent nearly double with cramps, caused by scurvy of the stomach and bowels. Others had become moon-blind, or lost their mind, and were led or assisted by comrades who had not yet arrived at that state where their, brutish surroundings would callous all feelings of comradeship or humanity. Many were without shoes or hats, and very few possessed of, together, pants, blouse, and shirt.
After getting into line ready to march we were told that there had been a storm the night before, and that our transports were driven off the coast. We would therefore be obliged to go into camp for a short time, and wait their return. The majority were greatly disappointed, but to many this was not unexpected.
One of the great enjoyments looked forward to when we could first reach our transports was that we should at once be rid of our dirty, lousy garments, and take a bath where soap was plenty. If we could have had the opportunity of washing our clothes and persons frequently with soap and warm water, it would have gone a long way towards alleviating the horrors and sufferings of prison life.
We were marched through the city to the Fair Grounds, where about six acres had been inclosed by a rough board fence. As we passed through the gate the officer in command said:
"Boys, the water-pipes are not quite up to the grounds yet, but by to-morrow you will be supplied with all the water you want." We had then been without water for 24 hours.
After getting settled here, we were very well pleased with this camp. It was new, never having been occupied by prisoners. The location was good, with pleasant surroundings. The grass was untrodden, and everything was clean, but the greatest blessing was pure air. We had inhaled the polluted atmosphere so long that it seemed like a new lease on life, and no doubt it was.
We understood at the time that the city fathers were much opposed to having their beautiful city made a harbor for lousy Yanks.
The sentries were posted on a raised platform built on the outside of the fence, and walked their beats and called the hours at night, the same as at Andersonville.
The "dead-line" was not forgotten either. Stakes were driven at short intervals, and at 20 feet from the fence, and strips nailed on the top about breast-high. The dead-line was a necessary arrangement in all prisons. We found no fault with it, and no prisoner would voluntarily cross or seek to evade the rules in regard to it. At Andersonville it was made an excuse for shooting many prisoners who inadvertently leaned against or laid their hands on it.
I read the order hanging on the wall at the headquarters of Capt. Wirz, and it promised the guards at Andersonville 30 days furlough for wounding, and 60 days for
KILLING A PRISONER who approached the dead-line.
The rations for the first few days after our arrival at Savannah were so much better in quantity and quality than we were in the habit of receiving that we felt quite encouraged, but they soon fell into the old way, and we got no more than at Andersonville. We received soft wheat bread in lieu of corn bread, and sorgum molasses in place of beans. It was not so bad to be quartered here. We could hear the roar of the city and the ringing of the church bells, and many things reminded us of civilization.
There was no barracks or shelter of any kind here. We had to resort to the old method of "chipping in" and putting up a sort of a tent with the few old blankets that were in the possession of the mess of seven or eight prisoners. We could only muster four, and they looked like cheese-cloths when held up to the light.
As to clothing we had very little. My own wardrobe consisted of a sleeveless shirt made from a meal bag, with slits cut in the corners for armholes, a pair of Government drawers that I had on when captured, and an old hat with the crown torn out. My boots had given out some time before, and I had been barefooted for several weeks. The rest of the mess individually were in no better shape. No clothing was ever received from our Government at any prison where I was confined; at least, we got none if it was. At Salisbury, I have been told, a certain quantity was distributed after the rebs had helped themselves.
We were as short of cooking utensils as of clothing. We had one iron skillet, three or four half-canteens, a tin cup, and a broken caseknife. As raw rations were issued about half the time, it can readily be imagined the trouble we had in cooking. The rations were so small that many times we were tempted to eat them raw, rather than go to the bother of cooking and the loss it entailed.
Hundreds were in worse shape than ourselves. A prisoner who had nothing to draw rations in, or a partner who had, was in a bad way, and sure to go out with his toes tied together before long. A prisoner who possessed a tin pail was a prince indeed, and could live high - that is, if he lived at all, and was not knocked in the head some night by someone who thought the prince ought to have a successor - from the tribute exacted for its use.
Wood was just as scarce here as at Andersonville, where pine forests surrounded the prison, but the rebs had some excuse here for not furnishing more of it, as they had to draw it a long distance.
While here great inducements were held out to prisoners to go out and work at the different trades. We were not asked to take the oath, or enlist, as subsequently was the case. None of whom I knew accepted the offer.
While at Andersonville a swelling had formed and broken out on my right ankle, and gangreen had commenced to do its work. At this time so much flesh had been eaten away that the working of the ankle-joint could be plainly seen. For some time previous it had been with great difficulty that I could stand erect, and now the time had arrived when I was obliged to get around the best way that I could on my hands and knees.
While in this predicament an order was issued that all prisoners who were able to walk 12 miles should the next day form in line outside the prison. They should then be marched to Fort Pulaski, near the mouth of the Savannah River, for exchange. After a good deal of discussion our mess decided to go. I did not see how I could get over that distance, but the boys volunteered to assist me. We half suspected that it was a trick of the rebs to get the comparatively well separated from the rest, and then parole those left in the inclosure. I concluded to go, for if I should stay, and then not be paroled, it would be
A DEATH-WARRANT for me. Without my comrades and the things we jointly possessed, I could not survive a week.
We were formed in line outside the next day and were counted, and after standing there the rest of the afternoon were marched back again, and no one was paroled or exchanged. I only relate this to show in what a state of mind the rebs continuously kept us in. Scarcely a week passed but something of this kind occurred. Experience amounted to nothing; we were just as ready to be taken in next time.
It was seldom that that we obtained a newspaper, and it was little consolation when we did. The rebs always put a good phase on the war news for themselves. Very few of the citizens came to look at the Yanks. Those that did seemed to have little sympathy.
I remember one Sunday several ladies went up to the guard platform, and after talking and laughing a while commenced to throw eatables of some kind down amongst the prisoners, and seemed to greatly enjoy the scrambling and fighting that it created for the possession of the precious morsels. Many pieces were thrown so that they fell inside the dead-line, whether intentionally or not I cannot say, but there they remained; a continual temptation to some poor, hungry Yank to give the nearest guard an opportunity to earn a furlough.
I never knew just how many prisoners there were at Savannah, but think about 2,000. The death rate remained about the same as at Andersonville. It was too late for pure air alone to be of any great benefit to the general health. The treatment at Savannah, on the whole, was comparatively good, and we would have been contented to have staid there in preference to running chances in going to another prison.
However, we were, after about a month's stay, ordered to move. This time we took the back-track, and after the usual horrors of a box-car excursion arrived at Millen, Ga., a station on the Georgia Central Railroad.
Here we were delighted to find another prison that had never been occupied. There was a stockade similar to that at Andersonville; only one line of timbers had been erected, however, inclosing about 40 acres of woodland, the trees having been cut down to build the stockade wall. A large quantity of limbs, roots, fat pine, etc., still remained on the ground. A clear, swift-running brook took its course through the inclosure.
With one accord we hoped when we entered and viewed our new "home" that here we might remain until finally released. There were no shelters built for us, but there was plenty of wood, and in a short time we had put up the most comfortable habitations that it had been our luck to occupy since our entrance into that country.
The arrangements for guarding the prison were the same here as elsewhere, and as there was so much room and comparatively few prisoners the dead-line gave us no trouble.
The weather was comfortable in the daytime, but the nights were cold. The "grayback" seemed to appreciate this fact, for they redoubled their excursions to creep into warm quarters. Their numbers increased in our clothing as the nights grew chilly, and we found it an impossibility to keep them down. Heretofore by careful search once a day we could, to a certain extent, keep their numbers reduced, but now our principal occupation was
"SKIRMISHING," otherwise they would have carried us bodily off.
The same arrangement for issuing rations prevailed here as at other prisons. The quality and quantity was about the same, only we got nothing that was cooked. We had had no meat of any kind since June, and received here for a ration of 24 hours half a pint of wormy cow-peas, half a pint of corn-meal, the principal part of which was cob; for feeding the Yanks the rebs did not think it paid to bother to shell the corn.
At long intervals we got a half teaspoon of salt and sometimes a gill of "sorghum," (which the rebs invariably called "these molasses,") which was issued in lieu of peas or meal. It is a fact that cannot be truthfully disputed, that the peas given to us always contained from one to four bugs to each individual pea. We tried to separate them at first, but soon gave that up as a bad job, as it reduced the ration fully one-half. Accordingly, after boiling them, we would mash the whole mess together and dry it out in the skillet. We thought that if travelers in the African deserts could eat roasted locusts, why not starving Yanks do the same with Confederate bugs? Anyway, so they were cooked and eaten with relish.
Trading among ourselves and with the guards still continued. Tobacco was a necessity to those in the habit of using it, as a food, and a part of each day's ration was "swapped" for the weed.
Roll-call took place every evening, but it never seemed to satisfy the rebs. They were always, at every prison, issuing more rations than there were men in the camp. They did their best to find out how it was, but never succeeded, and could not catch the slick Yanks, who would answer to their number and draw rations in several different squads.
As at other prisons, the rebel Surgeons went through the formality of having "sick-call" at the gates, but it amounted to nothing, as they had no medicine, even for their own troops. Furthermore, medicine would not have been of much use without wholesome food, shelter, and humane treatment.
Here I saw for the first time those immense spiders - tarantulas. There seemed to be a great many around camp. Although we had become accustomed long before to creeping things generally, these made us shudder. But they were as nothing compared with the musketos, which might be mistaken for diminutive humming-birds. They came down among us in swarms, and did not wait until night, either.
Books were a scarce article in camp. I remember of seeing but two - "Mill on the Floss" and Baxter's "Saint's Rest." One of my comrades owned the latter, and read it incessantly. Such is the association of ideas that several years after the war I chanced to have for a neighbor a most estimable friend, but I disliked him intensely, simply because his name was Baxter.
As the Presidential contest was soon to take place, the rebs were anxious to know if McClellan stood any chance of election. They thought by taking a straw vote of the camp some sort of a basis could be established to figure from. The election took place, and although an extra ration was promised if McClellan were elected, Lincoln carried the camp by a very large majority, as he did at all other prisons.
This made the rebels feel rather
DOWN IN THE MOUTH, As they knew that McClellan was a great favorite with the soldiers. They saw by this showing that there was no hope of his election.
Time hung heavy with us, with nothing to divert our thoughts from our miserable surroundings. The days seemed to be of indeterminable length and dragged slowly along. Our principal conversation was in regard to exchange, and the eatables we would order up at the first opportunity after that happy event occurred. Square meals was a never-failing subject to draw upon to while away the leaden hours.
The number of corpses at the gate, each morning increased as the days rolled by. It was a heart-rending sight - the filthy, contorted, shrunken forms wreathed into hideous shapes. Scurvy, by contacting the cords, had drawn the limbs into all manner of positions; flesh was swollen to bursting, disgusting looking sores swarmed with lice and maggots, hands were clinched, mouths open and eyes staring, while swarms of nasty flies filled the air about.
The bodies were nearly always naked, as the few rags that had been worn had been stripped from them by someone who had the heart to do it as soon as the breath had left the body, and sometimes before. It was not an unusual sight to see ragged wretches quarreling and fighting over a dying prisoner for the possession of the rags he might have on.
After less than a month's stay at Millen we were unceremoniously routed out one stormy morning about 2 o'clock, hustled into box-cars, and started toward Savannah. One hardtack was issued to each man, and we received nothing more for 40 hours, when our famishing stomachs were regaled by a half-pint of shelled corn.
The reason of our hurried departure was, I presume, the fear of Sherman's raiders. We learned afterward that they reached Millen only a few hours after we left.
Our stay at Savannah was of short duration, and our excursion was continued down the Atlantic & Gulf Railroad to Blackshire [Blackshear], Ga. The rolling-stock and track of all the roads that we had been on was poor in the extreme, but this line was worst of all. They did not dare run the train over 10 miles an hour, and even at that rate the uneven depressions in the track swayed the cars from side to side nearly to capsizing.
Whenever we came to a steep grade in the line, which was quite frequent, the train was stopped, the engine uncoupled and run ahead for a mile or so; something about the locomotive requiring a greater rate of speed than the slow running of the train allowed. The engine was continually getting out of order, and the stops were many, sometimes of such duration that we were allowed to get out of the cars and stretch our tired limbs, affording an opportunity to those who had cooking utensils for moistening their corn with the ditch water at the side of the track. As the majority had nothing to carry water in, we were thankful for the chance afforded to wet our parched throats.
At these stops many were the Yankee tricks practiced to get away, but they were always nipped by the guards, who were sharp-sighted and very suspicious. Some of the guards were quite social and willing to talk, but we could never tell whether we would get a civil reply to a question or a
RAP OVER THE HEAD with the musket, accompanied with an imperious order to "Get into them 'ar cars."
The guards were generally made up of old men, and boys, unfit for duty at the front, and none of them had ever been there or under fire. Consequently, we were used with great severity than we otherwise would have been if guarded by veterans. It was conceded by both Northern and Southern prisoners that when under the care of men who had seen and felt the horrors of war, they were treated with more kindness and consideration than when guarded by the militia.
After several days on the road we reached Blackshire [Blackshear]. The village, if there was one, we saw nothing of, as we were marched into the woods and went into camp; that is, we threw ourselves down on the wet, cold ground, without rations or fire, covered ourselves as best we could with the few blankets we had, "spooned" up close to each other, and shivered the long night through.
The weather was so cold that the ice formed nightly of considerable thickness, and as I have mentioned before we were all thinly clad, shirt and drawers constituting the individual stock of most of the prisoners. It seemed as though human nature could not endure the strain, and it did not with many.
While we staid here we were allowed no fire at night, and very little wood, green at that, to cook with in the daytime. The guards had several large fires around the camp, which lit up the surroundings so brilliantly that it would have been impossible to escape. There was no stockade, fence, or ditch here. They substituted two lines of guards, and prisoners ran the line nightly. Some were shot, others halted when the they saw that the guards had a "bead" on them, and a few got clear of both lines, but they were always caught by the hounds and brought back; if not the next day, they were eventually captured. When overtaken by the hounds they were generally terribly bitten and chewed up. Taking everything into consideration, it was a losing business to try to escape; for all were weak from semi-starvation and from other causes, a long distance from our lines, in an unknown country, with no maps or compass, no protection for the feet, or extra rations, and innumerable other disadvantages.
It was a popular delusion that red pepper sprinkled in the tracks of the fugitive, or wading in water, will destroy the scent and put the hounds at fault. The following incident will show that such is not the case.
The four comrades heretofore alluded to as being in the chain-gang for attempting escape, had all the chances in their favor when they made the trial. They were at work outside the prison, on parole, and started immediately after roll-call at night. They were not missed until roll-call next morning.
They had contemplated this notion for weeks, and had a pretty good idea of the surrounding country. They were provided with a map and compass, rations for three days, whiskey, matches, and red pepper. Their shoes were in good condition, and they were all in good health.
The weather had for weeks previous been wet, and it had rained continuously for three days and nights before they started, and it continued to do so for the same length of time afterwards. Their plan was to strike for the Chattahoochie River, which was no great distance from Andersonville, float down stream on logs to the Gulf, and there attract the attention of our fleet and be taken off. But their expectations came to naught. They were
RUN DOWN BY THE HOUNDS, and captured inside of a week, within 10 miles of Andersonville.
At Blackshire [Blackshear] we built such shelter as we could with our three blankets, but that left us with nothing to cover us at night. It was simply impossible to sleep, on account of the cold. The only thing was to get up and walk around. We had considerable rain while here, and for all protection that our shelter afforded, we might as well have been roofless.
After being here a day or two the rebs got down to issuing rations somewhat regularly, which continued to be about the same as at other prisons. The prisoners were organized by "divisions," "nineties," and "squads." Thirty men made one squad, three squads one ninety, and three nineties one division of 270 men. A Yankee Sergeant was selected for each division, ninety, and squad.
The rebs issued the rations to the division Sergeants, and they divided what they received into three piles, which was "called off" to the Sergeants of the nineties, and they inturn to the Sergeants of the squads, who distributed it to their squads of 30 men.
Now, it was a simple affair to equally divide the rations until they reached the squads, but here it was another thing. It was almost impossible to equally divide anything that had to be cut and get each piece exactly of the same size. As to meal, beans, salt, or molassas, it was different, as such stuff could be measured quite accurately. Even with these there were many disputes and quarrels; starving men are not apt to be very nice in their judgement where "grub" is concerned.
Well, the Sergeant would cut the bread or meat, which ever it happened to be, into 31 pieces, as equally of a size as he could, making all do allowance for bone or gristle, and cutting from this piece and adding to that where necessary, until all were about alike. Then inquiring of the members of the squad (who, of course, were always around, and intently watching all that had been going on) if all were satisfied with the division. If not, and anyone thought that certain pieces were too large or too small, a change was made, and the calling-off took place.
Some one of the bystanders was asked to turn his back, and the Sergeant, pointing to each piece in succession, said: "Who shall have this." As the inquiry was made the man with his back turned called off any number he pleased, from 1 to 31, skipping around among the numbers generally. Each man had a number, which he retained during the life of the squad. The Sergeant was allowed an extra ration for his trouble, -- not by the rebs, but by the prisoners, -- and he earned it.

(To be continued)

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The National Tribune
June 8, 1893
Part II.

A YEAR IN SIX REBEL PRISONS.

Terrible Experiences and Sufferings of a New York Cavalryman in the Hands of the Rebels.

THE HUMAN BRUTE.

A Move to Thomasville, Ga.,
And the Temptations of the Starving.

ONLY A SKILLET.

A Hard Trip Back to Andersonville, and Capt. Wirz's Compliments.

BY HENRY A. HARMAN, Troop A, 12th N.Y. CAV., WATERTOWN, N.Y.

When it is remembered that there was no law or order in the camp, and that every man was a law unto himself, it is not surprising that broken heads were plenty, and easy to be had. The strong and brutal bullied the weak; selfishness predominated. All the finer feelings were here lacking, and it was "every one for himself and the d----l take the hindmost," which he generally did.
We had been at Blackshear but a short time, when we were hustled off in the middle of the night by rail toward the Florida line. After again going through the delights of railroading in the Confederacy we brought up at Thomasville, Ga. There, as at Blackshear, there was no stockade, and we encamped in an open field, in close proximity to the town. There had been no preparations made for receiving the prisoners, and rations were scarce for several days. A ditch was dug around this camp.
I know that here more men ran the guards, or attempted to, than at Blackshire. I presume that many thought the chances of escape were better; besides that, the weather continued so wet, cold, and unendurable that almost any fate seemed preferable to existence in that place. There was hardly a spot that the water did not cover. There were a few knolls of limited extent which were not reached, but the greater part of the camp, which was low and swampy naturally, was inundated and remained so for the better part of our stay.
One would naturally suppose that after spending the Summer at Andersonville nothing would surprise us, and we could endure almost anything. At Andersonville the less clothing we had on the better; we could, to some extent, keep out of the sun, but here there was no such thing as bettering our condition by anything that we could do.
The small amount of wood that we were allowed was green, and was hauled into camp in big logs. We had nothing larger than a case-knife to cut it with. What could we do? Simply what we did - stand in the water, or walk around shivering or shaking in the freezing winds. This was
SIMPLY A FORETASTE of what was to come for the rest of the Winter. Although at other places we did not find so much of the camp covered with water, other things were not wanting to add to our discomfort.
While things were at their worst here rebel officers came in and tried to recruit for their army. They would choose the stormiest days, and at a time when rations were the shortest, the day previous, on some pretext, having withheld the regular issue, the true reason being to drive the men into taking the oath of allegiance to the Confederacy.
These fellows generally prefaced their remarks as to what they would do for the Yanks who would enlist by a long tirade about our Government, saying that it had persistently refused to exchange, had abandoned its soldiers captured by the Confederates, and sacrificed them because they were unfit for further service. They argued that there was no probability of the war closing for a long time; that there was no need to tell us what would ultimately be our fate, as we could see it daily by the "stiffs" that were carried out to the ditches in the graveyard. They offered to those who would consent to go out good clothes, plenty to eat, and comfortable quarters. It was understood that they must do whatever ordered to, be it carrying a musket, working on fortifications, or what not.
It was a cruel piece of business to tempt starving wretches to dishonor themselves and their Government. I cannot say that any one accepted the offer at that time, but some did subsequently at Andersonville. With the opportunity ever open, it took some nerve and no little patriotism to remain in prison and be slowly starved and martyred as thousands were. It is not to be doubted that two-thirds of these unfortunate prisoners, who were afterwards carted out to the trenches at Andersonville, could have saved their lives if not their honor by enlisting in the rebel army.
The order was given out one day that all those who were sick should report at the gate at a certain hour the next day, and the Surgeons would prescribe for them. As I was very bad off, as mentioned heretofore, with a gangrene sore on my ankle, I went. After waiting in line two or three hours the doctor reached my case, and the satisfaction that I got was this: "If you ---- Yankee thieves had not destroyed all our medicine at Atlanta we might do something for you, but as it is we have nothing to give. You can stay outside here for a while until I get through, and then I will
AMPUTATE YOUR LEG, as there is no hope for you otherwise."
I declined with thanks. I did not expect to live long, anyway, but I did not propose to be butchered by him. I might better step over the "dead-line." These sick calls were always a farce, and only done for sake of form. They had no medicines to give, and could do nothing.
The weather continued cold and rainy; we had had no glimpse of the sun in a long time. I did not know what it was to be dry. The vermin increased in numbers; the colder the weather, the tighter and closer they clung. Exchange rumors were few; it seemed as if we were settled here for some-time. We could get no news from the outside world, as the townspeople were not allowed to have any communication with us.
No new prisoners had come in since our arrival at Thomasville, so we knew nothing of the war. We were well satisfied, however, that Sherman was making it hot for the rebs, as we had been moved so often and much farther south.
One afternoon, after being at Thomasville several weeks, our hearts were made glad by the arrival in camp of several bags of hardtack. As we lived on cornmeal so long, it may be imagined that a change of diet was hailed with delight. After distribution we found ourselves in possession of two round hardtack, about five inches in diameter and the usual thickness. It did not take long to go through one of them, as may be supposed. As to the other one, we could not be so extravagant as to eat it right away, although we were ravenously hungry, so we laid that away for breakfast next morning. It was one thing to lay it away and quite another to leave it alone, and think nothing of it. Try as we would, that hardtack was uppermost in our minds; sleep we could not. What if someone would steal it? Horrid thought! So, after trying to forget that we possessed such valuable property, we gave up in despair, got up and
DEVOURED THAT HARDTACK in "one time and two motions."
At roll-call, our counting-time, the next morning we were quietly informed that we were to start across the country to Albany, Ga., (a distance of about 40 miles,) and that the hardtack that had been issued the day before was to constitute our bread rations during the trip, which would probably occupy about four days! The said hardtack, if we had still possessed it, would have been sufficient only for a scant day's rations. We were expected in our enfeebled condition to march four days and subsist on something that we did not have.
Whether this small piece of business was done intentionally was an open question. If Capt. Wirz had been around we would have known that it was one of his little pleasantries.
The next day we were marched out and started on our long journey. Fortunately, it did not rain, but the weather continued very cold, and the mud in the road when we first broke camp and started in the morning was frozen. The ice formed over the puddles was of considerable thickness. The road would thaw up some during the day, but the stiff mud and pieces of ice bruised and cut our bare feet, which before the first day's march was over were in a condition better fitted for the hospital than for starting out on a long tramp.
Each day we managed to get over about 12 miles, which seemed to us to stretch out to 1,200. Occasionally the column was halted for a rest of a few moments, and when this slight intermission was afforded we were not particular as to where we rested, but sank down almost anywhere, so completely exhausted were we. There was no such thing as falling out or lagging behind - the sharp bayonets of the guards kept the column well closed up.
There were no ambulances or wagons of any kind to pick up those that gave out entirely. It was a common rumor that those who were so unfortunate were shot. I cannot vouch for this, but the frequent discharge of firearms in the rear of the column certainly gave color to the story.
When we reached the place designated for the camp at night, we were turned in and guards posted. A ration of half a pound of beef was issued. A squad sent out a day's march ahead butchered and had it ready for distribution on our arrival. The beef we generally ate raw, being too nearly used up to spend the strength necessary to collect wood to cook it with. If we could have had the usual ration of meal that the hardtack mentioned had been issued in lieu of, we could have gotten up a very fair supper for us, as our mess was the fortunate possessor of an iron skillet, in which we could have baked our corn cake and boiled our beef; but this would not have been in accordance with the rebel system of doing business, which was, so far as the prisoners were concerned, to make the least of a little instead of the most.
Although the said skillet was invaluable to us, I am certain that we all at times during the march wished it at the bottom of the sea. We took turns in carrying it, and made a shift about every half mile. Although there were six of us in the mess, it seemed as if our turns to carry came around with
ALARMING FREQUENCY. When we started from Thomasville it weighed about eight pounds, but before we reached the end of our journey not one of us but would have sworn that it weighed a ton. It seems now a small matter to carry eight pounds a half mile, but when one can just drag one foot after the other, it is rather a serious affair to be encumbered with eight pounds of iron.
The guards were mean, cross, and surly, now more than ever. They had opportunity as we marched along to jump over the fence and collect sweet potatoes and other vegetables close by the road, but they never offered to share with any of the prisoners, which they might easily have done without inconvenience or loss to themselves. I heard a comrade ask one of the guards for the top of a turnip that he was then eating, but instead of giving or refusing it, he struck the prisoner a severe blow in the face with the roots, bruising and nearly blinding him.
The country through which we marched seemed lonely and desolate. I do not remember seeing a white person, and very few negroes made their appearance. The houses were few and far between, and in various stages of dilapidation.
On the morning of the fourth day we reached the end of our terrible journey - a more worn out crew it would have been hard to find.
While the rebs were getting us aboard the cattle-cars, I managed to avoid the guards, creep under the cars, and thence to the depot; thence I crawled under the platform, and was satisfied that I had least got away from them for the time being. I was so completely "done up" that I immediately fell asleep, for how long I do not know, but was aroused by the guard shoving a bayonet down through the platform and the order to "get outen there, you'un Yank, and git into them 'ar cars right smart quick." I complied with his request, and was lucky enough to strike the right car to find my comrades.
Shortly the train started, and we were on our way to our old home, Andersonville. In a snowstorm, at noon on Christmas Day, 1864, we arrived. The first person we saw was Capt. Wirz, mounted on his old gray mare. Amid a volley of oaths we were ordered out of the cars and into line, preparatory to organization into divisions, squads, etc. While this was going on, Capt. Wirz rode up and down the line, his face and actions denoting perfect satisfaction.
"Vell," he said, "how you like your Christmas present, ay? You not laf so much you did last Summer when you first come; you not feel so happy?" What he referred to was his reception by the "fresh fish," or new-comers, who invariably greeted him with a shout of derisive laughter, his appearance was so comical. I recall the first day we arrived at Andersonville. He came tearing and swearing around, trying to assist his clerk in getting the men into "fours." They bothered him all they could, and laughed at his efforts. He was fairly beside himself, he was so mad.
"You come down here," he said, "to fight, and can't get into fours. Why I could lick the whole posse of you with a broomstick. You lafs now; you won't lafs when you get in the bull-pen." And we didn't, you must be sure. Wirz's appearance and sentiment that time would have excited laughter at a funeral. He was a man of small stature, short and thin. He rode with his stirrups so short that his knees were drawn nearly to a level with his horse's back. He was naturally round-shouldered, and, when riding leaned far forward, looking as if holding on to the saddle for dear life. I was reminded at once of the monkey that Dan Rice used to put on the mule at the climax of his circus performance.

(To be continued)

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The National Tribune
June 15, 1893
Part III.

A YEAR IN SIX REBEL PRISONS.

Terrible Experiences and Sufferings of a New York Cavalryman in the Hands of the Rebels.

ANDERSONVILLE AGAIN.

The Mockery of a Sutler's Shop,
"Broadway," and the
Double-Ration Trick.

WIRZ'S LONGINGS.

Speculating in Molasses, The "Chuck-a-Luck" Men,
The "Snoopers," and
The "Providential Spring."

BY HENRY A. HARMAN, TROOP A, 12TH N.Y. CAV., WATERTOWN, NY.

As I said before, when we arrived at Andersonville this time we did not laugh at Capt. Wirz or anything else, but marched meekly into the stockade. Here we found several thousand other prisoners who had been sent there from other prisons a short time previous. The interior of the prison had changed in some respects, the land had been turned over with the plow, and the sink at the brook had been filled in. A portion of the filth that had accumulated several feet deep on either side of the brook had been thrown into the stream, and the action of the water had to some extent carried it off; but enough remained to breed disease among thousands.
The general aspect was the same as of old - a dreary, desolate waste. There had been, however, during our absence a number of sideless sheds erected - four of them across the extreme north end, two in the southwest corner, and one near the center of the camp on the south side of the branch.
These sheds were 20 by 40 feet in size, and being open at the ends and sides were of very little protection from the weather. In the Summer they might have been of some good in protecting us from the sun's rays, but the time of year had now arrived when the heat of the sun was something to be sought rather than avoided. The cold winds and rain had free sweep through these sheds, and as our scanty store of blankets and clothing had from hard usage been nearly worn out, we suffered extremely from the cold.
Our mess took up its quarters in the shed near the branch. By putting together with sticks our remaining pieces of blankets, we managed to make one of about the usual size; by raising this on a couple of sticks and setting it up on the weather side, we managed during the day to keep partly sheltered. At night this shield would be used to put over us. Of course, we lay on the bare ground, and generally had to "spoon" close to keep what little warmth we had in our emaciated bodies.
No one that has not had the experience can imagine the discomforts, to use a mild term, in trying to rest or sleep under these circumstances. A person soon gets tired of lying in one position on the bare ground, and it is not long before it becomes unendurable. The great trouble is that not all the lot so "spooned" together wish to change position at the same time; so, as as a matter of course, this leads, especially with people whose temper and dispositions are none of the best at any time, to discords. Thus it was with us.
GRUMBLING AND SWEARING Made up the major part, to say nothing of the occasional resort to fisticuffs. Finally this was amicably arranged, by the end man saying when we should all turn over. When he thought the time most opportune he would give the order, "Prepare to spoon! - Right or left spoon!" as the case might be, so all would turn at the same time.
The sheds only accommodated a small portion of these prisoners - the majority putting up any shelter that they could devise. Many tunneled into the hillside, which made a very good residence so long as the weather was dry; but after a short rain, the soil being sandy, they immediately caved in or flooded with water.
The fact should be borne in mind that most of the men in Andersonville had been prisoners eight or nine months, some of them over a year. What little personal effects they had first brought into prison were nearly all gone, blankets destroyed by the action of the weather and clothing worn out. The cooking utensils, if they ever had had any, were lost by removal. With no means of replenishing their small stock, things had got to a pretty low ebb. During my whole imprisonment I cannot recollect as ever seeing needles and thread, pins or matches.
As is well known, the rebs were short of these things, and when they came across them on captive men, they were immediately confiscated. Many boxes of blankets and clothing were sent by our Government for the benefit of the prisoners, but they were never issued to them; at least not at Andersonville, or at any other prison that I was in. I believe, however, that a very small portion did reach the prisoners at Florence, S.C. Anything that passed into the hands of the rebs generally staid there.
As to the mails, we were once given an opportunity to write, and told that the letters would certainly be sent, but they never were. We were subsequently informed by pretty good authority, that Capt. Wirz's daughters kept the letters for the blank paper that they afforded. I never knew a prisoner to receive a letter.
I learned after coming home that many letters, with and without money, both greenbacks and Confederate, had been sent to me by a flag-of-truce boat from Newbern, N.C., but I never received them. The fact was, no effort was made to deliver mail or anything else to prisoners - that is, privates. They considered them no better than so many dogs. Witness the remarks of Capt. Wirz in reference to the manner that prisoners were buried at Andersonville:
"Why," he said, "the way they are buried now is too ---- good for them. If I had my way the dead Yanks should be all thrown together into one big hole and left to rot, and after the war I could organize a fertilizing company and drive guano out of the market."
At another time, when looking around inside the prison, he said:
"Why don't some of you Yanks try to get out:
MY DOGS ARE HUNGRY TO BITE YOU. I must get rid of you some way, and make room for more Yanks. I will put them in here 10 feet deep, if you don't run away or die, or somethings; I am getting rid of more Yanks than all the rebel army in the field." (Which was a fact, as statistics show that more men died in prison than were killed at the front.) "I must have plenty of room for next Summer. I hoped and expected that yellow jack would get in among you last Summer, but he will next, when there will not be a grease-spot left of all the Yanks in here in three weeks. Oh, my nice little Andersonville, I laf's when I dinks about you."
The first thing every morning the prisoners were ordered to fall into line, and were counted. This generally took an hour or two; on several occasions we were kept standing in ranks all day while the rebs tried to make their count come out right, and agree with the number of rations that they were issuing. On these occasions orders were given to the guards to shoot any prisoner attempting to leave his place in line. Twice to my recollection they kept us in line this way all day, and without rations, and once they kept rations two days trying to find who the men were that flanked from one "ninety" to the other and drew double rations. They never issued any back rations, so we were out just so much, and no extra amount to make it up with.
Just imagine what this meant to us. We were on the verge of starvation when receiving "full" rations; then to be without entirely for 48 hours and fall back on the same amount as before. Why, it did not seem, after devouring at once all they gave us, that we had had anything to eat at all, it gave so little satisfaction.
From the south gate clear across the prison grounds ran a wide street, which by common consent was not encroached upon by any "shebang" or shelter. This was the main promenade, business street, and market combined. Here the rations were issued in bulk by the rebs to the Sergeants of the divisions, and here all the trading and gambling was done.
The street was generally lined by traders of all descriptions. The most that any one trader could show as his stock was a few beans, a sweet potato, half a teaspoon of salt, a plug of tobacco, and perhaps an onion. Some would have the beans cooked, and would sell the soup. No matter in what style or shape you wanted any of the rations we received served up, there you could find it; and no matter what you had to trade, tobacco or grub, little or much, there you could find your man.
Among the traders were the gamblers, or "chuck-luck" men; they would sit all day with the boards across their knees, with figures from 1 to 6 marked upon them, inviting all to try their luck. You placed any amount you chose in cash on any figure represented, and then shook the dice-box. If the figures you bet on came up you won the face of your stake, but if not you
LOST YOUR STAKE. There was considerable money floating around camp, and these "chuck-luck" men managed in the end to secure most of it. This street was crowded at all times, and the cries of the different business men singing the praises of their goods, accompanied by those wanting to trade this for that, was deafening; but at 4 o'clock in the afternoon, when rations were issued, it was pandemonium indeed.
The personal appearance of the individuals of this crowd would be hard to describe. Begrimed with pitch-pine smoke of months, which water without soap could not remove and probably with the majority had not been tried; clothing of such scant quantity that shirt and drawers would be considered an extensive wardrobe; shoes and stockings a luxury that not one in a thousand could boast of. Take them as a whole, they were the most forlorn-looking lot of creatures that could be imagined.
Scattered among the crowd, and stretched out on the ground (not only here but all over camp), were men in the last stages of disease, generally that of the bowels and kindred complaints. As the coarse food that was issued to the prisoners only aggravated complaints of this kind, which were the most prevalent, the prisoners died by hundreds. It was such a common concurrence to see men dying in all manner of places and conditions that it was looked upon with indifference and caused no remarks; it was part and parcel of the place, and we had become so accustomed to it that we thought nothing of it.
Down by the branch at any time of the day or night men by the score could be found dead or dying. They would crawl as near the water as they could get, and then, being too weak to get over the filth that bordered and blocked the stream, would give up in despair, after trying in vain to reach the water; being too exhausted to go back where they started from they would, after terrible suffering, give up the ghost.
The dead were picked up every morning, carried to the gate and laid out in a row, ready for the dead-wagon to draw them out. Very few bodies would be left with any clothing on them; it would in the majority of the cases be stripped from them before the breath had left the body.
Many were the fights for dead mans' rags. It was pitiable to view the naked dead as they were pitched like cord-wood into the wagon preparatory to their ride to the dead-house or cemetery. They were thrown in indiscriminately. It was horrible to see the heads, arms and legs as they swung back and forth with the jolting motion of the wagon. This wagon was made to do double duty, for it not only carried the dead out in the morning, but it brought in our rations of bread in the afternoon, not so much as being swept out. As an appetizer I think this was a success, especially after noting the condition of the load in the morning, which certainly would be classed as
PERISHABLE FREIGHT. We had now, if not before, reached the deplorable condition where everything had to give way to the question of something to satisfy the continual cravings of an empty stomach. We care for, talked of, and thought of nothing else. All schemes of trading with and fooling the guards had long since been given up as of no account. They had become accustomed to dealing with Yankees, and were not so green as of old. Furthermore, every article we had to trade had vanished long since in the vain attempt to fill that aching void.
Everything centered on rations. The one thing we had to look forward to was ration-time. No sooner were rations received and swallowed than we commenced to count the hours until the next issue. The last thought at night was rations, congratulating ourselves in the morning that we were so much nearer the longed-for hour. As the moments would slowly roll away, our nerves by 2 o'clock would be wrought to an intense pitch. Excitement ran high, and a stranger would, if he could have looked in upon us, have supposed that some great good fortune was about to be realized by the whole camp.
The time for issuing rations was 4 p.m. Long before 2 o'clock the majority of the prisoners would be anxiously and eagerly watching the road that led toward the kitchen, which lay out of sight, to the northwest of the stockade.
The first indication of the expected and longed-for load of "grub" would be the tip-ends of the mule's ears, which came into view above the intervening hilltop. Then a shout would go up from the camp, which, as the balance of the mules and wagons came into sight, was taken up by the whole body of inmates, and might have been heard miles away.
From the time rations were issued until dark, the prison presented a lively scene of trading, cooking, and hustling around generally, trying to make the most of the small ration that we received. Rations were issued alternately to half the camp raw one day, and cooked the next.
One great and unnecessary privation was that of wood. During the previous Summer the stumps and wood that had remained when the stockade was erected had been entirely consumed. The 35,000 prisoners who had been confined there had, before the Summer had half passed away, used every vestige of wood, even digging down several feet for the roots where the stumps of the trees had stood. The prison was surrounded by a dense pine forest, and nothing would have been easier than to give axes to squads of prisoners and send them into the woods under suitable guard daily to cut all the wood needed; but that would not agree with Winder's and Wirz's policy of getting rid of the Yankees as fast as possible. So they were allowed to suffer for that which might have been so easily obtained.
It was a great deprivation even in Summer to have no wood to cook with, but now became much more so, when the weather was freezing cold. The little wood that we obtained we were obliged to split into pieces the size of matches, and use it in that shape to do our cooking with. One man from every squad of 30 was allowed the privilege of going twice a week to the woods under guard and bringing back as much wood as he was capable of carrying, for the use of himself and the other 29 of the squad. As the wood that could be picked up (no axes were allowed) had been pretty well cleaned up near the prison, we were obliged to go over a mile before finding any. The piece of wood that one man in our enfeebled condition could carry that distance would be small indeed; nevertheless, this was all we could get, and we had to be content. The idea of having a fire to get warm by was preposterous. Most of the time we had none to cook with.
In order to go on the wood squad we had to wait our chance at the gate, and days would often elapse ere anyone from our mess would be of the
LUCKY NUMBER. It was not unusual for prisoners to have the life crushed out of them while waiting for a chance to go for wood.
At least one-third of the prisoners had absolutely nothing to draw or cook their rations in. These poor fellows, if the rations were cooked, immediately devoured them as soon as received, and if raw, would trade them for stuff that was cooked, which they could generally do by paying a large percentage for the exchange. If no one would trade with them they would eat the meal and beans as they were. Everything was toll that came to their mill; forever "snooping" around and eating stuff picked from all sorts of places.
Someone suggested that a poultice of meal and lye-water would probably be of benefit for the gangrene cancer on my leg. I could ill afford the meal, but nevertheless I tried it, and it proved a success. I used the remedy for several days, changing the poultice at ration-time each day, and throwing the old one away.
Every time when we drew molasses a young fellow in our mess would invariably keep his rations until evening. When everybody else had devoured all the eatables that they had, then he would turn his molasses into a half canteen and boil it leisurely over the fire. The aroma from the cooking molasses to hungry men was tantalizing in the extreme, and by the time that he had the stuff cooked to his satisfaction the boys sitting around were about wild in their regrets that they had not saved their own. After he had commenced to eat the candy the boys would begin to bid for it. One would offer to-morrow's ration of bread. No; he would not sell, but would continue to devour the candy. Some one would offer three-quarters ration of to-morrow's bread. No; he would decline to sell as yet. Finally, when the candy had been nearly all eaten, he would sell the remainder for, say, half ration next day's bread. When the following day's rations were issued the man that bought the candy would be so much short of his regular allowance, and would generally anticipate his rations for the next day, and so on every day until the big interest he was paying for the accommodation in bread would swamp him, and he would have to live on almost nothing to pay his indebtedness.
Many were the ways of trying to get enough stuff ahead to have one square meal. I went into the soup business for a few days. I boiled a half-pint of buggy beans in two gallons of water, and went into the market on "Broadway," and sold a dish of soup for half-ration of beans, bread, or tobacco.
It required considerable strength of will to run the business long, and not turn to and
DEVOUR THE CAPITAL. I stuck to it for two days, and, then, having sold the most of the water off the beans, I brought what was left home, and all in our mess had quite a satisfactory meal.
There was a sutler's store in the camp run by the rebs, but so far as the majority of the prisoners was concerned it might as well not have been there, for they had no money. In Confederate money bread cost $2; onions, $5 each; sweet potatoes, $40 per bushel. I don't believe there was Confederate money enough in camp to buy a five pound bag of salt.
Tobacco was as hard to get as anything else; a quarter of my rations went daily for it. Although I never was accustomed to chewing until after entering Andersonville, I am satisfied that but for its use I should not have survived.
The site of Andersonville (containing 16 acres) was on two side hills, a brook or branch running through the center. Along the branch above the prison the rebel troops were camped. All their refuse was thrown into the brook and floated down through the prison, and, as the stream was narrow and sluggish, the water was almost always unfit for use, even to wash in.
Under these circumstances, the procuring of water fit for cooking, etc., was almost an impossibility, as the only way that it could be got was by reaching far out under the dead-line, thereby inviting a shot from the guard on top of the stockade, not 30 feet away. There was, day or night, always such a crowd at this spot after water that it was only by the utmost exertion, and after waiting your chance for hours, that any could be had.
Such was the state of affairs up to Aug. 9, 1864, when something took place that was singular, and certainly providential. During a heavy thunder storm, some of the timbers of the stockade, alongside of the branch at the upper side of the camp, were washed loose, tearing away the embankment considerably. After the storm it was noticed that a beautiful, clear stream of water flowed from out the embankment. After the stockade was replaced this continued to run. As the spring was inside the dead-line, the rebs kindly put a trough in such a shape that it conveyed the water within the reach of the prisoners. Although the stream was small it was continuous and cold.
By waiting in line all prisoners could be served in turn, with no risk of being shot, and no further quarrels and fights, as had previously been the case. That gushing stream was named by common consent "Providence Spring," and has run continuously from that day to this. This is about the only thing at Andersonville that still remains as it was then, and old prisoners can now take their bearings from this spot and locate their former places of abode.

(To be continued.)

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The National Tribune
June 22, 1893
Part IV.

A YEAR IN SIX REBEL PRISONS.

Terrible Experiences and Sufferings of a New York Cavalryman in the Hands of the Rebels.

THE CLOSING DAYS.

When Hope Had Gone and Despair Had Settled Heavily Upon the Prisoners' Hearts.

TERRIBLE MORTALITY.

Final Release, the Trip Back to God's Country, and End of the War.

BY HENRY A. HARMAN, TROOP A, 12TH N.Y. CAV., WATERTOWN, N.Y.

In February, 1865, affairs in prison remained about the same. No new prisoners had arrived in some time, and exchange talk was below par. We had about come to the conclusion that we never would get out, except as we were carted out in the dead-wagon. The death rate continued to increase; from 30 to 50 were taken to the trenches daily.
The rebel recruiting officers came in every day now, and offered all the old inducements and some new ones. The rebs said that our Government had deserted us. It certainly looked so, and in reality it had, as it was the policy to sacrifice the prisoners for the general good and the early close of the war. We knew that if we were exchanged, our Government would give able-bodied men, fit at once to go to the front, for poor, starved creatures, who would probably never be able to fight again. Exchange would prolong the war indefinitely, and we knew it, and were willing to wait, and, if necessary, be sacrificed for the preservation of the Union, rather than dishonor ourselves and flag by taking the oath of allegiance to the Confederacy. Some, of course, there were who did so, and it is amazing that there were so few. It is one thing to face danger and death, and do heroic deeds in the excitement of war's rattle, but quite another to endure the tortures and horrors of an imprisonment, with no hope of ultimate relief.
Certainly those 4,000 poor fellows who were carted to the trenches of Andersonville during the Winter of 1864 and `65 were martyrs, if ever there were any, to say nothing of the 9,000 sacrificed during the previous Summer. There was no time when the outlook was so discouraging as in February; with no prospects of exchange and no opportunity to escape, we had nothing to hope for.
All the schemes for getting out had been tried, and most of them had failed, the previous Summer. Tunneling was out of the question. There were
THREE LINES OF STOCKADE encircling the prison, at intervals of about 30 feet, the timbers of which were sunk into the ground six feet. Beyond the outer line a ditch about 10 feet deep had been dug, and the dirt taken out thrown up into breastworks for the rebel troops in case of attack. Every morning a heavily-loaded wagon was driven around and between these lines of stockade, in order to crush any tunnel that might be in course of construction. A pack of 30 or 40 yelping blood-hounds were circled around the prison lines at daybreak, frantic to get on the track of some escaping prisoner.
It is not to be wondered that many began to despair; those who gave up to homesickness or low spirits were doomed, and were pretty sure to take a trip to the bone-yard.
The dead were laid in line at the gate every morning. Their number, name, company, and regiment were recorded in a book kept by a paroled prisoner at the gate. The bodies were thrown into the ration-wagon and drawn to the burying-ground. Trenches seven feet wide, four feet deep, and about 100 feet long were dug by prisoners paroled for that purpose. The bodies were laid in this trench side by side, or as nearly so as the cramped and crooked corpses would permit. Stakes with numbers painted on them corresponding to the one on the body, and also to the number recorded in the book kept at the gate, were driven into the ground at the head of each dead prisoner.
By this arrangement, the names, company, regiment and location of 12,793 prisoners buried at Andersonville are supposed to be known. The total number of deaths was 13,714, leaving 921 unknown. I understand that no record was kept at Salisbury, N.C., as there are 12,032 unknown dead at that National Cemetery.
The greatest number confined at Andersonville at any one time was about 35,000 in August, 1864. The daily average deaths during that month was about 100. The greatest number on any one day was said to be 130. There were in the stockade during the Winter of 1864 and 1865 somewhere in the neighborhood of 8,000 prisoners. The numbers on the stakes in the graveyard Sept. 18 ran up to 9,134, and in April, at the close of the war, the last number was 13,714; showing a mortality of one in every two.
Very few new prisoners came during the months of January and February, 1865. We knew nothing of how the war progressed, but from the general actions of the rebs we were inclined to think that the Confederacy was in a
WORSE SHAPE than they would have us believe. The guards did not seem to have that respect for their "cause" that they had heretofore shown. One fellow especially, that had his post near where our quarters were, would, in calling the hours of the night, sing out "Post No. 21; 10 o'clock and all's well, and old Jeff he is going to hell." It seemed to us that he was a long time about it.
I had heard from time to time that the rebs were running a hospital outside of the stockade for the benefit of sick prisoners, just as though we were not all in need of nursing and medical attendance. As I was about as sick as could be and still retain a hold upon existence, I concluded to give myself the benefit of their thoughtfulness. So, after standing in line for hours, and watching for a chance to interview the rebel Surgeon at the gate, I finally got an opportunity, and was passed out with several others as fit subjects for the hospital.
The guards escorted us to the place dignified by that name, which consisted of a dozen or more Sibley tents in the last stages of dilapidation. The one that I entered - and I subsequently found that they were all alike - had nothing in it except 10 or 12 prisoners just on the brink of dissolution. No bedding of any kind, not even straw; neither was there a fire, or even a place for one; simply the bare ground to lie upon, and the old ragged tent for shelter.
Those of the prisoners in the tents who had life enough were huddled up closely together for the sake of the little warmth that was to be had by the combination. The weather was very cold, and in fact I have no doubt that the thermometer stood below freezing most of the time.
Why the rebs called this a hospital was something that nobody could find out. It was a worse place, if possible, than the stockade. The only way that it resembled a hospital was that the Surgeon came around once every day. He did nothing, as he had nothing to do with. He did recommend some white-oak bark to be ????? and taken for the diarrhea, but how we were to get the bark he did not say. I know that the only bark we did get was that which we
CLAWED OFF with our fingernails from the logs drawn by our tent on the road to the cookhouse. This was the only fuel that we could possibly obtain. With this small allowance we built a little fire in the center of the tent, and while it lasted hovered over it.
"Special diet" was the order of the day, which consisted of a half pint of boiled rice, without salt or any seasoning of any kind, issued at daylight, and a biscuit made of wheat-flour, which weighed not more than two ounces, that they gave us at 4 o'clock in the afternoon.
The Surgeon had a spaniel dog that followed him around, and on one of his visits some of the boys enticed the dog into the tent and made way with him. How they managed to get wood enough to cook the dog with I did not inquire; anyway, those that were in the ring the next day enjoyed a steaming dish of soup. The loss of the dog created quite a commotion, and terrible things were threatened, but they never found who the guilty parties were, and it finally blew over.
It would be impossible to describe the horrible condition that the occupants of these tents were in. They were covered with filth and overrun with vermin; the majority were too sick to help themselves in the least. No one could, or would, do anything for them; they died like dogs, and were hauled out by the rebs to the trenches like so much carrion. I stayed at the hospital several days, and by request was sent back to the stockade. I was satisfied that with their "special diet" and general treatment, if I neglected getting back to the prison soon I should not have strength left to walk the few rods to the stockade and rejoin my comrades.
Upon making my report, three others in our mess that were bad off concluded that they would not try the "hospital," staid in the stockade, and saved themselves the useless exertion of walking there. They rode, however, within the month, on the dead-wagon to the cemetery.
Capt. Wirz came frequently into the stockade, but always accompanied by his bodyguard. He did not stay long or move around to any extent. He was suspicious, and with good reason, of being assassinated. No kind or encouraging words to the prisoners ever passed his lips, but instead he was forever swearing at them. He would stop the rations of the whole camp for days for the most trivial reasons. He took pleasure in threatening to hang recaptured prisoners that had tried to escape, which generally ended by putting them in the stocks, where they were kept, in several instances, until death released them.
THE CHAIN GANG seemed to be Wirz's especial delight, and he was never so happy as when torturing some Yankee. He was told by the prisoners who he so abused that the time would come when he would bitterly regret his brutality; but he only laughed at them, and said he was not afraid of what "Old Abe" could do, and only regretted that he did not have the old Illinois baboon there himself.
Nevertheless, at the end of the war, when he was in Old Capitol Prison under sentence of death for cruelty to prisoners of war, he did regret it, and was beside himself with fear and remorse. He proved himself to be a cowardly cur, and whined and begged for mercy, something that he had never shown to the poor wretches under his charge at Andersonville. The sentence was carried into effect by hanging at Washington, D. C., Nov. 10, 1865. He was buried by the side of [George A.] Atzerodt, one of the conspirators in the assassination of President Lincoln.
There was one action of Capt. Wirz for which he deserves credit. During the Summer of 1864, when the prison contained 35,000 inmates, there was a gang of roughs (Union prisoners) called Raiders, who terrorized the camp by their lawless actions. No one was safe. Murder took place night and day in the most barefaced manner. They would kill a prisoner for a blanket or any trifle they fancied. As there was no law or police force to enforce order in camp, affairs were in a terrible state. Wirz was appealed to, and agreed to allow any arrangement that the prisoners might make to be carried out.
A jury of new prisoners who had never entered the stockade was empaneled, and about 50 of the Raiders brought before it and tried in a lawful manner. Six of them were found guilty of murder and sentenced to be hanged.
Wirz kept the condemned under guard, sent in the lumber to build the scaffold, and on the 11th day of July, 1864, in the presence of the whole camp, these six devils were launched into eternity. Curtis, one of them, broke away, and he ran off, fighting, through the crowd, but when caught piteously
BEGGED FOR HIS LIFE. He had sent too many poor fellows to their long home to be accorded any mercy, so he was promptly brought back and successfully swung off. After this, more peaceful times prevailed in the camp.
It has not unfrequently been asked why the prisoners did not in a body break out, seize the batteries, make prisoners of the guards, and strike for freedom. The principal reason was want of organization. Nothing could be done without it, and just as sure as preliminaries were talked of to act in concert, which was the case several times, some spy; generally a rebel in Union clothes, would give the thing away to the rebs.
Furthermore, if a crowd endeavored to assemble, the batteries, which commanded the camp from all sides, would promptly open with grapeshot on the prison. The orders were strict in regard to assembly of prisoners; very often had the battery fired into camp when no more than 20 men were congregated. No effort to break out in a body could have been successful, and the attempt would only have led to the massacre of the whole camp.
The rebs would have been greatly pleased to have had an excuse of this kind to exterminate the whole lot.
Of all the terrible diseases that attacked the prisoners, I think that scurvy, and what followed in its train, was perhaps the worst. A weakness takes possession of the body, with disinclination to exercise. The limbs become swollen, and contracting cords draw the legs out of shape. The flesh is oft times of blueish color and spongy like dough, leaving an indentation where pressure is applied.
All this generally was accompanied by symptoms of a dropsical form. The most common form of scurvy was loosening of the teeth, and the rotting of the gums. Swallowing the saliva would induce scurvy of the bowels, coupled with chronic diarrhea, and would cause bloating of the bowels, followed by a
TERRIBLE DEATH. Scurvy sores, aggravated by the burrowing of lice and maggots, would gangrene, and the surrounding parts, if not most of the body, would become putrid before dissolution.
Forced abstinence from a vegetable diet for so long a period was the principal cause of this disease. A decoction of meal and water, left in the sun until it became sour, was used quite generally as a preventive, and it really seemed to answer very well.
The sandy soil of the prison during the Summer had become well populated with lice and other vermin. Now, as the weather was so cold, they had deserted the warm sand, and swarmed upon our persons. Event with scant apparel, it was an impossibility to keep clear of them. At least a fourth of our time was spent in picking the pests from our clothing.
No words can express the terrible suffering which hunger and exposure inflicted upon the luckless inmates of rebel prisons. Most of them were calloused to all feelings of sympathy or humanity. Death had lost all its sanctity by its frequent occurrence, and not many cared how soon they became its prey.
About the middle of March orders were received to get ready to move, as the United States Government had consented to receive us, and we were to be sent to Vicksburg for parole. We had but little faith, but suffice it to say that this time it really proved to be a trip to our lines. However, only about half of the camp were sent away at this time, as the railroad was cut by our forces, and the remainder were obliged to stay at Andersonville until April 28, 1865, when they were shipped to Jacksonville, Fla., whence they were paroled.
It was the writer's fortune to go with the first crowd. Our route was almost a straight line from Andersonville to Vicksburg. The journey was of about two weeks' duration. During our trip across the country we were confined for short periods in many different prisons, jailyards, and stockades.
The inhabitants of the towns through which we passed showed a different spirit toward us than those we had come in contact when first taken prisoners. They seemed to think a Yankee was worthy of a little consideration, even as a prisoner.
When we arrived at Jackson, Miss., all restraint was removed, and most of the guards relieved. A company of Texas cavalry accompanied us the rest of the way, more as guides than guards. From here to Big Black River we were obliged to walk.
The morning that we set out it commenced to rain and continued to do so only as it can rain in Mississippi. The roads were terrible, and the smallest creeks became rivers, setting back on the surrounding lowlands, until some of them were miles in width. Many a poor fellow was swept away in the swift current. If
GOD'S COUNTRY had not been the goal, not one in 50 could have succeeded in reaching Black River. The Texans were very kind, and assisted many in crossing the worst places.
We crossed Big Black River on a pontoon bridge, and were then inside our own lines. The railroad from Vicksburg ran out to this place, and a train of cars awaited us. Boxes of hardtack and barrels of whiskey were opened, and ready for the prisoners to help themselves, which opportunity many of the prisoners availed themselves of, and paid the penalty with their lives.
It would be useless to try to describe our feelings upon once more entering a civilized country and regaining our freedom. None but those who have experienced it can realize the joy that fills the heart. I crawled up the bank and into the cars, completely exhausted. I had used up every bit of strength of body and will in the grand effort to reach our lines. I had been a prisoner 11 months and 11 days!
Three miles out from Vicksburg, where there was a camp for paroled prisoners, the cars stopped. Surgeons came aboard and picked out those that were too sick to stop here, myself being one of the number. Maj. Gen. Morgan L. Smith was at this time in command at Vicksburg, and if I had been aware of the fact it would have been of great service to me. He was an own cousin, was aware of my imprisonment, and was on the lookout for me. But in such an unorganized mass of men it was impossible to find any particular one, so
HE MISSED ME. I, with others, was taken immediately to the hospital-boat which was in waiting. Attendants put us through the bath, and then to bed in the main saloon, where long rows of cots were placed. It may be imagined how little life was left in us, when it is stated that a teaspoon of milk punch every half hour was all that they dare give us.
The boat left Vicksburg the next day, and arrived at Jefferson Barracks, Mo., in the course of a week. At Vicksburg and Cairo members of the Sanitary Commission came aboard and distributed tobacco, also paper and envelopes, and offered to write to friends at home for the ex-prisoners. We made the trip without accident.
We went into hospital at Jefferson Barracks, where we were still kept on special diet; and oh! so hungry. It seemed as though we never could get enough to eat. After we had been here a few days I was surprised and made happy one afternoon by seeing my brother walk into the ward. He had received my letter from Cairo, and started immediately, and had been hunting for me throughout St. Louis and the surrounding camps and hospitals.
A furlough was procured for me, and the next day at 4 p.m. I was on the road to my home in Oswego, N.Y. When I changed cars at Chicago at 5 a.m. April 15, 1865, the newsboys were crying the extras with the account of President Lincoln's assassination.
Along in 1849 or 1850 my brother, above mentioned, was a fellow-clerk with John E. Mulford for the forwarding and commission house of Fitzhugh & Littlejohn, Oswego, N.Y. Mulford had some trouble with the Irish dockmen, and was one night set upon, brutally pounded, and nearly killed. Among other injuries that he received his jaw was broken. As he had no home but his boarding-place my brother took him to my father's house, where he was tenderly nursed and cared for until he regained his health.
As John E. Mulford was Commissioner of Exchange at the time of my capture, my people very naturally supposed that he could easily effect my release, and be happy to have an opportunity to show his gratitude. He was applied to, and I now have his letter of reply, which says that I should be one of the first to be exchanged. Nothing would have been easier than for him to have had rebel Agent of Exchange Olds order my release from Andersonville and immediately sent to our lines. How well his promise was kept is herein shown, as I was one of the last to be paroled instead of one of the first.
I was finally discharged at Elmira, N.Y., in June, 1865, having served nearly three years. I passed through the war without receiving a wound of any kind, coming the nearest to it at Tarboro, N.C., where my clothing was cut in many places and my horse shot under me. My health was entirely ruined, and my constitution broken by my year's stay with the rebs.
In closing this paper I can do no better than quote from Smith's "Knapsack of Facts and Figures from 1861 to `65": "Sixty thousand prisoners-of-war died while confined in Southern prisons, or shortly after being exchanged; 36,401 of the number, ascertained by count of headstones, died while in prison; 12,229 died after their release, and who never reached home; 11,370 dying within a few weeks afterwards; being 15,762 more than was killed from 1861 to 1865 upon the battlefields. These men daily rejected the proffered liberty from Jefferson Davis at the cost of their honor and loyalty to our flag, and accepted death from starvation and exposure as a pleasure compared with aiding the so-called Confederate States in their attempt to destroy the Union; and in so doing receive as their reward, freedom, clothing, food, and the hopes of at last meeting father, mother, wife, children, brothers, sisters, and other loved ones."

[The end.]

EDITOR'S NOTE.- Comrade Henry A. Harman since writing this narrative of his experiences has died. In his letter to the Editor accompanying the manuscript, he stated that he was then suffering from the results of the various diseases which he contracted while in prison; that his teeth were gone, his vision impaired, and his nervous system shattered. For the past 10 years he had not been able to perform any manual labor whatever, and at that time could walk hardly 40 rods without great suffering. In 1882 he was allowed a pension of $6 a month, which was increased in 1890 to $8.