Anonymous

Ravages of the Scurvy among the Chickamauga Prisoners.—Too Long without Fruit or Vegetables.—The Horrors of the Scurvy.—Certain Death.—Frightful Mortality.—Fortunate Removal from Andersonville.—Arrival at Charleston, S. C.—Transferred to Florence, S. C.—Description of the latter Prison.—Shortest Rations ever issued.—Certain Starvation on the Rations.—Efforts for more Food; Providential Success.—Three Days without Rations.—Prison-Keepers Cruel and Inhuman.—Terrible Sufferings during the Winter.—Unparalleled Mortality.—Raw Rations and Insufficient Fuel.—Life under Ground.—Swamp Fever.—Taken with the Fever.—Flight from Florence.—Wilmington.—Goldsboro’.—Hard Times of a Sick Man.—Prison Exchange Foolery.—Back to Wilmington.

I shall now attempt a description of the ravages of the scurvy among the Chickamauga prisoners.

It must have been during the month of July, 1864, that this dreadful disease made its appearance,—I mean among the men with whom I was identified (the Chickamauga men); how much sooner or later it afflicted other classes of prisoners, I am unable to state. Our men seemed to be doing well at this time, having shelter, and the rations still being tolerably fair. But it was all outward show, the inside being rotten. We had lived too long without green vegetables, or acids, or fruit of any kind. The first symptoms of the scurvy appeared in the mouth, the gums becoming black, swollen, and mortified. Then in quick succession the lower limbs were involved,—large, dark spots appearing near the knee or on the calves of the legs. These spots gradually became larger and more sore and disabling; at the same time, the cords under the knees becoming so contracted as to draw the calves back against the thighs, or nearly so. The spots varied a trifle in color,—that is, as to shades,—but generally bore the same heavy, dull, dead, blackish appearance, as though the blood had congealed in one place underneath the skin, and then putrefied. It usually took the disease several months to run its course, the spots growing larger, and the whole system becoming greatly shaken; the victim, long since deprived of the power of locomotion, lies helplessly on his back, calmly awaiting his Lord’s release from his terrible suffering; until, at length, the disease reaches his bowels and vital parts, when his chain is broken, his fetters fall loosely from him, and his spirit speeds its winged flight, glorious with its sudden joy, to that prisonless realm of everlasting peace. Hundreds upon hundreds lay upon their backs in this condition, the number decreasing day by day as the quota of dead was carried off. No hope for them on this side of the valley,—and well they knew it, and died like heroes. Twenty good-sized Irish potatoes would have cured any case of scurvy before it reached the vitals; but if two would have done it, they could not have been obtained, as the rebels did not issue them, and the prisoner had no money,—so he sleeps the long last sleep. So many old prisoners died of the scurvy, that scarcely any were left to tell their story. Hovel after hovel was emptied entirely, every man swept away by the relentless scourge. Oh, what a heavy charge rests against those who could have prevented, or at least mitigated, this! But the Confederates could have prevented the scurvy entirely. Their own men did not have it. However, it is not my object to criminate or stir up old animosities. I merely wish to relate some of my prison experiences, and describe their results. There are twelve thousand “Yankee” prisoners buried at Andersonville. During the month of August, 1864, when there were thirty-five thousand men incarcerated there, the number of deaths averaged one hundred per day. All the day long the dead were being carried out, and every morning a long line of corpses, which had accumulated during the night, could be seen lying at the southern gate.

It seemed as though an odor of death pervaded the atmosphere of the camp. The entire prison-ground was strewn with dying men,—dying without a groan and without a mourner. It was indeed fortunate for me that Sherman’s army threatened that place during the month of September, 1864, when, so nearly gone that I could scarcely walk to the depot, I was shipped, among thousands of others, to another part of the Confederacy. We went from Andersonville to Charleston. We stayed at Charleston about one month, during which time I mended a little through having a slight change of diet. From Charleston we were removed to Florence, in the same State of South Carolina.

At Florence a prison was erected something similar to the stockade at Andersonville, but smaller in dimensions. It was situated in a perfect wilderness, with swampy woodland all around it. The inclosure was not by any means cleared of fallen trees and brush when we were marched into it. This was much to our advantage, as winter was coming on. We arrived there about the latter part of October. The shelter we put up,—and all were enabled to have shelter here,—though in general more substantial than at Andersonville, in many instances I could not deem very healthy. To be explicit, I refer especially to dwelling wholly under ground. Camp reports of death statistics tended to confirm this opinion. As for myself, I had good shelter all of the time, and, during the latter part of our sojourn at Florence prison, I was an occupant of one of the best houses (shanties) in it. The rations drawn at this prison were among the shortest ever issued by the rebels to Yankee prisoners. It was certain starvation to any that depended entirely upon their rations. I did not, and for that reason I am alive to relate this history. It would be too tedious now for me to undertake to relate how I succeeded in doing otherwise; let it suffice, that every faculty of my mind was concentrated upon the subject of getting more to eat than was issued to me, and that I got it by the exercise of my faculties to the utmost,—and my muscles, too.

On first arriving at Florence, I got some sweet potatoes, and these eradicated the scurvy from my body, and gave me a new lease on life; and after that my sole business was to get enough to eat, for I knew the preservation of my life depended upon it. At Andersonville, by activity and the virtue of one or two potatoes, and a taste or so of something else, perhaps, I had managed to keep the scurvy down sufficiently—and that is all—for me to get away from that place with my life; and then it seemed God’s providence, more than anything else, for I had so very little to assist me. But, having gotten away from there and reached Charleston, and improved a little there, and arriving at Florence, I was placed under such influences that I regained sounder footing once more. I then went to work with a determination of trying to live as long as the rebels held me in their bonds. I knew I must get more to eat than they gave me, or die. I was an old prisoner, and very thin, and much shattered and broken, and needed all the food I could get there. A pint of meal was not enough for a man to subsist upon, as was plainly demonstrated by our men dying off with prodigious rapidity. Winter was coming on, and more food was needed instead of less. The prison authorities were cruel and persecuting. Once for three days not a mouthful of rations was issued. At the end of that period a heavy increase in the per centum of dead was carried out;—though I heard poor fellows who had stood it out saying, afterwards, that they were not so hungry on the third day as on the first. Poor fellows, the reason was plain,—their stomachs on the third day had become too weak to manifest the ordinary symptoms of hunger.

Hence my effort to live was not out of place; on the contrary, if I had still a lingering hope of surviving, the greatest efforts I could put forth seemed there almost mockery, and sadly inadequate to the end.

In fact, though I could not bring myself to the thought of yielding and dying, I nevertheless felt that my ever getting North again alive was most “too good a thing to happen.” As far as possible, I kept the subject from my mind.

Winter came on at last. The weather was cold, and, after a particularly cold night, one could go into the “poor-houses” of every “thousand,” and there find men stark dead in the attitude in which they had fallen backward from their scanty fires. Each “thousand” afforded a “poor-house.” These were occupied by poor wretches who, in the vain hope of saving their lives by obtaining more food or making their escape, or both, had taken the oath of allegiance to the Southern Confederacy, and joined the rebel army.

The Confederates found this expedient and experiment in recruiting their depleted army a failure, and turned the “galvanized Yankees” (as they were called) back into the stockade again. Having lost their local habitation, and become isolated and alienated from their former friends, who condemned their action and remained behind, being cast off and forsaken of everybody, they congregated together in these “poor-houses,” which were erected for the benefit of such as they. At Charleston and at Florence we were divided, for convenience, into sections of one thousand men each.

Although located in the midst of a forest, we did not draw enough wood to cook our rations, let alone to keep us warm. A day’s ration of wood was about the size of an ordinary stick of oven-wood. We were also situated in a very unhealthy place, being surrounded by an immense swamp. The swamp furnished the water we drank and consumed otherwise.

A disease, commonly designated the “swamp fever,” broke out, seizing a majority of us, and proving fatal in many cases. The per cent. of mortality here was far higher than at Andersonville. We were under worse conditions, and suffered and died proportionately. Though in respect to shelter our condition seemed improved, this consideration was enormously outweighed and overbalanced by our much worse condition in many other regards. The longer a man was detained in rebel prisons, the weaker he became, and we seemed to have reached the culminating point and extreme end of human endurance at this time at Florence, viz., the winter of 1864 and ’65.

The elements of the swamp fever were in every Florence prisoner (and bound to come out some time), and were the outgrowth and effect of the water we drank, and the other conditions in which we participated in common; and I believe that, almost without an exception, every man had it,—though some not until they were safely within our lines. With regard to myself, I was attacked by it on the evening of the night we left Florence prison forever. We took our sudden departure in the month of February, 1865. We were hurried out at a terrible rate, the rebels being greatly frightened by the report that Sherman was near. Although feeling wretchedly, and burning with fever, I went along. We were marched to the railroad, and shipped aboard freight cars, the rebels cramming as many of us as they could in each car. We were so crowded we could scarcely sit or stand; yet I was so sick that I could do neither, and had to lie down upon the floor, and risk being trampled upon.

Of the journey to Wilmington, N. C., I scarcely remember anything except our starting. At Wilmington, after lying upon the sand some hours, I was assisted into the cars, and we started for Goldsboro’. At the latter place we got off the cars, and were marched some distance out of town to camp.

That night there was a heavy storm, and the rain poured down in torrents. We lay upon the ground with nothing but a blanket over us; and, though I was suffering from fever, I got soaking wet to the skin. Oh, dear, it is almost heart-breaking to think over those times. Almost dead, as I was, from long privations, sickness, and exhaustion, produced by trying, in my sick and weakened state, to keep along with my companions, one would think this in addition would have utterly annihilated and finished me. The next day we marched back to Goldsboro’. It being evening, and no train ready to take us on to Salisbury, whither they said we were bound, we laid ourselves down to rest and sleep.

“Care-charmer, Sleep, son of the sable Night,
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,
Relieve my anguish, and restore the light;
With dark forgetting of my care, return,
And let the day be time enough to mourn
The shipwreck of my ill-advised youth;
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
Without the torments of the night’s untruth.
Cease, dreams, the images of day desires,
To model forth the passions of to-morrow;
Never let the rising sun prove you liars,
To add more grief, to aggravate my sorrow;
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
And never wake to feel the day’s disdain.”
Daniel.

During the night we were awakened by a loud noise and hubbub, arising from the announcement that an exchange of prisoners had been effected, and that we were going straight back to Wilmington to be turned over to our men. This we hardly dared believe. We had been deceived so often, that we could scarcely credit the report. But trains being got ready, we were put aboard and started for Wilmington, sure enough. Arrived at the city of happy deliverance, and debarked from the cars, we lay in the wind and sun all day upon the sand. Toward evening we observed a great flurry among the Confederates, and we were suddenly got together, put upon the cars, and started for Goldsboro’ again; and thus ended this exchange fiasco.