After I left the prison, I was marched around to three other prisons and waited outside while the Surgeon went through them to visit the sick. It was a damp, chilly day, and I was so sick and tired and my bones ached so badly that I was compelled to lie down upon the cold, wet, stone sidewalk, while the Surgeon went through the prisons. But all things earthly have an end, so did that Surgeon’s visits, and I was at last marched to the Hospital.

Here allow me to describe the Hospital buildings. There were four of them; three stood on the hill at the south part of the city, the fourth was on the banks of the river, near the Richmond Railroad bridge. They were about 40×120 feet and two stories high, with a hall running the whole length, dividing them into wards, each building contained four wards. They were erected in 1862 for the use of the wounded in the celebrated Peninsular Campaign.

To the rear of the north hospital building was the pest-house, a defunct shoe shop, in which convalescent shoemakers, who were soldiers in the rebel army, worked for the benefit of the C. S. A. To the rear of the center building was the cook-house and eating room, where convalescents took their meals, and to the rear of the cook-house stood the dead house, where the dead were placed prior to burial. To the rear of the south building was the bakery, where all the bread of the hospital and prisons was baked. This arrangement brought the three hospital buildings in a line, while the bakery, dead house and pest-house were in a line to the rear. A line of guards paced their beats around the whole.

I supposed when I was sent to the hospital that I had fever of some kind, but in two days the soreness of my throat and the pustules on my face and hands told the story too plainly, that the inoculation of a few days before was doing its work. I was down with a mild form of small-pox, varioloid, the doctors called it, but a Tennessee soldier pronounced it a case of the “Very O Lord.” I was taken from the hospital to the pest-house and laid on a straw pallet. My clothes were taken from me and sent to the wash-house and I was given a thin cotton shirt and a thin quilt for a covering.

The pest-house was but a slim affair, being built for summer use. It stood upon piles four feet high, was boarded up and down without battens and as the lumber was green when built, the cracks were half an inch in width at this time.

January 1st, 1864, was a terribly cold day. The Rebel Steward thinking we were not getting air enough, opened two windows in the ward I was in and then toasted himself at a good fire in another ward. I was charitably inclined and wished from the bottom of my heart that that Steward might have the benefit of a hot fire, both here and hereafter.

I nearly froze to death that day. My limbs were as cold as those of a corpse, but relief came about nine o’clock that night in the shape of a pint of hot crust coffee which I placed between my feet until all the heat had passed into my limbs, which, with constant rubbing, thawed me out.

Our rations at the hospital consisted of a slice of wheat bread and a half pint of thick beef soup, this was given us twice a day.

After staying in the pest-house a week a suit of clothes was given me and I was sent to Hospital No. 3, which had been turned into a small-pox hospital. Nearly forty per cent. of the Danville prisoners had small-pox yet the death rate was not high from that disease; diarrhea and scurvy were the deadly foes of the prisoners, and swept them off as with a besom.

After I had regained strength I entered into an agreement with half a dozen others to attempt an escape. Our plan was to get into a ditch which was west of the dead house, crawl down that past the guard into a ravine, and then strike for the Blue Ridge Mountains, thence following some stream to the Ohio River. But the moon was at the full at the time and we were compelled to wait for a dark night. There is an old saying that a “watched pot never boils,” so it was in our case; before a dark night came we were sent back to prison.

Exchange rumors were current at this time. We talked over the good times we would have when we got back into “God’s country.” We swore eternal abstinence from bug soup and corn bread, and promised ourselves a continual feast of roast turkey, oysters, beefsteak, mince pies, warm biscuit and honey, but here came a difference of opinion, some voted for mashed potatoes and butter, others for baked potatoes and gravy. There were many strong advocates of each dish. The mashed potatoe men affirmed that a man had no more taste than an ostrich who did not think that mashed potatoes and butter were ahead of anything else in that line; while the baked potatoe men sneeringly insinuated that the mashed potatoe men’s mothers or wives did not know how to bake potatoes just to the proper yellow tint, nor make gravy of just the right consistency and richness. The question was never settled until it was settled by each man selecting his own particular dish after months more of starvation.

There was restiveness among the men all the time, hunger and nakedness were telling upon their spirits as well as their health. I lay it down as a maxim that if you want to find a contented and good natured man, you must select a well fed and comfortably clothed man. Philosophize as much as you will upon the subject of diet but the fact remains that we are all more or less slaves:—to appetite.

During the month of December a number of the prisoners in No. 3 attempted a jail delivery by crawling out through the drain of the water-closet. They were detected however and most of them captured and returned to prison. Among those who got away was John Squires, of Co. K., 10th Wis. He had part of a rebel uniform and managed to keep clear of the Home guards for a number of days, but was finally captured and returned to prison. But this did not discourage him. He had finished out his uniform while at large and was ready to try it again at the first opportunity. But Johnny was no Micawber who waited for something to turn up; he made his own opportunities. One day he took his knife and unscrewed the “catch” of the door lock and walked out, as he passed through the door he turned to his fellow prisoners and remarked “Now look he’ah yo’ Yanks, if yo’ don’t have this flo’ah cleaned when I git back yo’ll git no ration to-day.” Then turning he saluted the guard, walked down stairs, saluted the outer guard, walked across the square, over the bridge, passing two guards, past where a number of rebel soldiers were working on a fort and on to “God’s Country” where he arrived after weeks of wandering and hunger and cold in the Blue Ridge Mountains and the valleys of West Virginia:—another case of “cheek.”

One day a rebel Chaplain came into our prison and preached to us. He informed us with a great deal of circumlocution that he was Chaplain of a Virginia Regiment, that he was a Baptist minister, and that his name was Chaplain. He then proceeded to hurl at our devoted heads some of the choicest selections of fiery extracts, flavored with brimstone to be found in the Bible. In his concluding prayer he asked the Lord to forgive us for coming into the South to murder and burn and destroy and rob, at the same time intimating that he, himself, could not do it. I suppose he felt better after he had scorched us and we felt just as well. He would have had to preach to us a long time before he could have made us believe that there was a worse place than rebel prisons.

One source of great discomfort, yea, torture, was body lice, “grey-backs,” in army parlance. They swarmed upon us, they penetrated into all the seams of our clothing. They went on exploring expeditions on all parts of our bodies, they sapped the juices from our flesh, they made our days, days of woe, and our nights, nights of bitterness and cursing. We could not get hot water, our unfailing remedy in the army. Our only resource was “skirmishing.” This means stripping our clothes and hunting them out:—and crushing them.

On warm days it was a common sight to see half of the men in the room with their shirts off, skirmishing.

One day, a number of Reb. citizens came in to see the “Yanks.” Among them was a large finely built young man. He was dressed in the height of fashion and evidently belonged to the F. F. V.’s. We were skirmishing when they came in, and young F. F. V. strutted through the room, with his head up, like a Texas steer in a Nebraska corn field. His nose and lips suggested scorn and disgust. Thinks I, “my fine lad I’ll fix you.” Just as he passed me I threw a large “Grey-back” on his coat; many of the prisoners saw the act, and contributed their mite to the general fund, and by the time young F. F. V. had made the circuit of the room, he was well stocked with Grey-backs. It is needless to add he never visited us again.

Scurvy and diarrhea were doing their deadly work even at Danville. These diseases were due, largely, to causes over which the rebels had control.

Dr. Joseph Jones, a bitter rebel, professor of Medical Chemistry, at the Medical College in Augusta, was sent by the Surgeon General of the Confederate army, to investigate and report upon the cause of the extreme mortality in Andersonville. He attributed scurvy to a lack of vegetable diet and acids. Diarrhea and dysentery, he said, were caused by the filthy conditions by which we were surrounded, polluted water, and the fact that the meal from which our bread was made was not separated from the husk.

There have been many stories told with relation to this meal; let me make some things plain, and then there will not be the apparent contradiction, that there is at present in the public mind.

The difference in opinion arises from the different interpretations of the word “husk.”

A true northern man understands husk to mean;—the outer covering of the ear of corn; while a southerner, or Middle States, man calls it a “shuck.”

The husk referred to by Dr. Jones, would be called by a northerner, the “hull,” or bran. His meaning was that it was unsifted.

The fetid waters of the canal, the unsifted corn meal made into half baked bread, and a lack of vegetables and acids, together with the rigid prison rules, which resulted in filth, and stench, beyond description, were the prime causes of the great mortality at Danville. During the five months in which I was confined at Danville, more than 500 of 4,200 prisoners died, or about one in eight.

Our clothing too, was getting old, many of the men had no shoes, others were almost naked. Our government sent supplies of food and clothing to us, but they were subjected to such a heavy toll that none of the food, and but little of the clothing ever reached us, and what little was distributed to our men was soon traded to the guards for bread, or rice, or salt. I never received a mouthful of food, or a stitch of clothing which came through the lines.

In February reports came to us that the Confederate government was building a large prison stockade somewhere down in Georgia, and that we were to be removed to it; that our government had refused to exchange prisoners, and that we were “in for it during the war.”

About the 1st of April 1864 the prisoners in one of the buildings were removed. The prison officials said they had gone to City Point to be exchanged, but one of the guards told us they had gone to Georgia. But we soon found out the truth of the matter for on the 15th we were all taken from No. 1 and put on board the cars. We were stowed in at the rate of sixty prisoners, and four guards to a car.

The lot of my mess fell to a car which had been used last, for the conveyance of cattle. No attempt had been made to clean the car and we were compelled to kick the filth out the best we could with our feet.

Our train was headed toward Richmond and the guards swore upon their “honah” that we were bound for City Point to be exchanged.

Since the foregoing chapter was printed in The People’s Press, we have received the following endorsement of the story from a comrade who knows HOW IT WAS by a personal experience.

Editor People’s Press:

I have been much interested in perusing a series of articles published in The People’s Press from the pen of Hon. W. W. Day, Lemond, giving reminiscences of army life, what he saw and experienced while held a prisoner of war in various prisons in the South during the late Rebellion. I confess an additional interest, perhaps, in the story above the casual reader from the fact that I, too, was a guest of the southern chivalry from Sept. 20th, 1863, until the May following. In company with the boys of the 124th Ohio, I attended that Chickamauga Picnic. There were no girls to cast a modifying influence over the Johnnies, or any one else. As early as the morning of the 19th, something got crooked producing no little confusion and excitement, which increased as the hours wore away, up to the afternoon of the following day, when suddenly it seemed that that whole corner of Georgia was turned into one grand pandemonium. Everything that could be gotten loose was let loose, many a boy got hurt that day badly. Some bare-footed gyrating, thing got onto my head, worked in under the hair, and twitched me down. It brought about a quiescence quicker than any dose of morphia I ever swallowed, and I have eaten lots of it since that time; I can feel its toes to-day.

Time passed, night was approaching, when several Johnnies approached, one of whom came up to where I was sitting on the ground, and spoke to me. The man was a blamed poor talker, but I understood fully what was wanted, and acquiesced promptly. The outcome of which was, I was toddled off to Atlanta; from thence to Richmond and Danville, Va. I make no attempt to write of my own personal adventures, or prison experience. Much of it, with but few exceptions, as well as the experience of thousands of others, may be gleaned from the papers of Comrade Day. For a time I owned and occupied a chalk mark, as my bed, on the same floor with Comrade Day at Danville, and I wish to say, what he has written of the rebel management of those prisons, both at Richmond and Danville, the general treatment of prisoners, rations, in kind, quantity, quality, manner of cooking, &c., &c., are the COLD FACTS. Many incidents and happenings which he refers to in his narrative came to my own personal observation, and as related by him accord fully with my recollections of them at the time of their occurrence. In fact I heartily endorse, as being substantially true, every word of the Comrade’s Prison experiences, except, perhaps, his reference to Belle Isle. I think his statement there imbibes a little of the imaginary, when he characterizes the place as a literal “hell on earth.” Where did he get his facts? That’s the puzzle. No matter, if he were there—It is a small matter however, and may be true after all. I know something of Belle Isle, but have only this to say, if the emperor of the infernal regions, who is said to reign below the great divide, has a hole anywhere in his dominions, filled with souls that are undergoing pains and miseries equaling those to which our boys were subjected on Belle Isle, I pray God I may escape it.