The cook-house, which I have already spoken of, had a capacity for cooking rations for 10,000 men. Our rations consisted, during the latter part of April and through May, of about a pound of corn bread, of about the same quality as that at Danville, a piece of meat about the size of two fingers, and a little salt per day. This was varied by issuing rice or cow peas in the place of meat, but meat and rice, or peas, were never issued together. We had no more bug soup, nor soup of any kind from the cook-house. We got our bugs in the peas, so that we were not entirely destitute of meat when we had peas. The rice was filled with weevil, so that that too, was stronger, if not more nutritious. But when our numbers were increased by the prisoners who had been captured at Dalton, Resaca, Alatoona, New Hope Church and Kenesaw, from Sherman’s army, and from the Wilderness, from Meade’s army, our numbers had far outgrown the capacity of the cook-house and our rations were issued to us raw.

Then commenced real, downright misery and suffering. These men were turned into the prison after being robbed of everything of value, without shelter, without cooking utensils, without wood, except in the most meager quantities, and in most cases without blankets.

Raw meal, raw rice and peas, and no dish to cook them in, and no wood to cook them with, and yet there were thousands of acres of timber in sight of the prison, and these men would have been too glad to cut their own wood and bring it into the prison on their shoulders. But this would have been a luxury, and Winder did not furnish prisoners with luxuries. There was an abortive attempt made at cooking more rations, by cooking them less, and the result was, meal simply scalded and called “mush,” and rice not half cooked, and burned black wherever it touched the kettle it was boiled in.

The effects of this unwholesome, half cooked, and in thousands of cases raw diet, was an increase of diarrhea, and dysentery, and scurvy.

In thousands of cases of scurvy where scorbutic ulcers had broken out, gangrene supervened and the poor prisoner soon found surcease of pain, and misery, and starvation, in the grave. Amputation of a limb was not a cure for these cases; new scorbutic ulcers appeared, again gangrene supervened, and death was the almost inevitable result.

The prison was filled with sick and dying men, indeed well men were the exception, and sick men the rule. The hospital was filled to overflowing; the prison itself, was a vast hospital, with no physicians, and no nurses.

Thousands of men had become too sick and weak to go to the sinks to stool, and they voided their excrement in little holes dug near their tents. The result of this was, a prison covered with maggots, and the air so polluted with the foul stench, that it created an artificial atmosphere, which excluded malaria, and in a country peculiarly adapted to malarial diseases, there were no cases of Malarial, Typhus or Typhoid fevers.

Your true Yankee is an ingenious fellow, and is always trying to better his situation. Many cooking dishes were manufactured by the prisoners out of tin cans, pieces of sheet iron, or car roofing, which had been picked up on the road to prison.

Knives and spoons were made from pieces of hoop iron, and a superannuated oyster or fruit can, was a whole cooking establishment, while a tin pail or coffee pot caused its owner to be looked upon as a nabob.

Fortunately for myself I was joint owner with six men of my company, of a six quart tin pail. This we loaned at times to the more unfortunate, thus helping them somewhat in their misery. Besides this mine of wealth, I had an interest in the wooden bucket purloined from the Danville prison, and as Sergeant of the mess, it was in my care. To this bucket I owe, in a great measure, my life; for I used it for a bath tub during my confinement in Andersonville.

Another cause of suffering was the extreme scarcity of water. When the Richmond and Belle Isle prisoners arrived in Andersonville in February and March, they had procured their water from Dead-run; but by the time our squad arrived this little stream had become so polluted that it was not fit for the wallowing place of a hog.

Our first work after building a shelter was to procure water. We first dug a hole in the edge of the swamp, but this soon became too warm and filthy for use, so we started a well in an open space in front of my tent, and close to the Dead-line. We found water at a depth of six feet, but it was in quicksand and we thought our well was a failure; but again luck was on our side. One of the prisoners near us, had got hold of a piece of board while marching from the cars to the prison, this he offered to give us in exchange for stock in our well.

We completed the bargain, and with our Danville sawknife cut up the board into water-curbing, which we sank into the quicksand, thus completing a well which furnished more water than any well in the whole prison.

To the credit of my mess, who owned all the right, title and interest, in and to this well, I will say, we never turned a man away thirsty. After we had supplied ourselves, we gave all the water the well would furnish to the more unfortunate prisoners who lived on the hill, and who could procure no water elsewhere.

After we had demonstrated the fact that clean water could be procured even in Andersonville, a perfect mania for well digging prevailed in prison; wells were started all over, but the most of them proved failures for different reasons, some were discouraged at the great depth, others had no boards for water-curbing, and their wells caved in, and were a failure. There were, however, some wells dug on the hill, to a depth of thirty or forty feet. They furnished water of a good quality, but the quantity was very limited.

The digging of these deep wells was proof of the ingenuity and daring of the prisoners. The only digging tool was a half canteen, procured by unsoldering a canteen. The dirt was drawn up in a haversack, or bucket, attached to a rope twisted out of rags, from the lining of coat sleeves or strips of shelter tents. The well diggers were lowered into, and drawn out of, the wells by means of these slight, rotten ropes, and yet, I never heard of an accident as a result of this work.

But the wells were not capable of supplying one-fourth of the men with water. Those who had no interest in a well, and could not beg water from those who had, were compelled to go to Dead-run for a supply.

A bridge crossed this stream on the west side of the prison, and here the water was not quite so filthy as farther down stream. This bridge was the slaughter pen of the 55th Georgians, and the 5th Georgia Home Guards.

Here the prisoners would reach under the Dead-line to procure clean water, and the crack of a Georgian’s musket, was the prisoner’s death knell.

During the early part of August Providence furnished what Winder and Wirz refused to furnish. After a terrible rain storm, a spring broke out under the walls of the stockade about ten or fifteen rods north of this bridge. Boards were furnished, out of which a trough was made which carried the water into the prison. The water was of good quality, and of sufficient quantity to have supplied the prisoners, could it have been saved by means of a tank or reservoir. This was the historical “Providence Spring” known and worshiped by all ex-Andersonville prisoners.

The same rain storm which caused Providence Spring to break out, gullied and washed out the ground between our well and the stockade to a depth of four feet, and so saturated the ground that the well caved in. We were a sad squad of men, as we gathered around the hole where our hopes of life were buried, for without pure water, we knew we could not survive long in Andersonville.

Two days after the accident to our well, we held a legislative session, and resolved ourselves into a committee of the whole, on ways and means to restore our treasure. No one could think of any way to fix up the well, boards were out of the question, stones there were none, and barrels:—we had not seen a barrel since we left “God’s Country.” As chairman, ex-officio, of the committee, I proposed that we steal a board from the Dead-line. This was voted down by the committee as soon as proposed, the principle was all right, but the risk was too great; death would be the penalty for the act. The committee then rose and the session was adjourned. After considering the matter for a time, I resolved to steal a board from the Dead-line at any risk. I then proceeded to mature a plan which I soon put into execution. One of my “pards,” Rouse, had a good silver watch, I told him to go up to the Dead-line in front of the first guard north of our tent, and show his watch, and talk watch trade with the guard. I sent Ole Gilbert, my other pard, to the first guard south, with the same instructions, but minus a watch. I kept my eyes on the guards and watched results; soon I saw that my plan was working. I picked up a stick of wood and going to a post of the Dead-line, where one end of a board was nailed, I pried off the end of the board, but O horror! how it squealed, it was fastened to a pitch pine post with a twelve penny nail and when I pried it loose, it squeaked like a horse fiddle at a charivari party. I made a sudden dive for my tent, which was about sixteen feet away, and when I had got under cover I looked out to see the result. The guards were peering around to see what was up, their quick ears had caught the sound, but their dull brain could not account for the cause.

After waiting until the guards had become again interested in the mercantile transaction under consideration, I crawled out of my tent and as stealthily as a panther crawled to my board again. This time I caught it at the loose end, and with one mighty effort I wrenched it from the remaining posts, dropped it on the ground, and again dove into my tent.

The guards were aroused, but not soon enough to see what had been done, and I had secured a board twenty feet long by four inches wide, lumber enough to curb our well.

Another meeting of the mess was held, the saw-knife was brought out, the board, after great labor, was sawed up, and our well was restored to its usefulness.

This same storm, which occurred on the 12th of August, was the cause of a quite an episode in our otherwise dull life in prison. It was one of those terrible rains which occur sometimes in that region, and had the appearance of a cloud-burst. The rain fell in sheets, the ground in the prison was completely washed, and much good was done in the way of purifying this foul hole. The rapid rush of water down the opposing hills, filled the little stream, which I have called Dead-run, to overflowing, and as there was not sufficient outlet through the stockade, for the fast accumulating water, the pressure became so great that about twenty feet of the stockade toppled and fell over.

Thousands of prisoners were out looking at the downfall of our prison walls and when it went over we sent up such a shout and hurrah that we made old Andersonville ring.

But the rebel guard had witnessed the break as well as we. The guard near the creek called out “copeler of the gyaad! post numbah fo’teen! hurry up, the stockade is goin to h—l.” The guards, about 3,000 in number, came hurrying to the scene and formed line of battle to prevent a rush of prisoners, while the cannoneers in the forts sprang to their guns. We saw them ram home the charges in their guns, then we gave another shout, when BANG went one of the guns from the south-western fort, and we heard a solid shot go shrieking over our heads. It began to look as though the Johnies were going to get the most fun out of this thing after all. Just at this time Wirz came up to the gap and shrieked, “co pack to your quarters, you tammed Yanks, or I vill open de cuns of de forts on you.”

I needed no second invitation after that shot went over our heads, and I hurried to my quarters and laid low. I don’t think I am naturally more cowardly than the average of men, but that shot made me tired. I was sick and weak and had no courage, and knew Winder and Wirz so well that I had perfect faith that they would be only too glad of an excuse to carry out the threat.

But let us go back to the month of May. Soon after my arrival, there was marched into the prison about two thousand of the finest dressed soldiers I ever saw. Their uniforms were new and of a better quality than we had ever seen in the western army. They wore on their heads cocked hats, with brass and feather accompaniments. Their feet were shod with the best boots and shoes we had seen since antebellum days, their shirts were of the best “lady’s cloth” variety, and the chevrons on the sleeves of the non-commissioned officers coats, were showy enough for members of the Queen’s Guards.

Poor fellows, how I pitied them. The mingled look of surprise, horror, disgust, and sorrow that was depicted on their faces as they marched between crowds of prisoners who had been unwilling guests of the Confederacy for, from four to nine months, told but too plainly how our appearance affected them. As they passed along the mass of ragged, ghastly, dirt begrimed prisoners, I could hear the remark, “My God! have I got to come to this?” “I can’t live here a month,” “I had rather die, than to live in such a place as this,” and similar expressions. I say that I pitied them, for I knew that the sight of such specimens of humanity as we were, had completely unnerved them, that their blood had been chilled with horror at sight of us, and that they would never recover from the shock; and they never did.

Yes they had to come to this; many of them did not live a month, and not many of those two thousand fine looking men ever lived to see “God’s Country” again.

These were the “Plymouth Pilgrims.” They were a brigade, composed of the 85th New York, the 101st and 103d Pennsylvania, 16th Connecticut, 24th New York Battery, two companies of Massachusetts heavy artillery and a company of the 12th New York cavalry.

They were the garrison of a fort at Plymouth, North Carolina, which had been compelled to surrender, on account of the combined attack of land and naval forces, on the 20th day of May, 1864.

Some of the regiments composing this band of Pilgrims had “veteranized” and were soon going home on a veteran furlough when the attack was made, but they came to Andersonville instead.

Their service had been most entirely in garrisons, where they had always been well supplied with rations and clothing, and exempt from hard marches and exposures, and as a natural sequence, were not as well fitted to endure the hardships of prison life, as soldiers who had seen more active service.

They were turned into the prison without shelter, and they did not seem to think they could, in any way, provide one; without cooking utensils, and they thought they must eat their food raw. They began to die off in a few days after their arrival, they seemed never to have recovered from their first shock.

Comrade McElroy tells in “Andersonville,” a pathetic story of a Pennsylvanian who went crazy from the effects of confinement. He had a picture of his wife and children and he used to sit hour after hour looking at them, and sometimes imagined he was with them serving them at the home table. He would, in his imagination, pass food to wife and children, calling each by name, and urging them to eat more. He died in a month after his entrance.

I observed a similar case near my quarters. One of this same band came to our well for a drink of water which we gave him. He was well dressed, at first, but seemed to be a simple-minded man. Day after day he came for water, sometimes many times a day. Soon he began to talk incoherently, then to mutter something about home and food. One day his hat was gone; the next day his boots were missing, and so on, day after day, until he was perfectly nude, wandering about in the hot sun, by day, and shivering in the cold dews at night, until at last we found him one morning lying in a ditch at the edge of the swamp,—dead.

God only knows how many of those poor fellows were chilled in heart and brain, at their first introduction to Andersonville.

The coming of the Pilgrims into prison was the beginning of a new era in its history. Before they came, there was no money among the prisoners, or so little as to amount to nothing; but at the time of their surrender they had been paid off, and those who had “veteranized” had been paid a veteran bounty, so that they brought a large sum of money into prison.

The reader may inquire how it was that they were not searched, and their money and valuables taken from them by Winder and Wirz? It is a natural inquiry, as it was the only instance in the record of Andersonville, so far as I ever heard, when such rich plunder escaped those commissioned robbers. The reason they escaped robbery of all their money, clothing, blankets and good boots and shoes, was, they had surrendered with the agreement that they should be allowed to keep all their personal belongings, and in this instance the Confederate authorities had kept their agreement.

Thus several thousand dollars were brought into prison, and the old prisoners were eager to get a share. All sorts of gambling devices were used, the favorite being the old army Chuc-a-luck board. When these men came in, the old prisoners had preempted all the vacant land adjoining their quarters, and they sold their right to it, to these tender-feet for large sums, for the purpose of putting up shelters on. This they had no right to do, but the Pilgrims did not know it.

As the money began to circulate, trade began to flourish. Sutler, and soup stands sprung up all over the prison, where vegetables and soup were sold at rates that would seem exorbitant in any other place than the Confederacy. The result of all this gambling and trading, together with another cause which I will mention, was, that the Pilgrims were soon relieved of all their money, and then began to trade their clothing. Thus these well supplied, well dressed prisoners were soon reduced to a level with the older prisoners; but there was a compensation in this, as well as in nature, for what the former lost the latter gained and they were the better off by that much.

The supplies of vegetables and food which were sold by the sutlers and restaurateurs, were procured of the guards at the gate, they purchasing of the “Crackers” in the vicinity, causing a lively trade to flourish, not only in prison, but with the surrounding country.