We were out of rations and stopped for a few moment’s rest in front of the plantation of Mrs. Piffin, and I received permission to go to the house and buy some provisions. This lady had just boiled a ham and baked some biscuit for the dinner, and upon learning of our not having had anything to eat that day, freely gave us all she had. I offered to remunerate her, but she would not take any pay, saying she had a son in the Confederate army and she was only doing by me, as she hoped some one would do by him should they see him in like circumstances. I sought out this lady after my return to Tarboro in 1865, and had the pleasure of a visit with that son, who was then home suffering from a wound, when I had the satisfaction of, in a measure, repaying her for her kindness to the Yankee stranger.
When we reached Tarboro we were a hungry and tired crowd. We camped on the east bank of Tar river opposite the town, where I prevailed upon the Sergeant to send a guard with me into the town to buy some provisions. I went to the hotel and bought nine sandwiches for ten dollars. The hotel was crowded with people from the surrounding country, who had come to town to see the Yankee prisoners, and I seemed an object of a good deal of curiosity dressed in the full uniform of a cavalry officer.
All were talking about the great victory that Hoke had gained in the capture of Plymouth. He had taken Plymouth and made prisoners of the garrison, but at what a fearful loss. A few more such victories would ruin the Confederacy! We remained at Tarboro until ten o’clock the next day, 26th, when we were crowded into cattle cars of the most filthy description, forty of us being placed in each car, besides two guards at each of the side doors. These cars had been used for the transportation of beef cattle and had not been cleansed in the least since thus used. It was, therefore, like lying in a cow stable. We now began to realize what short rations, or no rations, meant. I bought a pie when we arrived at Goldsboro, for which I paid five dollars. At this rate a millionaire could not long remain outside the poor house. At 5 a. m. on the 27th, we arrived at Wilmington, where we disembarked and crossed the river on the ferry. Rations of soft bread and spoiled bacon were here distributed, and we were again put on board the cars, which were even more filthy than those we had just left. We arrived at Florence at midnight, where we were allowed to disembark and remain until the morning of the 28th. Here our guard was again changed and the 19th Georgia took charge of us.
We passed through Charleston in the night, and reached Savannah at 3 p. m. the 29th. While we stopped at Savannah, a large crowd congregated to see the live Yankees. They all seemed pleased to see us, and some of our great political aspirants would feel proud of such an ovation as we received here, ladies waving their handkerchiefs and the men cheering us lustily, hurrahing and swinging their hats. One lady actually threw a kiss at me on the sly, and I believe she was in favor of the union—no pun. The next morning, April 30th, we passed through Macon, making a stop of two hours, then we started again, and at 4 o’clock we arrived at Andersonville.
CHAPTER VII.
ANDERSONVILLE—SEPARATED FROM THE ENLISTED MEN—AN INTERVIEW WITH THE INHUMAN MONSTER “WIRZ”—PLACED IN A CHURCH—DIVINE SERVICE SUNDAY MORNING—SENT BACK TO MACON—DRAWING RATIONS—A BLIND-FOLDED MAN DIVIDES THEM—LADIES VISIT OUR CAMP AND SHOW THEIR SYMPATHY—UNION GIRLS FOREVER—BOUQUETS AND NOTES SENT US—A DRUNKEN RIOT—RECKLESS SHOOTING OF THE GUARDS—PRICES OF PROVISIONS IN MACON.
Andersonville, one year before, had never been heard of a hundred miles away, but is now a place whose name is associated with all that is revolting, a place whose name is synonymous with suffering, hunger, starvation, despair and death. A place the recollection of which recalls, with a chill of horror, the most terrible scenes of anguish that were ever suffered or beheld. A place whose history can never be fully written. For were all the survivors of that Confederate Hell, presided over by that incarnate fiend, Wirz, capable of portraying the horrors they had endured there, it would still remain for the fifteen thousands, whose emaciated forms passed through its gates to their final rest, to write up the history of the torments through which they passed during so many days of agony and wretchedness, of suffering, despair and death, before the history would be complete and the “finis” affixed. Thank God I was not doomed to be a resident of this charnal house, where out of eighty-five of my brave comrades who belonged to our detachment of cavalry, and who were destined to suffer its blood-curdling horrors, only eighteen ever lived to relate the tales of fiendish cruelty to which they were obliged to submit.
On the plateau in front of the pen the officers and enlisted men were separated, as no officers were held in Andersonville, except a few who commanded colored troops, whose rank would not be recognized by such gentlemen (?) as Wirz and his aids. Though I had heard much of the hardships of Andersonville, I then had no idea what the real horrors were, and after being separated I called Sergeant Cunningham towards me, was talking to him about caring for them, and endeavoring to maintain discipline as far as he could, when a Dutchman, mounted on a white horse, rode up with a cocked revolver in his hand and ordered him, with a terrible oath, to “Git back dere in de ranks, and if you come oud again I blow your tam head off.”
Having up to this time been treated with the respect supposed to be due an officer, I must say that I was not quite prepared for such a bombastic display of authority. The ludicrous gestures and evident bravado of the man (for I believed then, and do now, that he was a craven coward) only caused me to laugh as I told him that the place for men who were fond of shooting was at the front; that I called my Sergeant out of the ranks and was alone to blame for his leaving his place in the line. Knowing Sergeant Cosgrove (or Cunningham, as his right name was, he having, as he told me on leaving the service, enlisted under an assumed name), and having been with him in places that tried what kind of stuff men were made of, I could understand the look of contempt with which he quietly took his place again in the line.
After the enlisted men had been sent to the pen, the officers were conducted to a small church, or rather chapel, on the opposite side of the road, where we remained over night. We were not very closely guarded, and if there had been a probability of getting through I could have got away, for I went some distance alone to a house and bought some milk, and had a supper of hard tack and milk. The next morning I again went out and bought some beefsteak and milk for breakfast. This being Sunday, Chaplain Dixon held divine service in the little church, preaching from the text, “I have been young and now am old, yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken nor his seed begging bread.” The service was held immediately after breakfast, and at ten o’clock we were on board the cars, again headed for Macon, where we arrived at 4 p. m. We were placed in Camp Oglethorp, a fair ground, and were furnished with shelter tents, no stockade having then been built there, and were furnished with rations of salt pork and corn bread. Here for the first time our rations were furnished in bulk, and we divided them ourselves. It was here that I first witnessed the amusing spectacle of a blindfolded man dividing rations.
The manner was this: The bacon would be cut into as many pieces as there were men in the mess, and as nearly equal as possible, then a man was blindfolded, and as the officer of the mess touched a piece of meat he would say, “Who shall have this?” and the blindfolded man would name one of the mess, and so on until all were served.
I was now out of money, but I had brought along an extra pair of shoes and quite a supply of extra clothing, so I sold my shoes to Captain Freeman for ten dollars Confederate money and two dollars in greenbacks, which was about as much more. I bought with this money six radishes for one dollar, a pound of rye coffee for three dollars, and a pound of sugar for ten dollars, so that all I had for my shoes was these three articles, which could be had to-day for ten cents, and six dollars of Confederate money which amounted to about one dollar in greenbacks.
Many ladies visited our camp, some coming out of mere curiosity and to see what the Yankee officers looked like, for in Macon, at this time, Yankee soldiers were not as common as they were when the war closed. The march through Georgia had then not been made and “Sherman’s bummers” were not yet known.
Some