We were at Libby prison only three days, when we were sent under guard to Belle Isle.
The first prisoners sent to Belle Isle had been supplied with tents, but these were all occupied, and we were compelled to camp on the ground without shelter of any kind and without fire. The evenings, particularly, were cold and we were thinly clad. Some writers have steadfastly asserted that the Confederate authorities never furnished tents or any kind of shelter at Belle Isle. This is a mistake.
When we reached the island there were about 5,000 prisoners, of whom only one-fourth were without shelter. As we entered the camp the other prisoners crowded about us with the usual questions, "What regiment? When were you captured? What news have you? What is the prospect of exchange?"
"Exchange" was the sole topic. It was on every one's lips. It was discussed by the suffering men, to whom "exchange" meant all that they asked for in this world. It meant life, home, mother, wife, sweetheart, friends — everything.
I found a number of my regiment here, and they had been prisoners a long time. They informed me almost immediately that it was understood that they were to be exchanged in "a day or two."
It has been often laid up against the Southern officers and men guarding us as a grievous fault that they continually held out "false hope" of exchange, well knowing that they absolutely had no grounds for the statements, and that they would say that we were about to be exchanged when there was not the least expectation of it. I thought then and I think still that these were meritorious "white lies," similar to the profanity of my Uncle Toby in "Tristram Shandy," where the Recording Angel, after recording the oath, blotted it out with tears.
The hope of exchange, though deferred, often prolonged and saved the life of many a prisoner of war, both North and South. It was a well-known fact among prisoners, whether at Ander-sonville or Belle Isle, Rock Island or Elmira, that if once an inmate became discouraged and lost hope he was doomed. Nothing could save him.
"Yank, you are looking pretty pert this morning," a rebel officer or soldier would say, "so you mustn't get discouraged. Brace up; never say die. You will be exchanged in a few days. I have it straight from headquarters."
Looking back more than forty years and diagnosing those "rebel lies," I can find no better reason for them than kindness of heart. Others can form any opinion they please, but these are my conclusions.
The first day I was at Belle Isle a rebel guard gave me a sheet of paper and an envelope, and I wrote to Captain Birge of my company and sent it out by comrade Crawford of Company F of my regiment, who was listed for exchange. This letter was received and forwarded to my sister, Mrs. Henry Utley, now of this State. She has preserved this letter with others that I wrote while a prisoner and recently she loaned them to me. I have them before me now.
The letter that I particularly refer to is, in part, as follows:
"Camp Yankee, Belle Isle,
"Richmond, Virginia, September 28, 1863.
"Capt. M. D. Birge, Co. A, Sixth Mich. Cavalry.
"Dear Captain: Hoyt, Swain, Douglas, and myself, with nineteen of Company L, Seventh Cavalry, were taken prisoners on the left of our line on the 21st inst. and here we are, with the exception of Hoyt, on Belle Isle. Hoyt was badly wounded and has been paroled and sent to Washington.
"Considering the scanty rations, the awfully exposed and shelterless condition of the prisoners, and the evident inability of the Confederate authorities to feed and shelter, even the guards, to say nothing of the constantly increasing number of prisoners, I cannot believe that our Government will permit us to remain here very long, so I fully expect to be with you soon. We are hoping and praying to be soon exchanged. Now is the time for the Government to act, for if the 4,000 or 5,000 men that are now here are held until the winter begins, what remains of them will be unfit for service the coming year, if ever."
The air was full of reports that we would be exchanged, and I fully believed it, for I felt that the Federal authorities were well aware of the impoverished condition of the Confederate States and the great suffering and mortality that would follow if the prisoners were held through the winter months. We were fully convinced that our Government would at once take action to save the lives of its soldiers suffering in prison; but in this we were doomed to disappointment. Looking back at it now, it seems incredible and monstrous that the Secretary of War could deliberately close his eyes and ears to our suffering and want. It was well for us that we could not foresee what was in store for us in the many long, terrible months to come, for if we had known, the strongest would have sank in despair. As it was, we were buoyed up with the hope and report that we would be exchanged "next week." That report was constantly afloat in the camp.
My experience on the island is as vivid in my memory as if it happened last week. I shall never forget it. There were eleven of us that stuck together and helped each other like brothers. While none of us had been deprived of anything that we had in our possession when captured, we were all short of overcoats or blankets, and the nights were cold and the ground damp and as hard as a pavement. Night after night I walked back and forth to keep warm, but toward morning would tumble over through exhaustion and fall asleep. In this way I contracted a severe cold and fell sick with fever. My boys secured a piece of canvas about six feet square, so part would be over and part under me, and before long they got possession of a tent that was left them by a few friends who, in some way, were exchanged. They took the best care of me possible without medicine. It was an utter impossibility to obtain medicine for love or money. For eight days and nights I lay there unconscious, continually calling for water, and when the fever left me I couldn't believe that I had been sick eight days until they showed me the eight pieces of corn bread, our daily rations, that, notwithstanding their short allowance and craving for food, they had saved for me. There was no doubt of the eight days, for there was the evidence. I well knew that there could be no surplus bread lying around loose. Bread was too scarce.
That day a sergeant of the guard visited me. He conveyed the glad but weather-beaten tidings of exchange, but not in the old stereotyped form this time. He said it would come "to-morrow." Blessings on him, if alive; and if dead, may the earth lie lightly upon him!
This time I was sure of it. I tried to get on my feet, but could not. Finally, after being helped to a standing position, supported by a comrade on each side and encouraged by the rebel's advice, "never say die," I managed to take a few steps, but my knees refused to act their part.
It would never do to have the boys leave me next day, I thought. They promised not to go without me. I thought the "to-morrow" would never come, but it did, and the next day, and the next and the next, and we were still on Belle Isle.
Just a word more about the cheerful and encouraging "exchange" rebel falsifier. I cannot think of him other than that of a pure philanthropist and humanitarian. We had no medicine and he had none to give us. We were his enemies invading his country. There was war, "grim-visaged war," between us, and he could have done a thousand times worse than to say, "You will be exchanged to-morrow." He could, with hard, cold truth have said to me, "You may not die just yet, but you might as well; and if you do it will be mighty small loss. It will be one enemy less; and, suppose you do not die just yet, your prospect is a tough one, for your Government is about to shut down the lid as far as exchanging prisoners is concerned, if it hasn't already, and you will be here and at Andersonville, where you won't even have corn bread to eat, for the next fourteen months." Had I known then what was in store for me I never could have survived Belle Isle.
"Allowing for the sake of argument," said the priest to Voltaire, "that you are right; that there is no God; that there is no eternity and no future reward for the good and no punishment for the wicked, and that death is the end of us, where does the benefit of your boasted 'enlightenment of the human race' come in? Does your doctrine improve matters? What do you give us in exchange for our faith and hope of future reward that we so firmly believe in?"
The priest had the philosopher, metaphorically speaking, on the hip.
I