Reminiscences of the Nineteenth Massachusetts regiment

The next day some negroes came in to swab the floor, and among them we of the 19th recognized little Johnnie, Colonel Devereaux’s servant. We had left him at White House Landing, sick with fever, when we started on the retreat down the Peninsula in the spring of 1862, and supposed he died in the hospital, but he must have been captured, as here he was. I was near enough to whisper “Johnnie.” He recognized me and also saw Lieutenant McGinnis, but said nothing. The next day when he came in he dropped some soap near where I stood. He looked as though he was having a hard time of it.

Our enlisted men were not confined in Libby but in an old tobacco warehouse across the street. Three days later we saw them march past on their way to Belle Isle. We watched our chances and exchanged greetings with them. The lines between officers and men in the 19th were not closely drawn. Most of the officers had come from the ranks and the only difference was in the pay. We would have been glad to have remained with them, but the rebels ordered otherwise.

We remained in Libby about a week, receiving re-enforcements nearly every day, until our squad of officers numbered over a hundred. One morning we were ordered to fall in. The same old blankets were given us, dirty and torn, but better than none. We were told that we were going south. A very small loaf of white bread was given each man, but having no way to carry it and being very hungry, we ate it before we left the prison. We filed out and marched past Castle Thunder. This place was used for the confinement of political prisoners. We saw several women and one of them had a palm-leaf fan. On one side was the stars and stripes. As we looked up she turned that side to us and some one said, “Boys, see the old flag.” Major Turner rode back and said, “Break the head of the next man who says ‘old flag,’” so we did not cheer, but the sight gladdened our hearts. We crossed the river to Manchester. A large crowd were at the station. They told us that our men were dying fast down south and that “you all will get your little piece of land down in Georgia,” a prophecy which proved true in very many instances.

The train backed into the depot and we were ordered to “get aboard the coach.” A passenger car was in front, and we marched in, thinking that we were to be transported in good shape; but when every seat was taken, they continued to come in, and our entire party, numbering more than a hundred, packed into this one car.

We rode all day without food or water, and found ourselves the next morning at Lynchburg. We were confined in the cars until noon, and it is impossible to express in words what we suffered. We could not walk about, the car was so crowded; we would get down on the floor, stand up, look out of the window, but nothing could drive away the terrible hunger. Outside the cars were hucksters selling bread, pies and fruit, and the sight made us wild. Men opened the windows, took rings from their fingers, and sold them for loaves of bread. I had no rings or anything valuable to sell. I had my ten dollar greenback in my shoe, but the orders were very strict in regard to the people taking greenbacks, and I dare not try to pass it for fear the guard would see me and confiscate it.

At noon we were ordered out of the car, and after some delay rations were issued, consisting of twenty small hard tack and a small piece of bacon not properly cured and covered with maggots. This was to last us four days, as we were to march from Lynchburg to Danville, our cavalry having destroyed the railroad between the two places. As I had eaten nothing for thirty-six hours I ate twelve of my hard tack, leaving eight for the next three days. I did not care much for the bacon, but tied it up in an old rag, and, finding a stick, carried it over my shoulder.

They marched us five miles, and camped for the night. The sun was so hot that most of my bacon melted and ran down my back, but the maggots still lived. We were commanded by a major who had lost an arm in the service, and had also been a prisoner. He was a first-class man and understood how to march men; would turn us out at daylight, march until nine or ten o’clock, then rest until three. He always selected our camp near a stream of good water, and did everything possible for our comfort. I am sorry I cannot recall his name, as he was about the only man I met in the south who considered our comfort in any way.

Our enlisted men joined us here. We were not allowed to visit them, but, passing them on the road, had a chance to chat a little.

Our guard was not thought sufficient to take care of us, and it was constantly receiving reinforcements from the cradle and the grave. At every crossroad we were joined by old men on horseback and in carriages, and boys from ten to sixteen years of age, armed with shot-guns and pistols. We could get along very well with the men, but the boys were anxious to shoot a Yankee, and we had to keep our eyes open. Lieutenant McGinnis was much interested in the boys, and would ask them if their fathers allowed them to play with a gun, and if they were not afraid to lie out doors evenings.

Our march was through a splendid country and the days were fine. We had many good singers among the officers, and as we marched through a village they would strike up a song. It would pass down the line and be taken up by the men. Passing through Pittsylvania they were singing “Home Again.” I saw several women who were watching us wipe away tears. Whether the tears were of sympathy for us, or because the scene recalled loved ones in the rebel army, we did not know, but it was the only manifestation of anything but hate I ever saw from a rebel woman.

Just before we went into camp one night a citizen walked beside us for a short distance and I saw him exchange glances with Captain Hume. After he passed on Captain Hume said, “We will have something to eat to-night. That man is a mason; he says we are going into camp soon and he will come down and bring me some food.” We soon after filed out of the road and into a field. The captain’s brother-mason came and walked around until he saw Hume, then passed near and dropped a package containing bread and meat. Although not a mason at that time I shared the refreshments furnished by the craftsman.

We continued the march until July 4, when we arrived at Danville. Here we were turned over to the provost guard and placed in an old warehouse. Our humane commander left us, and our best wishes followed him. We were brought back to the realization that we were prisoners by the brute in command. We were very hungry, but that did not trouble them, and we waited until afternoon for rations. At night we were taken out and marched to the depot. Although it was the anniversary of our nation’s birth we saw no demonstrations of any kind, and I do not believe that a citizen of the town knew it was a national holiday; but we remembered it, and while waiting for the train to be made up sung “Star Spangled Banner” and other patriotic songs. We collected quite a crowd, but they manifested no interest, only stood and looked at us.

The train ready, we were ordered on board and packed in close box cars, – fifty-six in a car. Only one door was allowed to be opened, and that was filled with rebel guards. We had no room to lie down, but were forced to stand or sit cramped up on the floor. We lay our heads on each other’s shoulders and tried to sleep, but it was too hot. We had no water, but one of the officers had an old two-quart pail, and by coaxing, the guard filled it twice out of the tank of the locomotive. I never passed a more uncomfortable night, and when we arrived at Greensborough, N. C., in the morning, and were allowed to get out of the cars, we were happy. Here we were reinforced by some of Wilson’s cavalry officers, captured on the raid. They had been shamefully treated, – some were bleeding from wounds received from the guard. When they loaded us again some were allowed on top of the car, and I was one. Our guards were a lot of home guards, and, like all such, were making a war record by abusing us.

On our car was a loud-mouthed fellow who was constantly insulting us. After a while he became quiet and was nearly asleep. One of the officers near touched me, and motioning to keep still, drew up his feet, straightened out, and the fellow went flying off the top of the car. Turning to me he said, “Jack, didn’t something drop?” I said I thought so, but guessed it wasn’t best to stop the train to find out, and we never learned whether he landed or not.

We arrived at Augusta, Ga., on Sunday, and were marched to the park. Here citizens visited us and we had a chance to talk with them. The questions were about the same as at Petersburg. “What do you uns come down to fight we uns for?” etc. Talk about Yankees being anxious to trade! There was not a man, woman or child but wanted to barter with us. I sold a hat cord to a woman for twenty dollars, bought a dozen eggs for ten dollars, and invested the rest in a blackberry pie. I shall never forget that pie. The crust was ironclad, and I had to bombard it before I could get at the berries. I ate the inside, but left the crust for the woman to fill again.

We took the cars at night, and next morning arrived at Macon, where we left the train, and our men went on to Andersonville.

CHAPTER XIII

MACON CONTINUED; CHARLESTON. – UNDER FIRE OF OUR BATTERIES ON MORRIS ISLAND

A stockade had been erected on the fair ground, and fourteen hundred officers were confined there. This was the first stockade we had seen, and while our names were being taken and we were being searched I had a chance to examine it. It was made of large trees driven in the ground, the inside covered with boards, and was about fifteen feet high. A walk was built around it for the guard, and at each corner was placed a piece of artillery, which commanded the inside of the prison.

The door swung open and we were marched in. Had we entered the lower regions we could not have been more horrified. Nearly all the officers had assembled at the gate, and such a looking set, – half naked, unshaven and unshorn, some dragging themselves along by the aid of sticks, others lying down in the dirt. For the first time my courage failed me, and my heart grew faint as I thought that I must pass through what they had already seen of prison life. They did not look like human beings, and appeared less so as every mouth opened and the cry of “Fresh fish” was heard on all sides.

It is an old saying that misery loves company, and since I entered Macon stockade I have never doubted it. They would crowd around us, and the gang would howl, “Give them air! Don’t steal his blanket. Oh! don’t put that louse on them,” etc. We made our way through them as best we could, and as the place was crowded lay down in the dirt, the first vacant spot we found. As soon as we were located, and the excitement attending our reception had subsided, we began to walk about. Our newness was apparent, and we would soon be joined by some honest looking prisoners who would begin to inquire how we were captured, would ask all sorts of questions, and before we were aware of it we would be drawing a line of battle in the dirt with a stick and explaining that “we lay here; the regiment on our left broke; the rebels came in there,” etc. A little group would gather around us, all interest and asking questions. After we had satisfied this party they would move on, and soon another would come up and we would go over the same ground. After we had gone through this performance four or five times we began to “catch on,” and would show when questioned that we were not so very fresh.

I thought our reception was a little unkind, and resolved that I would never be engaged in anything of the kind, but when the next batch of prisoners arrived I was in the front rank, and howled “Fresh fish” as loudly as the best of them.

The officers of our regiment became divided here. Major Dunn was in one part of the stockade, Captain Hume and Adjutant Curtis with some of the 71st and 72d Pennsylvania in another. Lieutenant Chubbuck found a friend from Quincy, Mass., and went with him; Lieutenant Osborne and I joined Captain McHugh of the 69th Pennsylvania.

Inside the stockade were two old buildings, each filled with prisoners. Many had dug holes under them, and were sheltered in that way, but the last two or three hundred had no shelter. Around the place was a low fence, twenty feet from the stockade, called the dead line, and it meant all that its name implies, for to touch or step over it brought a shot from the guard, which was the only warning. Our rations were corn-meal, issued uncooked, and as no extra cooking utensils were provided for the additional men, we often had to wait until midnight for a chance to cook our dinner. If we could borrow a kettle we made mush, if a skillet, made bread, and if neither, made a cake by making a dough and throwing it into the hot ashes; this was called an ash cake. We drew very little salt, so I exchanged my ten dollar greenback, receiving five for one, Confederate money, and paid two dollars a pound for salt and fifteen for soda. The price of everything was so high that my fifty dollars soon vanished.

The only time I heard music of any kind inside the rebel lines was at Macon. Outside the stockade, where the guards were quartered, were two negroes who played the fife and drum. They could play but one tune, “Bonnie Blue Flag.” At reveille, guard mounting, dinner call, retreat and tattoo the fifer shrieked and the drummer pounded out this same old tune. I do not think that the southerners are a musical people, for I never heard their soldiers sing around the camp-fires, and believe they left this, like everything else, to the negroes. There was a chaplain confined with us who was a very earnest Christian. Every night he held services on the steps of the main buildings, and, with a voice that could be heard throughout the prison, would pray for our country and flag, and for damnation and disaster to all rebels. The commanding officer came in one day and ordered him to stop, but he said they put Paul in prison, yet he prayed, and while he had a voice he should pray to his God, and use language best suited to the occasion. Courage always tells, and when they found that they could not frighten him they let him pray unmolested.

We had been at Macon about a week when one of the officers came to me and asked me if I would like to escape. I answered “Yes.” We talked awhile on various subjects, and on leaving he said he would call for me that night. At midnight he came, and I went with him to one corner of the stockade, where we were joined by three more. We formed a circle with our hands on each other’s shoulders, and I took the most solemn obligation ever taken by man. I swore to obey in every particular the orders of my superior officers, to take life if necessary in order to escape, and to kill any one who should betray us. Our organization was called the Council of Ten, as it was governed by ten officers selected by the captains of the companies. We were divided into companies of thirty-two, each commanded by a captain, and subdivided into squads of eight, commanded by a sergeant; the privates only knew the sergeants, the sergeant knew his captain and the captain the Council of Ten. We had signs, passwords, grips and signals, and a grand rallying cry. We were ordered to provide ourselves with clubs if they could be obtained, or in place of them have a stone located where we could easily get it.

It was strange to me why this organization was required, but I was informed that traitors were in the camp, that several tunnels had been started, and when ready to open, the rebels would come in, go directly to them, and driving down a crowbar would tind them the first trial. It was hard to believe that any Union officer would betray his comrades, and we concluded that the rebels must have some of their men in with us, at any rate our leaders thought that a secret organization was necessary for our protection.

A good part of the time was taken by the rebels in finding out if any had escaped. Every day the commanding officers with the guard would come in and drive us to one side of the prison, then back in single file between two guards, counting us as we passed through. It was not often that the first count was right, and we would be driven back again. It usually took from one to three hours before they were satisfied that “we all were thar.”

The last of July it was rumored that six hundred were to leave the prison to be exchanged. The “old fish” took little stock in it. The order of the council was for all of our members to go who could. The next day all was excitement. The rebel officer in charge came in, said that exchange had been agreed upon and that all would soon go, but only six hundred would go that day. They began to check out the first five squads and Captain McHugh, Lieutenant Osborne (who joined the council the night after I did) and myself flanked out when other names were called. We believed that “the last shall be first.” As all who went out were not members of our own order we were directed to tie a string in our button-holes so that we could be recognized. We were marched to the station and placed in box cars. Our sergeant posted two men over each guard in the car, with orders to seize and tie them when the signal was given. This was to be a red light shown from the forward car. Our leaders had maps of the country and had concluded to capture the train at Pocotaligo bridge, seven miles from the sea-coast, take the muskets from the guard, put the guard in the cars, set the train in motion, then make our way to the coast, signal our gun-boats, and be saved. Thus far everything had worked well. The guards in our car had not a cartridge left in their boxes, as we had taken them all out and had been able to take some of the caps off their muskets. We were as determined a body of men as ever lived, and it would have been liberty or death with most of us. Some in our car had been over the road and knew where we were expected to begin work. We waited for the signal, but it was not shown, and we began to get uneasy as it was evident that we had passed the point. Some jumped from the cars, but we were so near Charleston they were recaptured and arrived in the city as soon as we did. Some one had blundered or we were betrayed. We never found out who was responsible, but always thought we were betrayed by a regular army officer, who was exchanged soon after we arrived in Charleston. I do not think he entered the jail with us.

Disheartened, hungry and tired we arrived in Charleston. We did not know why we had been sent there but in every heart was a hope that it might be an exchange. They marched us through the city down into the burned district. As we halted on one of the streets a woman on the sidewalk said to me, “I don’t think they will put you way down under the fire.” This was the first intimation I had received of what they intended to do with us, but it soon became known that we were to be placed under the fire of our batteries on Morris Island. The noble qualities of the southern chivalry were being shown to us every day, yet this was the most cowardly act of all, – to place unarmed men under the fire of their own guns.

We continued the march to the jail and were turned into the yard. I was more wealthy than when we left Macon. There were several naval officers in our squad and the rebels had allowed them to retain their personal property. While at Macon they had bought most of their food and saved their meal. On the march to Charleston one was directly in front of me. He had a heavy load to carry, and not being used to marching had a hard time. Among his effects was a bag containing about a peck of meal. He would change it from one hand to another, and at last set it down, as he could carry it no farther. I was in light marching order and as soon as it touched the ground I picked it up and carried it into our new prison. I also had a broken water pitcher that the guard had allowed me to take out of the gutter, so I had meal and a dish to mix it in.

We found the jail yard a filthy place. In the centre was an old privy that had not been cleaned for a long time, and near it was a garbage pile, where all the garbage of the jail was deposited. A gallows occupied a place in the rear of the yard. The wall surrounding the yard was twenty feet high, so that no air could reach us and the hot sun came down on our unprotected heads.

The only cooking utensils we had were those brought from Macon, and were not half enough to supply our wants. The jail was filled with all classes of criminals, male and female, and, with the exception of the women, all were allowed in the yard during some portion of the day. There were also several soldiers of the “Maryland line” who had refused to do duty longer for the Confederacy, and several negroes belonging to the 54th Massachusetts, captured at the siege of Fort Wagner. The negroes were not held as prisoners of war but rather as slaves. Their captors did not know exactly what to do with them. They were brave fellows, and at night we could hear them singing in their cells. I remember a part of one song. It was a parody on “When this cruel war is over,” and ran as follows: —

“Weeping, sad and lonely,O, how bad I feel,Down in Charleston, South Carolina,Praying for a good square meal.”

We could hear our batteries on Morris Island, and often shells would pass over us. The second night we were there two rockets were sent up near the jail, and after that the line of fire was changed. The rebels could not account for the rockets and all concluded that they were discharged by our spies, or Union men in the city.

Our home was under a window of the jail. Sometimes it would rain all night and we would have to sit crouched against the walls. Our rations were mostly rice, and we had not half wood enough to cook it properly. Each day a four-foot stick of wood was issued to twenty-five men; we would cut it up into twenty-five little piles, one man would turn his back and another would call the names of the mess, at the same time pointing to a pile of wood. If by a chance he or one of his friends received a sliver more than another some one would declare that there was an understanding between the two.

We were visited by the rebel generals Johnson and Thompson, who had returned from our lines, and after that our rations were less than before. One day the rice was so poor and so full of bugs that we refused to accept it and held an indignation meeting. We drew up a petition to General Jones, the rebel officer commanding the department, asking, if the rebels could not or would not issue rations enough to keep us alive, that our government might be allowed to do so. The next day they sent in the same rice, and as the petition did not satisfy our hunger we ate it, bugs and all, to keep from starving. Another day they issued nothing but lard. What they thought we could do with that I never learned, but I drew two spoonfuls on a chip and let it melt in the sun.

We had no change of underclothing, no soap to wash with and were covered with vermin. We hunted them three times each day but could not get the best of them. They are very prolific and great-grand-children would be born in twenty-four hours after they struck us. We made the acquaintance of a new kind here, – those that live in the head. We had no combs, and before we knew it our heads had more inhabitants than a New York tenement-house. After a hard scratch we obtained an old pair of shears and cut each other’s hair close to our heads.

We were growing weaker day by day; were disposed to lie down most of the time, but knew that would not do, so resolved to walk as much as possible. We craved vegetables, and scurvy began to appear, sores breaking out on our limbs. One day a naval officer bought a watermelon. As he devoured it I sat and watched him, the water running out of my mouth; when he had finished he threw the rind on the garbage pile, and I was there. I ate it so snug that there was not much left for the next.

Lieutenant Osborne and myself were the only officers of the 19th in the jail yard; the rest we left at Macon. One day a detachment came into the workhouse, the next building to ours, and I received a note, which was thrown over the wall, informing me that Captain Hume and Adjutant Curtis were with them. Exchange stock was unsteady; several officers were exchanged by special order, some of them through the assistance of friends south, others by the influence of friends in Washington. Often the report would come in that a general exchange had been arranged, and the cry would go through the yard “Pack up, pack up, all exchanged.” While it was an old story, and some of our comrades had heard it many times, the faintest hearts grew stronger and visions of home would come, only to be swept away by the fact that the morrow found them starving in prison as before.