CONCLUSION.
Of all the men who had charge of of prisoners and who are responsible for their barbarous treatment, only one was ever brought to punishment. “Majah” Ross was burned in a hotel at Lynchburg, Va., in the spring of 1866. General Winder dropped dead while entering his tent at Florence, S. C., on the 1st of January, 1865.
“Majah” Dick Turner, Lieutenant Colonel Iverson and Lieutenant Barret have passed into obscurity, while Wirz was hanged for his crimes. That Wirz richly deserved his fate, no man who knows the full extent of his barbarities, has any doubt, and yet it seems hard that the vengeance of our Government should have been visited upon him alone. The quality of his guilt was not much different from that of many of prison commandants but the fact that he had a greater number of men under his charge brought him more into notice. Why should Wirz, the tool, be punished more severely than Jeff Davis and Howell Cobb? They were responsible, and yet Wirz hung while they went scot free.
I have frequently noticed that if a man wanted to escape punishment for murder he must needs be a wholesale murderer, your retail fellows fare hard when they get into the clutches of the law. If a man steals a sack of flour to keep his family from starvation, he goes to jail; but if he robs a bank of thousands of dollars in money and spends it in riotous living, or in an aggressive war against what is known as the “Tiger,” whether that Tiger reclines upon the green cloth, or roams at will among the members of Boards of Trade or Stock Exchange, or is denominated a “Bull” or a “Bear” in the wheat ring, why he simply goes to Canada.
Surely Justice is appropriately represented as being blindfolded, and I would suggest that she be represented as carrying an ear trumpet, for if she is not both blind and deaf she must be extremely partial.
Reader, if I have succeeded in amusing or instructing you, I have partly accomplished my purpose in writing this story. Partly I say, for I have still another object in view.
The description I have given of the prisons in which I was confined is but a poor picture of the actual condition of things. It is impossible for the most talented writer to give an adequate description. But I have told the truth as best I could. I defy any man to disprove one material statement, and I fall back upon the testimony of the rebels themselves, to prove that I have not exaggerated. These men suffered in those prisons through no fault of their own. The fortunes of war threw them into the hands of their enemies, and they were treated as no civilized nation ever treated prisoners before. They were left by their Government to suffer because that Government believed they would best subserve its interests by remaining there, rather than to agree to such terms as the enemy insisted upon.
General Grant said that one of us was keeping two fat rebels out of the field. Now if this is true why are not the ex-prisoners recognized by proper legislation? All other classes of men who went to the war and many men and women who did not go, are recognized and I believe that justice demands the recognition of the ex-prisoners. I make no special plea in my own behalf. I suffered no more than any other of the thousands who were with me, and not as much as some, but I make the plea in behalf of my comrades who I know suffered untold miseries for the cause of the Union, and yet who amidst all this suffering and privation, spurned with contempt the offers made by the enemy of food, clothing and life itself almost, at the cost of loyalty. Their motto then was, “Death but not dishonor.” But their motto now is, “Fiat justicia, ruat coelum.” Let justice be done though the heavens fall.
Since writing a description of the prison life in Andersonville, I came across the following account of a late visit to the old pen, by a member of the 2d Ohio, of my brigade. It is copied from the National Tribune, and I take the liberty to use it to show the readers of these articles how much the place has changed in twenty-five years.
The Author.
ANDERSONVILLE, GA.
The Celebrated Prison and Cemetery Revisited.
Editor National Tribune:
Having recently made a trip to Andersonville, Ga., I thought a brief discription of the old prison and cemetery might be of interest to the readers of your paper. I left the land of ice, sleet and snow March 26, 1888, taking Pullman car over Monon route via Louisville and Nashville, arriving at Bowling Green, Ky., 100 miles south of Louisville, at noon on March 27. Peach trees were in bloom and wild flowers were to be seen along the route. Nearing Nashville we passed through the National Cemetery. The grounds are laid out nicely and neatly kept and looked quite beautiful as we passed swiftly by. Leaving Nashville, I called a halt, took a brief look over the once bloody battlefield of Stone River. I then passed through Murfreesboro and Tullahoma. At Cowen’s Station I stopped for supper. This is the place where the dog leg-of mutton soup was dished up in 1863.
At Chattanooga I visited Lookout Mountain; then went to the graves of my comrades, the Mitchel raiders, that captured the locomotive and were hanged at Atlanta. The graves are in a circle in the National Cemetery. For the information of their friends I will give the number of their graves as marked on headstones:
J. J. Andrews. 12992. Citizen of Kentucky.
William Campbell. 11,180. Citizen of Kentucky.
Samuel Slaven. 11176. Co. G, 33d Ohio.
S. Robinson. 11177. Co. G, 33d Ohio.
G. D. Wilson. 11178. Co. B, 2d Ohio.
Marion Ross. 11179. Co. A, 2d Ohio.
Perry G. Shadrack. 11181. Co. K, 2d Ohio.
John Scott. 11182. Co. K, 21st Ohio.
Leaving here, I passed over a continuous battle field to Atlanta. Official records show that from Chattanooga to Atlanta, inclusive, more than 85,000 men were killed and wounded and more than 30,000 captured from Sept. 15, 1863, to Sept. 15, 1864. Arriving at Andersonville, I found the same depot agent in charge that was here in war times. His name is M. P. Suber; he is 76 years old, and has been agent here 31 years. Geo. Disher, who was a conductor, and handled the prisoners to and from the stockade, is still connected with the road. I arrived at 2 o’clock, and after eating my first square meal in this place (although I had been a boarder here 12 months), I started out to hunt up my old stamping-ground. The stockade is about half a mile east of depot. Here it was the 40,000 Northern soldiers were confined like cattle in a pen. This prison was used from February, 1864, to April 1865—14 months.
The stockade was formed of strong pine logs, firmly planted in the ground and about 20 feet high. The main stockade was surrounded by two other rows of logs, the middle one 16 feet high, the outer one 12 feet. It was so arranged that if the inner stockade was forced by the prisoners, the second would form another line of defense, inclosing 27 acres. The great stockade has almost entirely disappeared. It is only here and there that a post or little group of posts are to be seen. These have not all rotted away, but have been split into rails to fence the grounds. The ground is owned by G. W. Kennedy, a colored man. Only a small portion of the ground can be farmed. The swamp, in which a man would sink to his waist, still occupies considerable space. In crossing the little brackish stream I knelt down and took a drink, without skimming off the graybacks, as of old. Passing on, not far from the north gate I came to Providence Spring, that broke forth on the 12th or 13th of August, 1864. The spring is surrounded by a neat wood curbing, with a small opening on the lower side, through which the water constantly flows. Not the slightest trace is left of the dead-line.
The holes which the prisoners dug with spoons and tin cups for water and to shelter from sun and rain are still to be seen, almost as perfect as when dug. Also the tunnels that were made with a view to escape are plain to be seen. Relics of prison life are still being found—bits of pots, kettles, spoons, canteen-covers, and the like. I had no trouble in locating my headquarters on the north slope. You can imagine my feelings as I walked this ground over again after 24 years, thinking of the suffering and sorrow of those dark days. Visions of those living skeletons would come up before me with their haggard, distressed countenances, and will follow me through life.
A half mile from the prison-pen is the cemetery. Here are buried the 13,714 that died a wretched death from starvation and disease. The appearance of the cemetery has been entirely changed since war days. Then it was an old field. The trenches for the dead were dug about seven feet wide and 100 yards long. No coffins were used. The twisted, emaciated forms of the dead prisoners were laid side by side, at the head of each was driven a little stake on which was marked a number corresponding with the number of the body on the death register. The register was kept by one of the prisoners, and 12,793 names are registered, with State, regiment, company, rank, date of death and number of grave. Only 921 graves lack identification. I found 35 of my regiment numbered, and quite a number whom I knew had died there lie with the unknown. The head boards have been taken away, and substantial white marble slabs have been erected in their places. The stones are of two kinds. For the identified soldiers the stones are flat, polished slabs, three feet long, (one-half being under ground), four inches thick and 12 inches wide. On the stone is a raised shield, and on this is recorded the name, rank, state and number. For the unknown the stone is four inches square and projects only five inches above the ground. The rows of graves are about 10 or 12 feet apart. There are a few stones that have been furnished by the family or friends of the dead. Aside from the few, so many stones alike are symbolic of a similar cause and an equal fate. The cemetery covers 25 acres, inclosed by a brick wall five feet high. The main entrance is in the center of the west side. In the center of a diamond-shaped plot rises a flagstaff, where the Stars and Stripes are floating from sunrise to sunset. The cemetery presents a beautiful appearance. The grounds are nicely laid out and neatly kept, under the supervision of J. M. Bryant, who lives in a nice brick cottage inside the grounds.
I will close by quoting one inscription from a stone erected by a sister to the memory of a brother.
“They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.
“For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of water; and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.”
—Rev., VII: 16, 17.
The writer of the above article was a prisoner of war over 19 months, was captured at the battle of Chickamauga Sept. 20, 1863; delivered to the Union lines April, 1865, and was aboard the ill-fated steamer Sultana.
Would like to know if any comrade living was imprisoned this long.—A. C. Brown, Co. I, 2d Ohio, Albert Lea, Minn.
