Captain Johnson and I both belonged to the same squad, which was designated as No. 9. One evening, I had been up to Colonel Miller’s tent until quite late, and when I returned, the squad had all retired. As I came to my tent, which was just opposite Capt. Johnson’s, I said to my tent-mates somewhat excitedly, and in a tone loud enough for Johnson to hear: “Well, boys, I have now got some news that is reliable. I just came from Col. Miller’s tent, and the Colonel told me that Col. Smith told him—” here I dropped my voice so that Johnson could not hear. In a second Johnson jumped out of bed and came across the street, minus everything but his night clothes, and asked excitedly: “What did Col. Miller tell you?” “Well,” said I, “Col. Miller told me that No. 9 squad would be detailed to police the camp to-morrow.”
Johnson, without saying a word, returned to his bunk amid the roars of laughter from the whole squad. I know it was cruel, to laugh at, and play jokes upon men who were half insane upon the subject. There were those who were clearly insane upon the subject of exchange, and were really to be pitied.
A Captain, whose name I have forgotten, became perfectly insane while we were at Savannah, and I think he died while in prison. At first those who noticed his peculiar actions thought he was playing a dodge to get paroled and sent North, but we were all soon convinced that the poor fellow had brooded over his imprisonment until his mind had completely lost its balance.
His mind seemed to be continually dwelling upon exchange, and for days and weeks he could not be induced to talk upon an other subject. He would tell the most improbable stories, that no one else had heard, about a general exchange of prisoners that was soon to take place, but as such stories were continually floating around the camp, not much attention was paid to him, and if any one thought upon them at all, they looked upon his stories as silly canards, gotten up to fool some one with.
His mind finally seemed to run to sumptuous dinners, and he would invite eight or ten of his prison companions to dine with him at a certain hour, and upon their arrival, they would find perhaps a half baked corn meal pome, that had been cooked in a dirty old wash basin, over a smoky fire, having been mixed up without salt or rising of any kind, to be the princely spread he had invited them to.
He would do the honors in a courteous and dignified manner and seem to think he was at home entertaining some distinguished guests in a royal manner, to a regal feast.
Of course his comrades would excuse themselves on one pretext and another, and would leave him to enjoy his dinner alone.
He would eat his pome with all the apparent relish, with which he would have partaken of a dinner such as he seemed to imagine he was indulging in.
Of course, in its half-cooked condition, it would be not only perfectly unpalatable, but injurious to the health as well. When it is remembered that rumors of exchange were being almost weekly circulated through our camp, sometimes by the reb authorities in order to keep us from trying to escape, and sometimes I believe for very cussedness, the only wonder is that the majority of the prisoners were not driven to insanity. I have seen men sit moping for hours with a look of utter dejection, their elbow upon their knee, and their chin resting upon their hand, their eyes having a vacant far-away look, brooding over the cruel fate that placed them in the prison pen, and wondering why an exchange of prisoners was not made, and whether they would ever be released.
On the 21st of June, 1864, a Catholic priest came into the prison at Macon, and gave us such a harrowing picture of Andersonville, which place he had visited the day before, that it made our own sufferings seem insignificant.