By the bedsides of dying skeletons, as they shudderingly recalled their prison life, I have written their sad stories, which often ended with: “We can never tell the half of all we have endured; it would not be credited, if we did.” All of horrors that I had seen and known during these memorable years, faded into insignificance when contrasted with this heinous crime—a systematic course of starvation to brave men made captives by the chances of war! Our first visit to Annapolis was with the object of seeing and knowing more of them; that by a recital of their condition, I might interest still more those who were devoting themselves to the preparation of hospital comforts. The little we saw of the starved men, at that time, enlisted all my sympathies. In one of the wards of the hospital at Camp Parole, a man belonging to the 5th Indiana Cavalry was reclining in a large rocking-chair near the stove; his features sharpened by suffering, the eyes sunken, skin tightly drawn over the lips, as though they could never smile again; the whole face had an unearthly, smoke-dried parchment look. Upon asking him where he was from, he answered plainly: “Anderson; that cruel treatment, no shelter, with want of food and water, had brought him to this condition.” His age was almost eighteen; I should have said at least forty. There was no appearance of flesh upon the attenuated hands and arms; he died within an hour, before we left the building. Near him lay two others, who seemed pleased to relate their stories and have any one listen to them. All had been so long unused to kindness, that a pleasant word or the least attention surprised them. They also had been at Andersonville, Florence, and other prisons; but the first named was worse than all. Their statements as to kind of food, want of shelter, etc. were afterward confirmed by hundreds of others. They gave their corps, regiment, when captured, etc., stating that of the large number who entered with them, but few left it alive.
Their mode of burial was this: every morning a wagon was driven through the camp, to pick up those who had died during the night; the poor, emaciated bodies were caught up by an arm and foot, and pitched into the wagon as a stick of cord-wood would be thrown; this was continued until no more could be piled in, then taken to the shallow trenches which were to receive them; they were packed in, lying upon the side, the head of one over the shoulder of the man in front of him; a slight covering of earth concealed the victims from sight, relieving them of that much care by lessening the number in their vile prisons—but adding another to the list of martyrs from the North. They crept, at night, in holes burrowed in the ground; those too feeble to prepare such shelter, crowded together in rows for warmth; during the winter, the outside sleepers were almost invariably found stiff and cold, in the morning light.
The appearance of those with whom I had been conversing reminded me of the skeletons I had seen washed out, upon Antietam, Gettysburg, and other battle-fields, only they had ceased from suffering, and were at rest; these were still living, breathing, helpless, starved men.
On board a vessel, which had just unloaded its miserable passengers, came a young boy, who was carried on shore; when bathed, and made comfortable with clean clothing, taken into one of the tents at Naval School Hospital. As he was laid upon his nice, clean mattress, he called to his comrades in suffering: “Boys, I’m ready to die, now that I’ve heard the music, and have seen the old flag.” Some one answered: “Surely you don’t want to die, now that we are home again?” The boy replied: “I prayed so earnestly that I might live only long enough to die upon our own soil; and now, though I should like to see my own home, I am perfectly happy, and ready to go; I know I can’t live.” He continued to talk cheerfully of death, repeating every few minutes: “I’ve heard the music, and I’ve seen the old flag.” In three hours the feeble spark of life was gone; and he was, the next morning, carried to the cemetery—with sixty-five of his companions! the most saddening funeral procession that perhaps was ever formed. Sixty-five starved men, who lingered long enough to die upon our own soil, and under the “dear old flag!”
“In treason’s prison-hold,
Their martyr-spirits grew
To stature like the saints of old,
While, amid agonies untold,
They starved for me and you!”
In one arrival of four hundred and sixty, only sixty were able to walk ashore; the four hundred were carried; half of these died within a few days; one-third of the whole number imbecile. They appeared like a wretched bundle of bones, covered with a few filthy rags. Of those who were able to totter about, the greatest care was requisite; they would search eagerly for bones, crusts, crumbs, or anything that was or had been eatable; some discovered the slop-barrels, and took out of them the savory morsels of bones or vegetables. There were instances where a sick man was feebly raising the bread to his lips, when a stronger one would snatch it from his fingers. The same look of hopeless sadness is on every face, without a smile—smoke-dried skeletons.