In one of the wards of St. John’s Hospital was Mr. Kerker, of Ohio, watching by the bedside of his only child—the last of six; an elder son had been captured a year previous, and afterward murdered by the rebels. This one was a sergeant of the 2d Virginia Cavalry: with three others, had volunteered to go upon a dangerous expedition for the purpose of carrying a dispatch to headquarters for Merril’s Division; seeing troops in the distance, and not knowing who they were, gave his saber, etc. to the men, telling them if he was not back in two hours, to return and report his fate, but he would go on alone. Moving cautiously, hiding in the bushes and grass, he was at length seen by their pickets,—surrounded and captured,—but tore his dispatch into small pieces; the rebels picked it up, and fitting it all together, read that the general must take the north road with his force, and troops would be sent to meet him. Missing the dispatch,—as intended,—he took the south road, as had previously been decided; the rebels were deceived, and the division saved. It was a ruse—to sacrifice one man, and save numbers. The poor fellow lived through his imprisonment, reaching Annapolis an emaciated skeleton. His father heard of his arrival, and came immediately to wait upon him: he watched him with the most anxious, tender care,—hoping each day to see him better, that he might take him where he was so impatient to be—home; but all in vain: we saw how the wasted frame daily became weaker, and at length there came suddenly to both father and son the utter hopelessness of anticipating any change but that which death must bring. From that time, cheerfully and pleasantly, as though preparing for a delightful journey, his last arrangements were made, looking forward to that home “not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.” As his father remarked: “He had always been a good boy, attentive at church and other religious duties.” The first letter which he wished to dictate was to his former pastor, thanking him for all his care and kindness during his early life, and telling him how happy he was, now that earthly scenes were so nearly over, etc. There were parting messages to dear friends at home; and all the time, loving words of thanks, and pleasure, that his father could be with him. With the most earnest, childlike faith and trust in our Saviour’s promises, his face ever wore a bright look when telling that “he was going home to God.” A lady who had manifested much interest in him, he asked to “be his mother while he lived, and watch over him.” Most faithfully did she fulfill the request. As we entered his tent in the morning, he would greet us with a smile, and say: “Still here, waiting.” It was one of the most beautifully touching death-beds that I have known in the hospitals. Early in the morning of the 20th of April, 1865, death came gently to the boy who had so longed for him, and the freed spirit was at rest. The wasted body was taken by the sorrowing father to their home in Ohio: another martyr added to the fearful list, whose reckoning God alone can balance.
In the officers’ ward, at Naval School, was Capt. Washburn, of Boston; he was ill when he came from prison. His father, who had five sons out of six in the service,—all who were old enough to go,—was waiting upon him.
In the late arrival was a young officer, emaciated and ill. His brother had been with him during all his imprisonment: and when the order came for their exchange, both were permitted to leave, if they could reach the station, three miles distant; this one started, carrying his skeleton brother upon his back for two miles, when his strength entirely failed, and he sank, overcome by the exertion, upon the ground; after resting some time, started again with his burden; but the effort was in vain—his wearied frame could go no farther: and as he laid him down, the brother clasped his arms around his neck, and died! There, by the dusty roadside, the brave young officer’s grave was made.
In the chapel were a number of very bad-looking skeletons; several with frozen feet.
A few days since an old gentleman came, inquiring for his son: he had died two hours before his arrival—the last of seven! Four starved to death in rebel prisons: all were in the service. Well might he exclaim: “Behold, and see, if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow!”
Steward Newman, of Company D, 5th Michigan Cavalry,—whose statements are confirmed by Lieut. Hayes, from near Lock Haven, Penna., —— Miller, of Boston, and other comrades,—says: while in prison at Andersonville, he has frequently seen our soldiers tied to the whipping-post by the thumbs, their toes just touching the ground, the helpless sufferers so thin and weak that their bodies swayed in the wind like a moving pendulum; the crime, asking for food!—unable to eat what, at home, their cattle and horses would refuse, and even chickens could not live upon. At thanksgiving, they were kept eighty hours without any food, because they refused to tell where the tunnel was which they were digging. At length it was completed, and all their arrangements made for escaping, when one of their number, tempted with tobacco, revealed their plans: one thousand were to have left that very night. The tunnel was so wide that two could go out abreast. They caught the scamp who told: with india-ink, put a large letter T, for traitor, upon his forehead and nose, shaved half his head, and turned him off. Their coffee was made of the burnt crusts of their miserably baked corn-cob bread. At long intervals a little rice would be given them, which they browned and made of it what they thought good coffee, eating the roasted grains afterward. Another drink was made by putting corn-cob meal in a bucket, and standing it for three days in the sun to ferment, adding to it molasses and sassafras—which the negroes would procure for them. A man fortunate enough to have sufficient money for the purchase of a barrel and the needful corn-meal and molasses, would soon improvise a sutler’s establishment by stretching over poles the ragged remains of an old blanket: and there, with this attempt at shelter from the sun, would call to the ragged crowd, as they passed along:
“Here’s your good, nice beer, five cents a glass!
Good, cool, and tart! walk up and try;
If you don’t like, you needn’t buy!”
When the prisoners were moved from Andersonville to Florence, they left behind them all their cooking utensils, as they were told they were to be exchanged, not sent to prison; but finding they had been deceived, asked permission of a rebel, Major Brown (it is humiliating to add that he was formerly from Pennsylvania), to use the tin-roofing of the cars which stood near; he consented, and they took off the entire roof of one. The only tools they had were a cold-chisel, a railroad spike, and an old table-knife; in a marvelously short time, cooking pans, cups, and buckets were cut out and hammered together; and when the variety was shown to the rebel major, he remarked: “They might turn a Yank into the woods with nothing, and he would soon have all he needed.” Buckets, plates, and spoons were made of wood. For the buckets, they split staves of wood, the negroes furnishing poles for hoops and handles. As far as ingenuity could go, they made the best they could of their wretched surroundings. The men were divided by thousands, then hundreds, for convenience in distributing rations: while at Florence, Newman entered his name three times in one thousand,—giving, of course, two feigned names,—that he might draw sufficient food to sustain life; fortunately, he was not found out; if he had been, the penalty of one hundred lashes, in his enfeebled health, would have killed him.