Met Mrs. Galbraith, of Ohio, looking for her son; she was lost and bewildered in the crowd, and knew not where to go or what to do; taking charge of her, he was soon found—the mother sobbing for joy that her boy was alive. He was sitting up: now, with her care, can soon bear the journey home.
In the last arrival, came Wm. Neely, Company B, 83d Pennsylvania Vols., enlisted in Philadelphia. He was captured the 11th of October, 1863, and taken to Richmond, Va. After having made several desperate efforts to escape with his comrades, on the 24th of December he was put in the dark, condemned cell of Castle Thunder; an iron bar, fifteen inches long, was riveted upon his wrists and ankles; the other end of the same bar fastened in like manner to Capt. Avery, of Kentucky. They were kept in that dungeon four months and six days; the only clothing they were permitted to keep was pantaloons and blouse; no covering of any kind allowed them; no chair, bench, or bed; nothing to sit or lie down upon but the filthy floor. Sometimes six men were kept in the same cell with them; at night, a light was placed near the bars; during the day, total darkness. He concealed in the roof of his mouth, for six weeks, a fine steel saw, such as is used about gun-barrels: at the time they were sent away, had one bar cut through, ready to make another effort to escape. The iron bar upon his wrist cut into the bone, making an offensive wound; the scar it made he carried to his grave. When taken out, they were covered with filth and vermin, so enfeebled that they could with difficulty stand alone, and looking like nothing human. The captain was started for Tennessee to be tried for treason; but on the way escaped, and reached his command at Knoxville in safety. Neely was sent to Salisbury, from there to Columbia, thence to Macon, and hurried back again to Columbia, dodging Sherman. He finally escaped, by tunneling out under his prison walls, the Asylum in Columbia, eight days before Gen. Sherman entered the town; a Union lady concealed him, a lieutenant, and sergeant until they could rejoin our forces; he came to Fayetteville with the second division hospital of the fifteenth army corps; from there to Wilmington with the refugees, where they were kindly fed and cared for until able to bear the journey, when he was sent with others to Annapolis. He lingered two months, and died in St. John’s Hospital. Continued efforts have been made to find his family: this statement has been published in city and country papers without avail: information of importance to them is still in my possession.
Harris was one of the most revolting-looking skeletons that was landed: when brought in, his head was without hair, except a little tuft in front; his head and neck were eaten in great holes by vermin—they had burrowed in ridges under the skin; mind and body were alike weakened. He rallied for a few days: with good treatment and kindness, it seemed as though his life might be saved; but all was of no use: rebel cruelty had too surely done its work, and the victim suddenly died without any apparent illness other than starvation.
The 15th of April, 1865, came the saddest news that ever startled the American people: our beloved President Lincoln murdered! It seemed incredible, and it was long before it could be realized. Where so lately was rejoicing, all is now changed to mourning.
In one of the wards of “St. John’s” is a man who had been three months a prisoner, and wounded. The flag always remained fastened to his bed: this morning it was at half-mast, heavily draped with black. Continuing our walk, found many others like it: the only token of sorrow they could give.
In the Naval School Hospital is a man from New York Mounted Rifles who has been a prisoner two years and three months, having tried all their prisons in turn. His stories of the “dead line” are terrible, yet agreeing accurately with all others I have heard speak of it. A boy was with him, going to the stream near the “line” to procure water that would be a little purer than that farther down: as he stooped to fill his cup, the guard tossed a piece of bread near him—eagerly the hand was outstretched to grasp it, the fingers up to the “line,” when, in an instant, his brains were scattered upon the cup and bread he held! and the guard resumed his walk, well satisfied that he had performed a commendable act.
A daily occurrence is the number of those who come searching for friends: all they know is, they were prisoners; and so hope to find them, or hear tidings of them. Many, alas! have filled an unmarked grave at “Andersonville,” “Florence,” or “Millen,” or perhaps may have been among those who, unable to tell their names when landed, died and were buried as “unknown!” and so added to—
“The brave hearts that never more shall beat,
The eyes that smile no more, the unreturning feet.”
An old gentleman from Ohio could not give his son up: but telling, with tears, his affecting story, would ask help from every one he met to find his boy. All the records were searched in vain for John H. Ritchey, Company C, 122d Ohio Vols.