In Defense of the Flag: A true war story / A pen picture of scenes and incidents during the great rebellion.--Thrilling experiences during escape from southern prisons, etc.

by David W. Stafford

Now I will, by the help of the all-wise God, proceed to relate another sad picture of my life and the story of my capture and confinement in southern hells, called stockade prisons. Now, as I should have given the date of my enlistment, also of my capture, I will say that I entered the army on the 28th day of August, 1862, in Company D, Eighty-Third Regiment, commanded by S. Strong Vincon, of Erie county, Pennsylvania, and our company commander was Captain O. S. Woodard, of Waterford, Erie county, Pennsylvania. At the battle of the Weldon Railroad, while on outside picket, I was taken prisoner, with many others, and carried to Macon state prison and was confined in this prison about two weeks. This was the first prison in which I was ever confined. This prison is just ten miles from Andersonville. Now for about two days before we got to this place, we had about one day’s rations of corn meal issued to us, with about four ounces of bacon, and this bacon was nearly rotten. I felt that I must let my friends know where I was confined, for my poor mother, after the death of my brother, had mourned his loss so much that she nearly died. What I wished to do was to get a letter to my captain. I knew that this would soon be sent home and would let my folks know where I was. I observed in this prison a man who had formerly been a Union man and whom the rebels had drafted into the southern service. He wrote a very few lines for me, and while he wrote he told me that he had been pressed into the rebel army, but just as soon as an opportunity presented itself he deserted and had been court-marshaled and was sentenced to be shot the next day at ten o’clock. Yet he wrote a very fine letter and told me that he had friends that he expected would help him out. We were at this time in the outside yard to the prison. Some sixteen feet of wall surrounded us, the top of which was covered with glass. Now when we all fell in line it seems there was a box close to a large flight of stairs that led up to the second floor. This man said to me that his cell mate, if I remember right, was to shove this box, which had an open end, up to the wall as he passed close by after he had been placed in behind. The cell mate was to answer to the call of both names. This was very successfully performed and the next morning when the prisoners were let into the yard the fact revealed itself, that the condemned man had disappeared. This man was a Northern man who had a good lot of property in Georgia, and had not left as soon as he should have done. Like many others, his property was confiscated, and I don’t know whether he got away or not. My prayers were that he did and I hoped and prayed that God might lead me in all that I might do in order that I might continue to write and work for others. I now realize that this life is closing very rapidly.

While we were confined in this prison our fare was about twelve ounces of corn bread for a day’s ration and about four ounces of bacon. We were kept here about three weeks and then sent to Andersonville prison. Now when we arrived here we were soon visited by Captain Wirz, the commander of this prison. We were left in the hot Georgia sun for some time before we were taken inside. This Captain Wirz was a very cruel man, for he would take the life of a helpless prisoner upon the slightest provocation. We did some complaining because we were not taken inside the stockade, and soon Wirz found that we were dissatisfied about being obliged to remain in the hot sun. At the time of our capture we had been stripped of all our clothing, except shirt and drawers; no shoes, not even a cap to our heads. When we were taken prisoners we were captured by Colonel Masfies’ guerrillas, and it was known that these men did not spare many prisoners’ lives. Now, as I was saying, we were lying in the hot southern sun, wondering why they did not take us inside. Captain Wirz came along and with much cursing told us that we would get in there soon enough. We soon found out that in this he was telling the truth, if he never had before, for I say he was a very bad man. It was well known that he was the cause of thousands starving to death at Andersonville through his orders. Now I must say that we soon realized what a place it was in which we had to stay. It was the saddest and the most sickly place that I or any human being could conceive. Here we met with the most ghastly sights that eyes could ever behold, for there were fathers, sons and kindred, of both North and South confined in this prison hell, starving to death, with no eye, as it seemed, to pity, and in tattered rags, and hundreds without a rag to cover their backs, and men found walking in the sluggish stream that ran through this stockade from the north to the south side, waiting for the water to get clear, which never did. I often think of these starving souls, and how it is that there were not more lunatics than there were. Right here I want to speak of the great spring that broke out on the northeast side of the prison, near the north gate, and all in answer to prayers to God. Oh, how often I now think of the wonderful prayer meetings, and oh, with what power did the real saints of God prevail through Christ, the Lord Jesus. I do thank God in later years that I have learned to trust fully in Him. Now think of poor suffering humanity living on less than one pint of field peas for a day’s rations for nearly thirteen months! Such was the suffering of many in this prison, and how often I have thought how little one man’s experience was, considering the vast suffering in this place. Oh, this is a sad thing to contemplate, but in my old age and the crippled condition of my body, and mental and bodily suffering, I have been led to write up for the last time, a true story of my life and suffering.

There has not been a moment of time the last four years, coming April 28th, that I haven’t suffered almost untold agony from a severe fall from a basement barn, which unjointed and broke my left hip and caused other internal injuries, from which I can never recover.

Now there were many things that happened in Andersonville that have never gone down in history, simply because there were many things that were not generally known. There is the story of the hanging of the six men, and such things that are known by almost every man who was not there at the time, but now comes three men for their rations of the rebel sergeant, two brothers and a father. Well, very soon the poor old man gets sick and becomes so bad that he cannot rise from the cold, damp ground. Soon the scurvy takes hold of him, with many other bodily ailments. His sons are then called on to get his rations. The rebel sergeant thinks it is some Yankee trick. He was the rebel police who was always on hand at the time of issuing Yankee rations. We used to remark that they were so very delicious you could smell them at least ten rods. You knew they were coming if you were on the windward side, because they were cooked up some two or three days ahead of dealing out and of course they would ferment and get sour. Now these were steamed in very large lots, in two bushel sacks, and emptied into a large army cart drawn by a three mule team. As I was saying, here goes the two sons for their own and their father’s rations. You would think it very cruel if you had been in their place and had just got less than one pint, and then have those rebel guards beset you as they did those poor boys and almost kill you for asking for a small bit of stuff that you would not be guilty of giving to your dog, for surely he would not eat it unless he were nearly starving. Then to see the rebel guards without any earthly excuse shoot men clear across the prison merely for pastime to let the southern ladies see how good and correct they shoot, killing poor praying men. These are sad pictures, but they are nevertheless true. And to think of men catching a small dog belonging to Wirz while he with Jeff Davis were inspecting the prison, and skinning and eating it, and to punish them would make them go three days without rations. I have seen men fight for a chance to carry out dead men to get a little fresh air. Now I feel that I should not linger much longer with these sad scenes, but hasten to the story of my final escape from the rebel prison.

Now along late in the fall came a report that Sherman was on his way; that is, General Sherman, to release all of the prisoners of Andersonville prison and at Macon. The rebels had sent papers to the prison, stating that they were going to take us to the nearest point of exchange. This they did so that we would not try to escape, while being removed to other quarters. Soon after this, in a very few days, there came a rush of cars, and they put us aboard of these trains, composed of box cars, and we were crowded into bacon and cattle cars. As many as seventy-five or eighty of these poor starving men were put into one of these box cars and sent to different quarters of the South. Now at this time General Sherman was near Macon, about ten miles away—when they sent the last train load of us away from Andersonville, and all the way we plainly saw the devastation of burned and destroyed railroads and stations. It seemed that the extent of the destruction was for over forty miles, and here our progress was very slow and tedious. The train moved very slowly over all of this new road, and while passing along through this country the rebels would stop the train once in a while, to our great relief, and open the car doors to let the people see the Yankees, who were quite a sight for those Southern people. They would stand and gaze at us with great curiosity, and I have no doubt it was a great sight for them, for there were men in all conceivable shapes, without a rag to cover their backs. Many of them were the hardest looking sights, I do believe, that my eyes ever beheld, and at one of those small stations there was quite a large gathering of people and a large company of young boys, who had just been conscripted into the rebel service. Here they all stood to see the great train load of Yankee prisoners.

Right here something occurred that I can’t forget very soon. The large car doors had been shoved back and here stood the gazing and gaping crowd looking us over and asking all sorts of questions, and many of them were eating melons and apples, and they would throw the peelings and cores in to us. There was one saucy appearing rough who threw a cud of tobacco in the face of a tall looking veteran. He was close to the car door and it went in his eyes. He could not take this insult, and he jumped from the train to resist it and trampled this young rebel nearly to death, but he understood that he would be paid for his rash act with his life, for there were many rebels on each car with loaded guns. Just as soon as any of the prisoners attempted to leave the trains they were shot down without mercy. Oh, how many there were who tried to escape from the train and were shot down by the rebels guarding the train! We were carried from Andersonville to Charleston City, and here they ran us under the fire of our own guns and there were some severe shots fired at the train load of prisoners. There were quite a few shots that hit some of the cars, but soon the firing ceased. I think that it was soon learned that it was not an enemy reinforcement. Here they kept us in some large tobacco houses when it was learned that during the two or three days we had been in the box cars, so many in each car, and so close that there was not sitting room for them all. As I said before, there were seventy-five or eighty in one car. Some one had sawed a hole in the bottom of the car that we were placed in, which let us have more air than we would otherwise have had. It was a sad sight to see from eight to ten poor fellows taken out of each car half suffocated.

After our journey up to the unloading here at Charleston City it was wonderful to see the devastated condition of this place. There were many buildings that were falling from the solid shot that was being thrown into them from our bombarding army.

The next day we were all placed on board of the cars once more and started in the direction of Florence, South Carolina, one hundred miles from this city. Here we were once more unloaded and placed in a ten acre lot, for the stockade was not completed, which was thought would have been completed in about two weeks. Here again we found that our looked for exchange was still another bull pen, or a Southern prison hell and worse. There were all of the same Andersonville bloodhounds and Captain Wirz, the old commander, here to give us chase as soon as any of us should try to escape. We had been here, surrounded by two lines of guards and a line of pickets, for about five days, when the rebels let out a large company between the guard lines, and they broke through the next line and got away, three or four hundred, and many got as far as the Peedee River, some thirty-four miles away. Nearly all were caught and chewed up by the hounds and shot so that there were not more than one-fourth of them ever brought back alive.

Henry Ledierer, an old comrade and bugler of the eighty-third regiment, and of company C, of this regiment, the same one that I belonged to, and who was with me while in Andersonville prison, was with me here at this Florence prison. He was one to get away from here and was one to get as far as the big Peedee River, some thirty-four miles from the prison, and if I remember right was caught and brought back some three days later. He was caught by a southern planter, who had been warned by the rebels of the break that had been made by the prisoners. Henry had brought back some eight or ten pounds of corn hoecake and he and myself concluded that if we could get a chance we would get away just as soon as we could. The day soon came, for it commenced to rain the next day after Henry got back, and when night came we made ready and crawled out through the first guard line, and then we laid in wait for a Northern squad of about a hundred and fifty men who were let out through the first line for water near the bull pen which they had not completed yet, and when these men got outside of the first line of guards, there lay just outside of the next line a lot of the sick on the ground with nothing but the canopy of heaven to cover or shelter them from the storm. We finally fell in with this working squad and passed out through the second line here. Just as soon as we came to where the sick lay it was understood that we would fall out among the sick without being seen by the enemy, and we were successful in doing this. And now came the picket line and if it had not been for their reckless picket fire we never would have succeeded in our escape. We finally got through their picket line and traveled all night until morning began to dawn, when we had to find some place to conceal ourselves. But it had been a bad night for us.

We had got out of the prison, but to tell in what direction to go was the next thing to consider. Well, we were guided by the railroad station lights until we got out of sight of the stations, then as we had nothing to guide us we had to do the best we could. It still continued to rain until we had traveled all night, when we found ourselves in sight of the very prison that we had left early in the evening. This was a surprise, for we had traveled nearly eight hours, and to find ourselves within three miles of the very prison that we were trying to get away from. Surely it made us feel sad enough.