Fifteen Months in Dixie; Or, My Personal Experience in Rebel Prisons

by William W. Day

Scott.

During the time of our stay at Charleston, the rebel officers had made great efforts to induce the prisoners to take the oath of allegiance to the Confederacy, promising good treatment, good pay, good clothing, a large bounty and service in a bomb proof position in return. If men had stopped to think, these promises carried with them abundant proof of their own falsity. Where was the evidence of good treatment, judging of the future by the past? What did good pay and large bounties amount to when it took two hundred dollars of that good pay and large bounty to buy a pair of boots? And the good clothing, yes they could clothe them with the uniforms stripped from their dead comrades upon the battlefield or stolen from the supplies sent to the prisoners.

But, lured by these specious promises, about a hundred and twenty-five prisoners went out one day and, as we supposed, took the oath. They were marched away cityward in the morning, but before night they returned. We saluted them on their return with groans and hisses and curses. They reported that they were to be sent to James Island to throw up earth-works in front of the rebel lines. This they refused to do, and they were returned to prison.

At Florence another effort was made to recruit men. The rebels wanted foreigners for the army, and artisans of all kinds particularly blacksmiths, shoemakers, carpenters and machinists for their shops. Many of our artisans went out thinking they would get a chance to work for food and clothing by simply giving their parole of honor they would not attempt to escape. But the rebs insisted that they must take the oath of allegiance. A few took the required oath, but most of the boys returned to prison, and most heartily anathematized the men who had the impudence and presumption to suppose that they would be guilty of taking the oath of allegiance to such a rotten, hell-born thing as the Southern Confederacy.

There was a great deal of discussion among the prisoners at the time about the question of the moral right of a man to take the oath of allegiance to save his life. It was argued on one side that our government had left us to rot like dogs, to shift for ourselves and that as winter was coming on and there was no prospect of exchange, a man had a perfect right to take the oath and save his life. On the other side it was argued that we had taken a solemn oath to support the government of the United States and not to give aid or comfort to any of its enemies; that war was hard at best, and that when we took the oath we knew that imprisonment was a probability just as much as a battle was a probability; that we had just as much right to refuse to fight and to turn traitor upon the battle field as we had in prison.

For my own part life was dear to me but it was dear on account of my friends; and supposing I should take the oath and save my life; the war would soon be over and when peace came and all my comrades had returned to their homes, where would my place be? Could I ever return to my friends with the brand of traitor upon me? Never. I would die, if die I must; but die true to the flag I loved and honored, and for which I had suffered so long. Right here we adopted the prisoners’ motto, “Death, but not dishonor.”

Soon after changing my quarters I succeeded in securing a position on the police force. Another of my tent mates was equally fortunate, so we had a little extra food in our tent. My health had been slowly improving ever since I left Andersonville, and with returning health came a growing appetite. We resorted to all sorts of expedients to increase the supplies of our commissariat. Ole Gilbert was a natural mechanic and he made spoons from some of the tin which he had procured near Macon; these were traded for food or sold for cash, and food purchased with the money. One day he traded three spoons for a pocket knife with an ivory faced handle. The ivory had been broken but I fished the remains of an old ivory fine comb out of my pockets and he repaired the handle of the knife with it. We sent it outside by one of the boys who had a job of grave digging, and who sold it for ten dollars, Confederate money. With this money we bought a bushel of sweet potatoes of the sutler at the gate, and then we resolved to fill up once more before we died. We baked each of us two large corn “flap jacks” eight inches across and half an inch thick. We then boiled a six quart pail full of sweet potatoes and after that made the pail full of coffee out of the bran sifted from our meal, and then scorched. This was equal to three quarts of food and drink to each one of us, but it only stopped the chinks.

I then proposed to double the dose which we did, eating and drinking six quarts each within two hours. Of course it did not burst us but it started the hoops pretty badly, and yet we were hungry after that. It seemed impossible to hold enough to satisfy our hunger; every nerve, and fiber and tissue in our whole system from head to foot, was crying out for food, and our stomachs would not hold enough to supply the demand, and it took months of time and untold quantities of food to get our systems back to normal condition.

There are many ex-prisoners who claim that Florence was a worse prison than Andersonville. I did not think so at the time I was there, but those who remained there during the winter no doubt suffered more than they did at Andersonville, on account of the cold weather; but at the best it was a terrible place, worthy to be credited to the hellish designs of Jeff Davis and Winder, aided by the fiend Barrett. At one time Barrett, with some recruiting officers, came into prison accompanied by a little dog. Some of the prisoners, it is supposed, beguiled the dog away and killed him; for this act Barrett deprived the whole of the prisoners of their rations for two days and a half.

About the 4th of December some surgeons came in and selected a thousand men from the worst cases which were not in the hospital. It was said they were to be sent through our lines on parole. Then commenced an earnest discussion upon the situation. My comrades and I thought we were getting too strong to pass muster. How we wished we had not improved so much since leaving Andersonville. We were getting so fat we would actually make a shadow, that is if we kept our clothes buttoned up. After considering the question pro and con we came to the conclusion that we had better not build up any hopes at present. If we were so lucky as to get away, all right. If not we would have no shattered hopes to mourn over.