Preface

During the past forty years I have read a number of stories of Andersonville Prison and of Major Wirz, who had subordinate charge of the prisoners there. Nearly all these histories were written by comrades who were confined there as prisoners of war. I do not propose in this work to question the accuracy of their portrayal of the great suffering, privations, and of the mortality of prisoners of war in Andersonville, for these are matters of fact that any one who was confined there can readily corroborate and can never forget. But it has been painful to me since the day I marched from that dismal prison pen, September 20, 1864, to the present time, that my comrades who suffered there and who have written their experiences are to a man wild in their charges that Major Wirz was responsible and that he was the sole cause of the suffering and mortality endured at Andersonville.

I have finally concluded to write something of my experiences in Southern prisons during the Civil War, not in a spirit of controversy, but in the interest of truth and fair play.

I was a prisoner in different places in the South from September 21, 1863, till November 21, 1864, seven months of which I was at Andersonville.

The story of Andersonville has been already too often written for the mutual welfare of North and South, for the story as written has tended to increase the friction between the two great sections of our country. This is to be deplored, since every lover of his country desires, to the extent of his power, to allay all sectional bitterness.

The main purpose of the writer of this book is to reduce the friction between the two sections opposed to each other in the Civil War, and especially that caused by the exaggerated and often unjust reports of Major Wirz's cruelty and inhumanity to the Union prisoners, reports throughout the North at least, which have been represented to be gratuitous and wilful.

I am writing, not for the purpose of contradicting any comrade who has written before me, but to take a like liberty and to tell the story again from the standpoint of my own personal experience.

Taps will soon sound for us all who passed through those experiences, and I am sure that I shall feel better satisfied, as I pass down to the valley of death, if I say what I can truthfully say in defense of the man who befriended me when I was in the greatest extremity, and when there was no other recourse.

At the close of the war the feeling was so intense in the North on account of the suffering and mortality among the prisoners of war at Andersonville that something had to be done to satisfy the popular demand for the punishment of those supposed to be responsible for that suffering and the loss of life among the prisoners, and Major Wirz was doomed, before he was tried, as the party responsible for these results.

In my prison life of seven months at Andersonville I became well acquainted with Major Wirz, or Captain Wirz, as he then ranked, and as he will hereafter be designated.

The knowledge I gained of his character during this personal acquaintance leads me to disagree with the conclusions reached by other writers as to the true character of this unfortunate man. During all these years it has been a matter of surprise to me that writers like Richardson, Spencer, Urban, and others failed to take into consideration the fact that Captain Wirz was but a subordinate under Gen. John H. Winder, who was the prison commander. Captain Wirz had charge only of the interior of the stockade, and in every way-he was subject to the orders of his superior officer

Nearly all these writers were soldiers, and should have known that obedience to superiors was imperative, and hence if there were fault or error in orders or in their execution it was to be charged against the superior and not the subordinate.

In this work I shall take the stand not only that Captain Wirz was unjustly held responsible for the hardship and mortality of Andersonville, but that the Federal authorities must share the blame for these things with the Confederate, since they well knew the inability of the Confederates to meet the reasonable wants of their prisoners of war, as they lacked a supply of their own needs, and since the Federal authorities failed to exercise a humane policy in the exchange of those captured in battle. 

The reader may expect in this account only the plain, unvarnished tale of a soldier. The writer, "with malice toward none and charity for all," denies conscious prejudice, and makes the sincere endeavor to put himself in the other fellow's place and make such a statement of the matter in hand as will satisfy all lovers of truth and justice.

A Sprint and a Capture

Our regiment moved from Fairfax Court House on June 25, 1863, and when Hooker's army began its movement to intercept Lee, Stahl's division of cavalry was made a part of the Army of the Potomac at Edward's Ferry.

Kilpatrick succeeded Stahl in the command of the cavalry division and Col. Geo. A. Custer was promoted to the rank of brigadier-general from the rank of captain on Pleasanton's staff, and took Copeland's place in command of the Michigan Brigade, consisting of the First, Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Michigan Cavalry regiments. General Custer was first seen by us at the battle of Hanover, Pennsylvania, June 30, 1863, which was the first time that the Sixth, our regiment, was under fire, except on the skirmish line at long range. At the battle of Gettysburg General Custer ordered Captain Thompson, of my company, to charge Gen. Wade Hampton's cavalry in a narrow lane on the eve of July 2, the second day of the fight.

A most desperate hand-to-hand conflict ensued. We went into this charge 77 men, rank and file, and next morning my company could rally but 26. In less than one-half hour we lost in killed, wounded, and captured, 51 men. Captain Thompson was wounded, and S. H. Ballard, our second lieutenant, whose horse was shot under him, was captured, and remained a prisoner to the close of the war. I received a slight saber cut on the head, but, strange as it may seem, I knew nothing about it until the next morning, when on being awakened from a few hours' sleep I felt a peculiar smarting sensation on my head and found my hair matted with blood. A thorough washing revealed a slight cut on the top of my head, a wound about two inches long and only deep enough to draw blood. During "piping times of peace" at home it would have been considered quite a wound and I would have had the neighbors taking turns to look at it; but on the field of Gettysburg I would be laughed at for my pains if I showed it to any one, and I don't remember of any one knowing anything about it but myself. However, under the burning sun of that 3d of July it bothered me considerably, but I did not report it to the surgeons. We were too busy fighting the "Johnnies."

On July 4, at 10 a. m., our division being in advance, we marched from the sanguinary field of Gettysburg to intercept the enemy, who was retreating along the South Mountain road toward Williamsport. We marched by way of Emmettsburg up the road to Monterey, a small place as it appeared at night on the top of South Mountain range. On the 5th of July we had some skirmishing with the enemy's cavalry, and encamped that night at Boonsboro, Maryland.

On the 8th our regiment had an engagement with the enemy's cavalry on the Hagerstown road near Boonsboro, and three of our company were wounded. We were also engaged July 11, 12, 14, 20 and 24.

On July 14 our regiment was sharply engaged at the battle of Falling Waters, and had a number killed and wounded. Among the killed of the Sixth Michigan Cavalry were Capt. David G. Boyce and Maj. Peter A. Webber. I may be pardoned, perhaps, in quoting what was said about our brigade at this battle, and particularly of the Sixth Michigan Cavalry, of which I was a member. The New York Herald contained the following:

"Hearing that a force had marched toward Falling Waters, General Kilpatrick ordered an advance to that place. Through some mistake, only one brigade, that of General Custer, obeyed the order. When within less than a mile of Falling Water the enemy was found in great numbers and strongly entrenched behind a dozen crescent-shaped earthworks. The Sixth Michigan Cavalry was in advance. They did not wait for orders, but one squadron, Companies C and D, under Captain Boyce (who was killed), with Companies B and F, led by Major Webber (who was killed), made the charge, capturing the works and defenders. It was a fearful struggle, the rebels fighting like demons. Of the no men engaged on our side, but 30 escaped uninjured. This is cavalry fighting, the superior of which the world never saw."

On this campaign our regiment had a strenuous time of it. For seventeen days and nights we did not unsaddle our horses except to readjust the saddle-blankets.

The next trouble we had was when we crossed the Potomac into Virginia in the rear of Lee's army and encountered Stuart's cavalry at Snicker's Gap, on July 19. The charge was simultaneous and I came near "passing in my checks," for I was knocked from my horse in the charge and was run over by half our regiment. I was stunned and badly bruised, but not cut. When I came to I was glad to find that my sore head was still on my shoulders. I was soon mounted, and our regiment went into camp.

We remained there next day awaiting rations, and, while riding from the quartermaster's tent to my company, I crossed a field that was overgrown with weeds and briers and ran against a gray granite slab. I dismounted, and pulling the briers aside, I saw that it was a gravestone. The inscription stated the man's name and age, which I have forgotten; the date of his death at an advanced age, in 1786, and concluded with this quaint inscription:

"Man, as you are passing by, 
As you are now, so once was I; 
As I am now, so you must be; 
Turn to God and follow me."

This affected me deeply. The thought occurred to me that when in life (for he died but three years after the Revolution) how little he expected that the time would come when his beautiful domain and his bright sunny Southland would be devastated and laid waste by an invading army of his own countrymen!

From June 30 to September 21, 1863, our regiment participated in seventeen skirmishes and battles. On September 14, at Culpeper Court House, General Custer was wounded and the command of the brigade devolved upon Colonel Sawyer of the First Vermont Cavalry, which was brigaded with us at the time.

On taking command Sawyer seemed to think that the war had been going on long enough, and he decided to end it at once. Like Pope, his headquarters were in the saddle. "Up and at them" was his motto. He wasn't, as yet, even a brigadier by brevet, but visions of the lone star on his shoulders, I presume, took possession of him. "Dismount and fight on foot!" was the ringing order from the Colonel on September 21, at Liberty Mills, on the Rapidan, and, as had been my habit, I snapped my horse to a set of fours of led horses, and borrowing the gun and cartridge-box of the soldier in charge of the horses, I joined my company commanded by Capt. M. D. Birge. We crossed the bridge and deployed in a cornfield on the left of the road. I was on the extreme left, and paid very little attention to the regular line, as I was an independent skirmisher; but as soon as I found that more than twenty of us were separated from the line by drifting into an open ravine for better protection, I was a trifle tamer than when I started out a half hour previous. On the right the corn was cut and stood in shocks, and while the line advanced up the ravine I ascended the ridge, keeping under cover as well as I could behind the corn shocks. When I reached the top of the elevation I was completely staggered to see several hundred mounted Confederates advancing toward us, platoon front, as if on parade. There was no time to lose, for the lead was crashing through the shock that I was behind, at a fearful rate, and how I escaped with only a rip in my blouse near my left elbow is more than I shall ever know. I had possibly three hundred yards to run to reach the boys, now under command of Lieutenant Hoyt. I safely got where they were without being hit, but the time I made in doing so would have been creditable to the fleetest jack- rabbit.

I reported the danger we were in. All this time a mounted staff-officer a few hundred yards back of us was shouting himself hoarse, "Advance, men, advance!" "I cannot fall back when ordered to advance," said Hoyt. "Lieutenant, if you do not we are lost," was my reply. The soldier will at once realize the embarrassment of my position in advising a retreat. It savors so much of the "white feather." It is always well enough for the inferior to advise a forward movement, even though the superior ignores the advice, but it is a ticklish thing to advise retreat — even the word "retreat" is dangerous. I knew the danger, because I saw it. The ground was undulating, and neither Lieutenant Hoyt nor the frantic staff-officer could see the advancing body of Confederates. "We will be surrounded and scooped up in less than five minutes," said I. "I cannot help it," replied Hoyt, "I must obey orders. Forward!"

We advanced perhaps a dozen rods, when the enemy was upon us. A Minie ball struck Hoyt in the shoulder and he was down. The charge followed. We received no more bellowing orders from the elegantly attired staff-officer. He at once adopted Falstaff's advice about "discretion being the better part of valor," and the skirts of his beautiful dress-coat would have made tails for a kite. The speed with which he reached a safe rear was of the fleetest. I can imagine his report to Colonel Sawyer, commanding brigade. It ran something like this: "They were captured because they did not obey my orders. I remained as long as possible, but was obliged to fall back."

I tried to get Hoyt away, but he was so badly hurt that he begged to be left on the field. I then gave orders to our men to fall back as quickly as possible to the river. We all started on the run down the ravine. I certainly out-ran them, for I was the only one that reached the stream. I was pretty fleet of foot myself in those days. The Confederates were busy picking up our boys, and I think for a moment they lost sight of me. I crossed the river and hid in the tall grass, and from where I lay I could see our boys being marched up the hill through the cornfield under guard.

While I do not know it for certain, yet I am, and always have been, satisfied that at about the time Lieutenant Hoyt was hit the Confederate officer in command gave the order to cease firing. Our miserable little handful of men was as good as captured at any time after the Confederate advance had reached the brow of the hill, and here is a marked refutation of the oft-repeated "needless rebel cruelty." We were engaged in an open fight, and they could have wiped us off the face of the earth at any time after getting over the hill, for they were upon us. I was repeatedly ordered to halt after getting 300 or 400 feet start, and could easily have been shot down before I reached the river; but I didn't have time to halt or to obey orders. According to all the rules of war they were perfectly justified in killing me when I failed to stop.

This magnanimous trait is particularly conspicuous in the Southern soldier. He will fight, day or night, against superior odds, but on the other hand, when the advantage is greatly in his favor, he views the situation in altogether a different light. It seems as if the spirit of magnanimity overcomes him.

It always was, always has been, and always will be a matter of profound wonderment why Beauregard and Johnston did not march upon Washington during the night of July 21-22, 1861. All that they had to do was to reach out and take the city.

But the Southerners did not have a monopoly altogether in chivalrous conduct toward the defeated. When Pickett made that awful charge on the Union lines at Gettysburg, and when his brave men were being mown down, falling, wavering, and about to fall back, knowing that they had failed, a young beardless Confederate color-bearer, in advance of the line, looking to the right and left and seeing his comrades reeling, dropping, and wavering, deliberately raised the colors high in the air and jabbed the staff into the ground. He stepped back a pace or two, straightened himself like an adjutant on parade, and seemed to say, "I think that I might as well die here," and folded his arms. The smoke cleared away. Firing had not ceased however. "Don't kill that boy! Don't fire at that boy!" yelled Col. P. P. Brown, of the One Hundred and Fifty-seventh New York Regiment.

The young hero was not 150 feet from the Union line. His look of despair gave place to a smile. He put his hand to his cap in salute and the Union men cheered. Taking the colors he turned about and slowly followed his brave comrades. Not a solitary one of Pickett's heroes was behind him except the dead and dying.

It is recorded as an act of extraordinary bravery, that when Napoleon was making his disastrous retreat from Moscow, one day, when closely beset, Marshal Ney, who commanded the rear, ordered a captain to remain with his company and to protect the rear of the rear-guard. "How long will I remain?" inquired the captain, realizing the utter hopelessness of the position. "Until you are killed!" was the answer. "Very well, sir." The captain never was heard of after. He was not a whit braver than the young Confederate color-sergeant.

Well, there I lay, concealed in the grass, congratulating myself upon my lucky escape and wondering how it happened. Although slighted by Mars, the god of war, I had been greatly favored by Mercury, the speedy one. It looked as if he had a wing over me.

I fully expected our cavalry to advance in force, and I thought that if I could manage to conceal myself for a little while I would soon be among my friends. But in this I was doomed to disappointment, for instead of the main body of our force putting in an appearance, a troop of Confederate cavalry crossed the river to bait their horses about where I lay, and to prepare their supper. A horse shied and snorted, and I was discovered and made a prisoner by a squad of the Fifth Virginia Cavalry.

"Why didn't you keep a-runnin'?" laughingly inquired a corporal in gray. He had seen me while I was sprinting riverward.

I had parched corn for supper. It was the best that my captors had, there was that consolation in it. While the rations were meager, our captors fared no better. I was kept under guard and treated with the utmost consideration. With the exception of that pleasant laughing "Why didn't you keep a-runnin'?" I didn't hear an insulting remark from those men.

Next morning I received an extra ear of parched corn, and was taken to the headquarters of Gen. A. P. Hill, guarded by four men in gray. The General asked me a number of questions, and his manner was so mild and genial that I began to think that it wasn't such a dreadful thing to be a prisoner.

I was then turned over to the provost marshal, and I learned that Colonel Sawyer had, in sending twenty-four of us in advance, actually attacked Gen. A. P. Hill's corps of 10,000 men. The great Southern general was very much amused over the incident, but for my humble part I could absolutely see nothing funny about it. I didn't enjoy it a particle.

I found myself in a camp of sixty-five or seventy men under a strong guard. They were nearly all Confederate soldiers under arrest for desertion, and were waiting for their turn to be court-martialed. From twelve to fifteen were tried each week, and those found guilty were shot on Saturdays. There were nine poor fellows who had been tried and found guilty. These men were confined in an adjacent camp. I do not think there was a time from Tuesday, the day I reached there, until Saturday, when I was sent to Richmond, that some of them were not praying and singing, in view of their fate.

I looked about me, and am ashamed now to confess that it was then with a feeling of regret that I could not discover the doughty staff-officer among us. He took care to make good his escape.

One afternoon a young fellow of about twenty-one years of age was brought back to the camp under guard after being sentenced to death. That same evening he sang "The Bonnie Blue Flag." His tenor voice was pitched at a high key and I never heard a sweeter voice, nor, I might add, a sadder one. Next day he was shot by his own comrades-in-arms. I am naturally sympathetic, and the sentence and death of this young fellow affected me greatly. Afterward I saw men by the hundreds dying about me at Belle Isle and Andersonville, affecting and harrowing sights; but as there was no help for it, and as I had perhaps become accustomed to misery, it didn't touch me so keenly. But there was such an air of abandonment and recklessness about the young fellow, and I don't believe that from the time he was sentenced until he faced death he thought of uttering a prayer. I can never forget his last words to us, "Good-by, fellows; I am bound for the happy land of Jordan," and he turned toward us and smiled.

I did not learn what induced him to desert, but it certainly was not cowardice. It was said he was caught making his way to the Union lines.

Our camp, under guard, was situated in a beautiful grove of chestnut timber, and the first night I slept soundly, having had little rest for several preceding nights. Notwithstanding my weariness, I was awakened during the night by some one pushing me as if trying to turn me over. I sat up, and found one of the soldiers wearing the Federal uniform sitting close beside me. I had taken note of him the previous evening. "Am I in your way?" I inquired. "Oh, no," was the answer, "you are not in my way," and I laid down and fell asleep again. When I awoke in the morning I found that the pockets of my blouse and trousers were cut across and the contents, consisting of $20 in money, my watch, pocketknife, sundry papers, tobacco, and pipe were gone. I knew at once that it was the young fellow in blue that robbed me.

There were a number of North Carolina boys in camp, very decent fellows, who were very indignant upon seeing my clothing so badly cut. The corporal of the guard asked me whom I suspected, and I told him. He brought the fellow to me, and when I accused him of the theft he denied it with a great show of indignation, and made all manner of threats of what he would do to me if I did not at once withdraw the charge. I realized that I was—to borrow an expression of to-day—"up against it," and I was about to drop the matter, when I caught a very broad wink from the corporal who was standing behind the fellow, and I saw that I had a friend "at court." "You have every reason to believe," said the corporal, "that this man stole your property?" "Yes, sir," I replied.

About this time the officer of the day appeared on the scene. The corporal spoke to him in an undertone, whereupon the officer had the young fellow searched, but nothing was found on him. "I'll give you twenty minutes," said the officer, "to get those articles and restore them to the prisoner." Then, instead of further denial, he became sullen and refused to move. The officer had his men "buck and gag him," and he was left in that condition for at least two hours. The officer returned and released him, and again ordered him to restore to me my property. "I'd see him and you in hell first!" was the reply. The officer ordered his men to get a rope and the sergeant secured one. "I'll give you five minutes to get the articles," was the order. But the fellow neither moved nor uttered a word. "Sergeant, have a couple of your men string him up," was the next command. They put the rope around his neck and threw the end of it around an overhanging limb. "Haul away!" and he went up six or seven feet. "Lower away!" and he came down and landed on his feet gasping. "Now will you get the property?" said the officer, but he received no reply. I interposed, and begged that the matter be dropped, saying that my loss was nothing compared to taking the fellow's life. The officer said he didn't know about that, that unless he was very much mistaken his life was hardly worth saving. "Pull away!" he ordered, and up went the culprit once more. The young fellow must have been suspended, dangling, eight or ten seconds before the lieutenant ordered the men to lower him. I became frightened, thinking that the lieutenant was really in earnest. He struck the ground as limp as a sack, and when he recovered his speech he said that he would get the articles, and, staggering away, he soon returned with them. He had dug a hole in the ground under where he slept, and after burying the articles had covered the place over with leaves. I thanked the officer for the interest he had taken in the matter.

I relate the incident here to show how fair and honest these men were. I have read much about our prisoners being robbed of money, watches, jewelry, and clothing upon entering Libby, Belle Isle, Andersonville, Salisbury, and other prisons in the South, but as far as I personally was concerned, I can truthfully testify that neither at Libby, Belle Isle, Andersonville, nor Millen, where I was confined, were any articles taken from me. I had $20 when I entered Libby and Belle Isle, and $30 or $40 of Confederate money when I entered Andersonville, and not one penny was taken from me. The Confederate officers and men at Libby and Belle Isle also knew that I had a watch with me, for I made no secret of it. They did not demand it of me, though it was a valuable timepiece.

PART I.
Andersonville: The Prisoners and Their Keeper

W. J. W. KERR, M. D.

A Prisoner at Belle Isle

On the 25th day of September I was sent to Richmond, arriving there at night, and was soon in Libby Prison among my comrades of the skirmish line who had preceded me a few days. I now learned that Lieutenant Hoyt, after being kindly treated by his captors, had been paroled on account of his wounds and sent to Washington.

We were at Libby prison only three days, when we were sent under guard to Belle Isle.

The first prisoners sent to Belle Isle had been supplied with tents, but these were all occupied, and we were compelled to camp on the ground without shelter of any kind and without fire. The evenings, particularly, were cold and we were thinly clad. Some writers have steadfastly asserted that the Confederate authorities never furnished tents or any kind of shelter at Belle Isle. This is a mistake.

When we reached the island there were about 5,000 prisoners, of whom only one-fourth were without shelter. As we entered the camp the other prisoners crowded about us with the usual questions, "What regiment? When were you captured? What news have you? What is the prospect of exchange?"

"Exchange" was the sole topic. It was on every one's lips. It was discussed by the suffering men, to whom "exchange" meant all that they asked for in this world. It meant life, home, mother, wife, sweetheart, friends — everything.

I found a number of my regiment here, and they had been prisoners a long time. They informed me almost immediately that it was understood that they were to be exchanged in "a day or two."

It has been often laid up against the Southern officers and men guarding us as a grievous fault that they continually held out "false hope" of exchange, well knowing that they absolutely had no grounds for the statements, and that they would say that we were about to be exchanged when there was not the least expectation of it. I thought then and I think still that these were meritorious "white lies," similar to the profanity of my Uncle Toby in "Tristram Shandy," where the Recording Angel, after recording the oath, blotted it out with tears.

The hope of exchange, though deferred, often prolonged and saved the life of many a prisoner of war, both North and South. It was a well-known fact among prisoners, whether at Ander-sonville or Belle Isle, Rock Island or Elmira, that if once an inmate became discouraged and lost hope he was doomed. Nothing could save him.

"Yank, you are looking pretty pert this morning," a rebel officer or soldier would say, "so you mustn't get discouraged. Brace up; never say die. You will be exchanged in a few days. I have it straight from headquarters."

Looking back more than forty years and diagnosing those "rebel lies," I can find no better reason for them than kindness of heart. Others can form any opinion they please, but these are my conclusions.

The first day I was at Belle Isle a rebel guard gave me a sheet of paper and an envelope, and I wrote to Captain Birge of my company and sent it out by comrade Crawford of Company F of my regiment, who was listed for exchange. This letter was received and forwarded to my sister, Mrs. Henry Utley, now of this State. She has preserved this letter with others that I wrote while a prisoner and recently she loaned them to me. I have them before me now.

The letter that I particularly refer to is, in part, as follows: