Prison life at Fort McHenry.
By Rev. Dr. T. D. Witherspoon, late Chaplain of the Forty-Second Mississippi Regiment.
Paper no. 3--conclusion.
To one other of our prison diversions I must briefly introduce you. I refer to the regimental courts-martial held as occasion required. One of these will give an idea of the whole. Among the petty annoyances to which we were subjected — for which, however, we could not blame our captors — was the custom on the part of some of the younger and less scrupulous portion of our number to circulate unfounded rumors of our prospective release, or “grape-vine telegrams,” as they were called. The graver and more credulous part of the body would accept them all as true, would each roll up carefully his blanket, fasten his tin cup and wooden fork to his haversack and swing them about his neck, and take his seat near the door, meekly and patiently but in vain waiting for the order to “fall in for exchange.” This practice became so great a nuisance that our Colonel issued an order at length, at one of our evening dress-parades, that the next member of his command who was guilty of circulating a false rumor of exchange should be subjected to court-martial.Now in the number of our chaplains was an old minister of the Baptist Church, a most estimable gentleman, and one who contributed in many ways to our enjoyment. He was withal of a mechanical turn of mind, and as our soup-coffee and coffee-soup were usually lukewarm before they reached us, he resolved to construct an apparatus for warming them. The earth had been cut away at one end of the barracks, leaving a steep embankment just outside. In this he constructed a flue of such a kind that a range of cups could be placed on it, and the shavings made by the prisoners in whittling rendered available for heating purposes. The work was somewhat difficult with the tools he had. When completed and the fuel applied, it proved to be like the Irishman's chimney, which, he said, “drew finely if it was only bottom end up.” He was greatly perplexed at its perversity, and when some one inquired of him as he was half stifled with the smoke, when his cooking range would be ready, he replied that he expected we “would all be exchanged and get home before that thing would begin to draw.” In a few minutes the “thing” was drawing [164] finely; and this, coupled with the previous remark, was made a subject of complaint to the Colonel, who ordered a court-martial. The trial was held, contrary to military usage, in the presence of a vast assemblage. The prisoner was ably defended. The counsel first resolved to attempt the proof of an alibi, by showing that the prisoner was sick that day and could not have been present at the time and place specified; but the prosecution thwarted this by introducing a witness who testified that he had seen him on that very day with an immense wooden harpoon fishing in the great cauldron of soup for a piece of “salt horse” that had been left there, the judge-advocate pleading overwhelmingly that no man whose digestion was impaired by sickness could have borne the sight and smell of the nauseous mess. As quite a number of the officers and soldiers of the fort were present, the effect of the vivid description of our prison fare by the judge-advocate may be well conceived.
The counsel for the defence at length agreed to risk the prisoner's fate upon a plea of insanity. And a strong case they succeeded in making. They pointed to the strange under-ground tunnel as a clear evidence of mental aberration. They reviewed his whole course since he had been in the fort; they attributed his insanity to the hard life and unwholesome fare, which they denounced in unmeasured terms. But the court found a verdict of guilty. He was sentenced to be reprimanded publicly on dress-parade, and to be fed until further orders on “hard tack” and “salt horse” --our common prison fare. That evening at dress-parade; the public reprimand was duly administered. Chaplain C. was called out in front of the command and listened meekly with uncovered head whilst the Colonel (a young Assistant Surgeon, somewhat given to wildness) delivered a homily to him on the impropriety of his conduct, so unbecoming to him and so dishonoring to the command.
Thus the days and weeks rolled away in the midst of high-hearted resolve not to give way to despondency, and of constant and yet ever-varying expedients to rally the spirits of those who were becoming depressed. No one who has not experienced it knows anything of the depressing influence of continued imprisonment, with the mind shut off from its ordinary lines of thought, and the heart from its customary channels of communion with those it loves. He who has passed through the same experience will readily understand me when I say, that notwithstanding all [165] my resolve not to be disheartened, and the supports which came from an unshaken trust in the overruling providence of God, I have often paced up and down through the long night, along the narrow beat allotted to us outside the barracks, with an eye as sleepless and a step as ceaseless as that of the sentinel whose eye was upon me and whose bayonet flashed in the moonlight as he watched me from the “dead line,” only a few paces away.
Many, of course, were the efforts made to escape — some of them ingeniously planned, but all by one contingency and another brought to nought. One method of escape was always open to us — that of bribing the guards, there being very few sentinels over us whose virtue commanded a higher price than a five dollar greenback for each person desiring to escape. To this method most of us were conscientiously opposed. I would have remained there to the close of the war before I would have placed such a temptation in the way of an enemy. Others were not of such tender conscience; and at length, worn by long imprisonment and wearied by long delay, four chaplains and six or eight surgeons bribed the guard and made their escape. It cost me a great struggle not to join them, but I was thankful afterwards that I did not, for within a very days and before they had made their way through great hardships to Dixie, the order came for our release, and we were safely landed on Southern soil.
Their departure, however, led to a denouement in connection with our release, to which I must, in closing, refer. As the roll-call had for some time been dispensed with, the escape of the prisoners had not been detected, but now, as the chaplains were to be released, the roll would, of course, be called, and the escape of the four would be detected. This would lead to a roll-call of the surgeons (the order for whose release had not been been received), and when it was found that six or eight surgeons had escaped, the remainder would be subjected to closer confinement and more stringent discipline. To avoid this, four surgeons determined to play the role of the missing chaplains. It was a very hazardous experiment, as most of the chaplains were personally known to the officers of the fort, and a detection of the ruse would probably lead to the retention of the whole body of chaplains in prison. But bold as the expedient was, it was immediately put into execution. An old razor was brought into requisition. The largest coats in the party were put at the disposal of the adventurous four. A very grave and reverend air was assumed, and they took their places in [166] line, and we were all marched to the wharf, where Colonel Mulford's flag-of-truce boat awaited us. As each chaplain's name was called, he was required to step to the front. The counting went on well until the last name was called — that of Chaplain B, when a tall, handsome surgeon, clerically shorn and dressed, stepped to the front, and a Federal soldier, recognizing him, whispered to the Provost-Marshal: “That is not Chaplain B.” “Who is it, then?” “It is Surgeon R----.” The Provost-Marshal looked confused for a moment, and said to his clerk: “How many chaplains ought there to be?” The clerk answered, “Fourteen.” “Count the men, sir.” We were duly counted and found to be exectly fourteen, and without further ado, marched on board the vessel for City Point, where, in due time, we arrived, and after some preliminaries stood once more upon the soil and beneath the flag of our Confederacy, amidst the dearly welcomes and warm congratulations of friends.
Here my narrative, properly speaking, ends, but there is one incident which, even though it be by way of postscript, I must append. In one of the hospitable homes of Richmond, whose intimacies I was permitted to share, there was a comfortable chamber known as the “Soldier-boys' room.” Let us come by night or by day, we knew that this room was reserved for us; and many a long and weary march ended in sweet dreams of home, awakened by its soft couches of repose. Towards this pleasant home I instinctively turned my footsteps to enjoy the luxury of the “Soldier-boys' room.” But when the hour for retiring came, my kind hostess, who had listened in tears to the story of prison trials, said: “I cannot let you go to the ‘Soldier-boys' room’ to-night. The special guest-chamber of the house has been fitted up for you to pay for those hard boards on which the Yankees have made you sleep so long.” So I was duly ushered into the elegant chamber, and in due time was upon a luxurious bed, which seemed to me the most comfortable I had ever.enjoyed, but on which I found it impossible to sleep. I had been so long upon the hard boards that the soft bed wearied me. I tossed from side to side, but in vain, until at length seizing my soldier blanket, which had been stowed in one corner, I wrapped myself in it and threw myself upon the floor, sleeping sweetly and soundly until morning.
When at the drawing-room my kind hostess met me with the question, “How did you rest last night?” and I answered, “Splendidly,” she replied with a smile, “I knew you would, for I had that bed prepared expressly for you.” That dear friend, whose [167] smile made the sunlight of the hospitable home, and whose heart was as pure as the escutcheon of the country she loved so well, has been called to the citizenship of a better country and the enjoyment of a happier home; but though years intervened, I could never find it in my heart to undeceive her, and it was her happiness always to remember how she had honored, with her best chamber and most luxurious bed, the returning soldier boy.
Having presented you with this inside view of life in a Federal prison, I feel that I cannot close without adding my testimony to that of others in reference to the comparative suffering under Federal and Confederate imprisonment. The effort is being persistently made to represent the hardships as all on one side, to throw upon the South the odium of having subjected her prisoners, taken in war, to unnecessary privations and wanton cruelties, and to claim for the North that her prison government and discipline were, with perhaps a few rare exceptions, of the most humane and kindly nature.
Now I have no disposition to stir up feelings of bitterness between the two sections of a common country. I would speak only in the interests of peace and good-will; but I must also speak in the interests of truth and justice, and in vindication of the South. I would call attention to the following points: First, It is not true that the prison discipline and the personal treatment of prisoners was either juster or more humane in Northern prisons than in those at the South. When the facts of history are all brought out, and in that sufficient light the comparison is made between Andersonville and Point Lookout, it will be found that the contrast is overwhelmingly in favor of the former; that in point of diet, health regulations, hospital prescriptions, &c., our men at Point Lookout were subjected to far greater privations and hardships than were the Federal soldiers at Andersonville.
But to confine myself simply to what passed under my own personal observation, and of which consequently I am a competent witness, I may say that on our release from Fort McHenry and return to Richmond, a number of us asked and obtained permission to go through all the wards of that portion of the Libby prison in which the Federal officers were confined. We saw their arrangements for sleep, exercise and cleanliness; we inspected the food as it was prepared for them, and saw all the arrangements for cooking and serving it, and we came away with the impression that (although we had been constantly reminded at Fort McHenry that our lot [168] was a favored one compared with that of our fellow prisoners at Fort Baltimore, Point Lookout and Johnson's Island) these men in the Libby prison were faring like princes as compared with the life we had been required to lead at Fort McHenry.
Second. Even if it could be shown that there was as great or greater privation in Southern prisons than in Northern, this would not relieve the contrast which is so unfavorable to the humanity of the Northern people. We can demonstrate the fact that our prisoners of war were served with as good rations and as abundant as our soldiers in the line. Whatever privations they endured, therefore, were the privations of our own men, and were the result, not of wilful neglect or bitter hatred, but of that dearth of the necessaries of life under which our whole people were suffering. With the North there was no dearth, no scarcity. The granaries of the world were open to them. When they fed our men on scanty and unwholesome fare, it was not because they could not help it, but because they did not care.
Third. For the sufferings of prisoners on both sides, the North and the North alone is responsible. We were always anxious for exchange. It was to our interest, even if there had been no higher motives operating upon us. We could not supply the places of our men when captured. A single musket was far more to us than to the people of the North. They had all Europe to recruit from. They could supply the places of their men when captured. We could not. It was no great burden to them to guard and feed their prisoners, but it was a heavy tax on us to take care of ours. It was, therefore, to our interest to arrange a cartel. It was to their interest to delay it; and an impartial examination of the case will show beyond all doubt that the failure to make exchange on honorable and equitable terms is chargeable upon them and not upon us. Every proposition that in the interests of humanity could be made was made by the Confederate Government, and was made only to be sullenly rejected. The responsibility for all the suffering on both sides is with those who steadfastly refused either to propose or to accept an honorable cartel. And as in all succeeding time, under the influence of heated imaginations, the spectres of Andersonville and Point Lookout, of Libby prison and Johnson's Island will be rising up to disturb the equanimity of the historian, the South will be able to say with truth to each one as it rises--
Shake not thy gory locks at me,
Thou canst not say I did it.
