officers, some enlisted men and myself were detailed and sent to Elmira, New York, on conscript duty. While in Elmira I was married. In March, 1864, we were ordered to return to our command. We did so, arriving at Plymouth, North Carolina, about April 1st. On April 20th the entire post was captured after a siege of four days.

After our capture we were started toward Richmond and marched in that direction for two days; then laid over for one day. Although nothing had been said, we inferred that there must be something wrong at Richmond, indeed we afterward learned that General Grant had started on his wilderness campaign, and orders had been issued from Richmond not to bring any more prisoners there.

The next morning we started south and tramped in that direction until we came to a railroad, where we were loaded into cattle or box cars (I being on the first train). We continued our southern journey, passing through Wilmington and Charleston to Savannah, then going west through Macon, we arrived at Andersonville, Georgia, in the afternoon. We were then taken out of the cars and sat down on the ground.

Andersonville contained only a few scattered houses. We could plainly see where our men were encamped, some distance away, with nothing to protect them from the heat of the sun and apparently with only a scant supply of water. Soon after our arrival a well-mounted and soldierly-looking officer came riding toward us. He was met by the officer in command of our guard, who saluted and inquired: "Is this Captain Wirtz?" "Yes," was the reply. "Captain Wirtz, I have some prisoners here for you," said the officer in charge of us. "About how many?" inquired Captain Wirtz, "and what are they?" "About eight hundred. Seventy-five officers and about seven hundred and twenty-five men," was the answer. "Well," said Captain Wirtz, "I suppose I must take the men, but I cannot take the officers."

The captain of our guard was an imperious man; he straightened himself up and said: "Captain Wirtz, I am ordered to turn these prisoners over to you." "I cannot take the officers," repeated Captain Wirtz. "I have no place for them. God knows my place is bad enough for the men!" "Captain Wirtz," insisted the captain of our guard, "I shall turn all these prisoners over to you." "Do what you d——n please," said Wirtz. "Turn them loose if you want to, but I tell you I will not take the officers." He then turned his horse and rode away.

We all realized that we had witnessed an important scene—and it was. It established a precedent. So far as I know, no officers were confined at Andersonville. Had they been, the majority of them, like our men, would have died there. Of my company forty-eight good, healthy, robust young men went into Andersonville that day and the remains of thirty of them are there now; while of the officers of our regiment who were captured, all lived to return North. While that was the only time I ever saw Captain Wirtz, that event, and what I learned afterward, gave me a strong impression that the authorities at Richmond, and especially Winder, were responsible for the treatment of the prisoners at Libby, Belle Island, Andersonville, etc. Apparently Captain Wirtz was a well-drilled European soldier, who of course was trained to obey orders; but in this case he had so much respect for the rank of the officers that he rebelled and established a precedent which most certainly was a God-send to the officers.

Soon after he left we were ordered into line and the officers were commanded to step out (to the left). We understood well what that meant. It was a trying time for the officers, for we realized full well where our men were going. I think we had about the same idea of Andersonville then that we have now. The men were marched away.

After the men were gone we were marched across the railroad onto a knoll with a beautiful grove, in which was a vacant church, and told to make ourselves comfortable there for the night. Of course there was a guard around us, but we were allowed to go out into the grove. Going down the knoll we found a very large and most excellent spring of fine water, which came bubbling up out of the white sand. We said: "What a lovely and perfect place for a camp. Why wasn't our boys' camp here instead of over there on that hill? Here is water, shade and everything." The answer was: "It is too good a place for the Yankees."

The next morning we entered the cars and started back east. As Captain Wirtz would not take us, something must be done with us. The first town of importance we came to was Macon. We stopped there and were turned over to the general officer in command at that point. As there had not been any prisoners kept there, no arrangements for us had been made. We were taken out into a nice park, furnished with plenty of tents and were told to make ourselves comfortable; very fair rations were issued to us each day and plenty of them. We were allowed to go to the guard line and buy anything we wished if we had the wherewith to pay for it. In fact, we were treated kindly and had no complaint to make. By talking over the guard line at this camp, I purchased of a colored woman, a good table knife, fork and spoon, which I kept and found to be very useful; getting hold of a three-cornered file, I made a saw of the back of the knife, thinking it might be of use in an emergency. After a few days, when we were getting rested, I would hear: "What is it we hear about Libby, Belle Island and Andersonville? We certainly have no reason to complain."

Compass that Guided Us by Night and Day
and Knife, Fork and Spoon Purchased from
Colored Woman at Macon, Georgia

During my prison life I met comrades who had been, I think, in most of the places where our men were confined and they all practically told the same story; that when they were turned over to the local authorities they were well treated, but that when they came under the Richmond or Winder care it was as different as it well could be.

Apparently it was well understood that no soldier was to be in a condition, when exchanged or when he got North, to re-enter the service.

After we had been in Macon for perhaps a couple of weeks, I noticed one day two officers riding around in another part of the park. I recognized one of them, and asked our captain of the guard: "Who is that officer with Colonel So-and-So?" He replied: "That is Colonel So-and-So of Richmond of President Davis' staff." I asked no more questions, but thought it significant that he was there.

Two or three days later a hundred or so of colored men were at work in that part of the park building a stockade enclosing about three acres. The stockade was a tight board fence twelve feet high, with a walk on the outside near the top and a railing outside of it for the guard, where they could see everything. On the inside, about forty feet from the stockade, was a picket fence called "the dead line." That is, if anyone approached it, he was to be shot.

After the enclosure was completed, one morning we noticed a crowd of men being marched inside the stockade. They were prisoners from Libby. Soon after we followed them. With these prisoners came Lieutenant Davis of Baltimore, who had charge of the prison. He apparently had his orders from Richmond and obeyed them strictly. It was a very great change for us. Our rations, treatment and everything else were so radically different. A small