sooner had the spring campaigns opened, and men came pouring into the prison as though the Northern army had been captured in full, than the rebel authorities prohibited going out for wood, so that those who came in after that date could not get out for material to make shelter with. Hence, it seemed thereafter a race between the old prisoners and the new to see who would die the soonest; the new prisoners, having no shelter, dying from exposure and other severities, and the old prisoners, having shelter, dying from the scurvy.

Another misfortune to us, and barbarity in the rebels, was a decrease in the quantity of food as our numbers increased. The result of this act of cruelty was, of course, to make all weaker, old and new prisoners irrespectively. But to the new prisoners I have no doubt it came the hardest. Their stomachs were not shrunken, dried, and hardened to starvation as were those of the old prisoners. Their stomachs and systems generally being in better condition, they felt the demand for food more keenly than did the half-sick-at-the-stomach and scurvy-infected veterans of the prison-pen. Being without shelter also made in them a greater demand for food. The ravages of exposure had to be repaired. Scurvy in the systems of the old prisoners had begun to make their stomachs qualmish and less desirous of food. Besides this,—and it adds yet another barbarity to the endless list,—although we were prohibited going out for wood to cook with, raw rations were in part still issued. The prison authorities undertook to issue cooked rations, and did for the most part, but part raw rations were always issued with those that were cooked. For instance, the rebels baked our bread and cooked our meat, but always issued peas raw. As a man needed every particle of food allowed him by the rebels, this went hard enough. But it went hardest with the new prisoners. We old ones, who had arrived there prior to the stoppage of going out for wood, had in some cases laid in a supply, or in others built our shelter near a stump, which, when the wood famine came on, had to pay tribute with its roots. As the wood was generally rich with pitch, being pine, and frequently pitch-pine, a little went a great way.

Furthermore, necessity ruling the times, we cooked in our little quart cups, laying under a little sliver at a time. We also built a wall of clay around our little fire, to save and concentrate the heat as much as possible. But, as the new prisoners had no wood and could get none, they were forced either to trade, if possible, their raw for cooked rations or eat them as they got them—raw,—as they did frequently enough. The reason given for prohibiting going out for wood was, that some prisoners had attempted making their escape while outside. This was a correct specimen of Southern philosophy regarding the government of Yankee prisoners. To punish all for the offence of a few, where they could conveniently, was the invariable rule. Offence! as if nature as well as reason did not teach a man to make his escape from such a place, if possible. It is his right; and it is expected that he will attempt to do so at the first opportunity, in less barbarous countries. To prevent this, guards are detailed, and they have a right to shoot a man down in the attempt if they observe him, and on command he will not surrender himself; but men, like birds, are born free, and if, being imprisoned under such circumstances, an opportunity to escape presents itself, it is not only natural for a man to avail himself of it, but it is also his duty to do so. Such was the usual custom of the rebels—to punish all for the offence of a part. Having stripped the prisoners upon the battle-field, to their very shirt and pants in many cases, they sent them into their “cattle-pen,” as they termed it, to perish from exposure and starvation; their hands and feet and all exposed parts blistering in the hot sun, as though roasted in fire; scorching by day in the unbearable heat, and by night chilled to the very bone with cold.

Those who have not dwelt or sojourned in the South, have no idea of the peculiarities of the climate there. In the North, during the summer, we have steady warm weather both day and night, but it is not so down South. There the days are excessively hot and the nights exceedingly chilly. I admit that this is delightful, if one has a roof over his head and bed-covering, but to a man lying upon the bare ground, without either shelter or covering of any kind, and with but scanty wearing apparel, it is a great hardship. In addition to this, it rained twenty-one days in succession during our stay at Andersonville; and the new prisoners, having no shelter, had to bear it the best they could.

Now, if the reader can realize the scene I have attempted to describe, I shall be satisfied. If he can, in his mind’s eye, see hundreds of emaciated, haggard, and half-naked men lying about on the bare ground of an inclosed field (which is divided into two sections by a swamp, in the middle of which runs a little ditch of water), the largest number lying around the swamp and at the edge of the rising ground; if he can see these poor fellows in the morning, after a rainy night, almost buried beneath the sand and dirt which the rain has washed down from the hillside upon them, too exhausted and weak to arise,—many that never will arise again in this life, and are now breathing their last; not a soul near to give them a drink or speak to them—I say, if the reader realizes this scene in his own mind, he will catch a faint glimpse of the actual fact as it existed. Those that are still able to get up, and remain upon their feet long enough to be counted for rations, do so when the time comes, and then lie down again in the burning sun, or, if able, pass the day in wandering wearily about the camp; the only interruption being the drawing of rations. These, when drawn, are devoured with the voraciousness of a tiger. The constant exposure to the fierce rays of a Southern sun has burned their hands and feet in great scars and blisters. Covered with sand and dirt from head to foot, their poor, shrunken bodies and cadaverous, horror-striking faces are enough to soften the heart of a Caligula or a Nero; but no pity or relief comes. Day after day they must scorch in the sun; night after night must their starved bodies shiver with cold, while the pitiless rain must chill and drench with its unceasing torrents the last spark of vitality out of them. The only relief that comes is in a speedy and inevitable death. No one can last long under these conditions, and the time required to kill a man was well ascertained and wonderfully short. To endure three such terrible hardships as gradual starvation, intolerable heat, and shivering cold, day after day and night after night in unremitting succession, man was never made. How I wish every man and woman in the North could understand, and realize in their minds and hearts, the awful condition of our men at Andersonville, as in the case of the shelterless, new, and scurvy-infected old prisoners.

“It might frae monie a blunder free ’em,
And foolish notion.”

It might soften their hearts to the suffering they now see around them.

CHAPTER III.

The condition of the old prisoners at