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Elmira Prison Camp OnLine Library |
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A Soldier's Story:
Prison Life and Other Incidents in the War of 1861-'65:
Sherrill, Miles O.
I
have been requested to write some incidents, experiences and observations of
prison life during the war of 1861-'65. After thirty-eight or thirty-nine
years it is somewhat difficult to recall anything like all that transpired in
those dark days. Some people say it is time to stop talking about that war.
Now, that would be a hard thing for those who lived in those days to do: stop
talking about the war. The men, women and children at home had almost as hard
a time as those at the front - not quite so dangerous, yet it required
courage and true patriotism to stand in their places. Furthermore, it seems
necessary, in order to keep history straight, that those who lived and
participated in that part of our history should occasionally be heard from,
otherwise those who write so much, who live north of the Mason and Dixon's
line, would make our rising generation believe what is false. So I say to all
such: "Nothing in the past is dead to the man who would learn how the
present came to be what it is." Much has been written and said by our
Northern friends as to the suffering of the Union soldiers in Southern
prisons - Andersonville, Salisbury and other places - during that war. They
draw an awful picture of their poor soldiers suffering and dying in Southern
prisons. In some respects this was true. To be in prison of itself was bad
enough, but to be there without proper food or medicine was very bad indeed.
The South did not have the means, neither the medicine, but the prisoners in
our care were put on the same footing as our own poor soldiers. The question
is: Who was to blame for this state of things? The Confederate authorities
made proposition after proposition for exchange of prisoners, but the
Government at Washington positively declined. It is said that General Grant
said: "It was hard, and a great sacrifice, to leave the Union soldiers
in Southern prisons, but it must be made; that the Confederates could not
afford to leave their men in prison for want of men to take their place, but
the United States could; to exchange the prisoners the Confederates would
return to the army and go to fighting again." So here is the key to the
responsibility for all the suffering and deaths on both sides in the prisons.
The Confederate Government offered to let them send medicine South for their
sick prisoners, but they declined to do that. It must be remembered the
Confederate Government was shut in from the outside world, and could not
secure necessary medicine, etc. Now, as to Andersonville, it was under the
command of Wirtz, and since men have had time to cool off it has long since
been decided that the hanging of that poor man was simply murder. He did the
best he could for the poor prisoners there. General Dick Taylor in his book,
"Destruction and Reconstruction," gives the following account of
meeting with Wirtz, as his troops were passing Andersonville, during the
march of Sherman through Georgia, in 1864: "In this journey through
Georgia, at Andersonville, we passed in sight of a large stockade inclosing
prisoners of war. The train stopped for a few moments, and there entered the
carriage to speak to me a man who said his name was Wirtz, and that he was in
charge of the prisoners near by. He complained of the inadequacy of his guard
and the want of supplies, as the adjacent country was sterile and thinly
populated. He also said that the prisoners were suffering from cold, were
destitute of blankets, and that he had not wagons to supply fuel. He showed
me duplicates of requisitions and appeals for relief that he had made to
different authorities, and these I endorsed in the strongest terms possible,
hoping to accomplish some good. I know nothing of this (man) Wirtz, whom I
then met for the first and only time, but he appeared to be in earnest in his
desire to mitigate the condition of his prisoners. There can be but little
doubt that his execution was a 'sop' to the passions of the
'many-headed.'" So, then, poor Wirtz was made a scape-goat to cover the
sins of those who could have had those poor prisoners released at any time
but would not. The sacrifice was made to quiet the poor prisoners and their
friends. Many things will be settled at the great Assize, when the Judge of
all shall sit in judgment.
Let
us have the official record on prison life, and see the truth of history:
The North is said to be more healthy than the South, and
yet of the 270,000 Northern soldiers in Southern prisons, only 22,000 died,
while of the 220,000 Confederates in Northern prisons (50,000 less than we
had of theirs) 26,000 died. The deaths in Northern prisons exceeded the
deaths in Southern prisons four thousand men. While about eight per cent of
the Union prisoners died, about twelve per cent of the Southern prisoners in
Northern prisons died. "Tell it not in Gath, and publish it not in the
streets of Askelon." Facts and figures are wonderful things. Now, I have
made this long statement before coming to the "incidents of prison life,"
as seen by myself et al. I have done so for the purpose of trying to
keep the record correct, that justice might be done to all, and history speak
the truth.
I
was shot in the first charge that was made at Spottsylvania Court-House,
Virginia, early on the morning of the 9th day of May, 1864. The charge was
made by our brigade, composed of the Fifth, Twelfth, Twentieth and
Twenty-third N. C. Regiments, led by General R. D. Johnston. The charge was a
success so far as the enemy in our front were concerned, but our lines were
overlapped by Burnside's troops. Our regiment (the Twelfth) and our company
(A), being on the extreme right, were exposed to an enfilading fire clear
across an open field; so we were exposed to a fire from front and from the
right. The enemy had torn down a rail fence and made temporary breast-works
in our front, from which our men drove them, but could not hold the position
because Burnside's whole army corps was on hand, and could easily have cut
off our little brigade; so General Johnston gave the command to fall back. As
our troops fell back, Sergeant Silas Smyre (now county commissioner of
Catawba) and Corporal E. G. Bost endeavored to carry me from the battlefield.
They were so exhausted from marching and fighting that they could not hold me
up so as to prevent the crushed leg from dragging on the ground. To prevent
their being captured, I begged them to leave me to my fate. (May I never
forget this act of kindness by these brave men, who risked so much for me.) I
was in the broiling hot sun, without water, my canteen having been shot in
the fight, and the water all run out.
I
was concealed from the enemy by some shrubbery. Late in the afternoon I
realized that I could not live without water. The loss of blood, together
with the burning rays of the sun, made me feel that life was about to ebb
out; so I called to the enemy and surrendered. Here I commenced the life of a
prisoner, which lasted ten months. Besides the suffering from wounds, the
humility, the loss of liberty, the absence of all friends and loved ones, no
face but that of enemies, was just about as much as I could bear up under in
my condition. In that hour home and friends would have been "a haven of
rest" sure enough.
The
day following, May 10, 1864, when I was laid on the slaughter table, my eyes
caught the sight of arms and legs piled on the ground - an indication of what
I might expect. Dr. Cox, of Ohio, examined my leg. The only conversation that
passed between us was this: I said, "Doctor, can you save my leg?"
He replied, "I fear not, Johnny." Chloroform was applied, and when
restored to consciousness I was minus one limb. I lay there in what was
designated "a field hospital" for two or three days without any
further attention to the wound, and the result was the flies
"blowed" the amputated limb, and when I reached Alexandria City,
some days later, the nurse who dressed the wound found that I was being eat
up by the vermin. Just here I will state that on the last day spent at the
field hospital there was a great rush in gathering us up in ambulances. Under
great excitement, I said to the doctor who was supervising the movement:
"Doctor, what is the matter?" He replied that "Burnside was
falling back to get a better position." I had been in the army long
enough to know that was an evasive answer. The fact was that our troops were
driving Burnside back, and the Federals were not willing to lose any of their
prisoners though maimed for life. The roads from this place were cut to
pieces by the artillery and wagon trains of the Union army going to the
front. Those of us who were badly wounded cried for mercy. No mercy came
until we reached the boat-landing, where we (those living) were transferred
from ambulance to the boat. I do not know how many died en route from the battlefield
to the boat-landing. I do know that Charles P. Powell, Adjutant of the
Twenty-third North Carolina Regiment, who had lost his leg just as I had,
died on this trip, and they stopped on the roadside and covered him up. This
young man Powell was from Richmond County, N. C. He was a private soldier at
Malvern Hill, July, 1862. When in line of battle, in front of the artillery,
a shell fell in the ranks. The men could not leave the line of battle. There
lay the shell, sputtering, ready to explode. Young Powell sprang up, grappled
the shell and "soused" it into a pool of water near by. What a risk
was that! Yet that heroic act may have saved the lives of several men. Later
that day he was wounded, and again at the battle of Gettysburg in July, 1863,
and died as above stated. On page 189 of Volume II, North Carolina Regimental
Histories, it is stated that C. P. Powell, Adjutant, was killed on the 9th of
May, 1864, whereas the truth is he was shot on the 9th and his leg was
amputated, and about the 11th or 12th of May he was jolted to death between
Spottsylvania Court-House and Bell Plains. I venture the assertion that he
was not buried two and a half feet deep; and the place is unknown to his
people, who think he was buried on the battlefield. We were shipped to
Alexandria City, where I spent three months in the "Marshall
House," where the proprietor, Jackson, shot and killed Colonel
Ellsworth, who tore down his Confederate flag in April, 1861, and Jackson was
killed by Frank Brownwell, of Colonel Ellsworth's regiment. This hotel was
used as a prison hospital for those who were permanently disabled. For awhile
the patriotic women of Alexandria were permitted to visit us, and often when
they would bid us good-bye a "green-back" bill or something else
was left in our hand. However, before we were removed from there the good
women were prohibited from coming to see us.
While
a prisoner here our troops, under General Early came down near Washington
City, and there was great excitement in Washington and Alexandria, for it did
seem that the Confederates were going into Washington. We prisoners were
expecting to be released and get home, but our expectations were soon blasted
by the Confederates having to retreat back to the south side of the Potomac,
and did not come via Alexandria. My next move was to the Lincoln
Hospital in Washington City. Here I spent about two months. After I could
walk with crutches I was transferred to the old Capitol Prison. I was honored
with a seat in the old Capitol, but had to look through iron bars. While here
I was guilty of "cruelty to bugs," if not to animals, in the common
acceptation of that term. (Just here by way of parenthesis.) I know how to
appreciate the traveling man's experience given by "Red Buck," in Charlotte
Observer, of September 11, 1903. Night after night I suffered from the
onslaughts of those "bugs" - no telling how much I endured.
"Weeping endureth for the night, but joy cometh in the morning."
They had all the "innings" at night, but in the morning I would
take my turn at the bat. As soon as it was light enough to see I would sit
upon my humble couch (I was myself a picture of humility) and commence a war
of revenge. As they would take to the wall I would go for them, and before I
left that prison many, many "bugs" were slaughtered, as the
blood-stained wall bore testimony. Yes, that wall was well striped with
Confederate blood. The loss of blood in that way, if not with as much pain,
was attended with much more genuine disgust. How much I would have liked to
"express myself," but my lips were hermetically sealed. I learned
how to sympathize with Pharaoh and his people, though there is no statement
that any of this kind were sent on him when Moses and the Israelites were
asking permission to leave. In November, 1864, I (with others) was shipped
off to Elmyra, N. Y. "Thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into
Charybdis, your mother."
Leaving
the old Capitol Prison, I got away at least from the multitude of B. B.'s,
but I ran into the B. L.'s - army body lice, or what the soldiers call
"grey backs." Later on I may speak of my experience with this pest
while in the small-pox camp.
We
reached Elmyra, N. Y., on Sunday morning. Being in the mountains, the ground
was covered with snow. Arriving at the barracks, we were lined up (I was on
my crutches, and had to stand there on one foot for what seemed to me a very
long time) just inside the gate, negro soldiers on guard. The commanding
officer, Major Beal, greeted us with the most bitter oaths that I ever heard.
He swore that he was going to send us out and have us shot; said he had no
room for us, and that we (meaning the Confederate soldiers) had no mercy on
their colored soldiers or prisoners. He was half drunk, and I was not sure
but that we might be dealt with then and there. Then we were searched and
robbed of knives, cash, etc., and sent into various wards. While we were
standing in the snow, hearing the abuse of Major Beal, some poor ragged
Confederate prisoners were marched by with what was designated as barrel shirts,
with the word "thief" written in large letters pasted on the back
of each barrel, and a squad of little drummer boys following beating the
drums. The mode of wearing the barrel shirts was to take an ordinary flour
barrel, cut a hole through the bottom large enough for the head to go
through, with arm-holes on the right and left, through which the arms were to
be placed. This was put on the poor fellow, resting on his shoulders, his
head and arms coming through as indicated above; thus they were made to march
around for so many hours and so many days. Now, what do you suppose they had
stolen? Why, something to eat. Yes, they had stolen cabbage leaves and other
things from slop barrels, which was a violation of the rules of the prison.
One large, robust prisoner from Virginia was brought into the surgical ward
where I was, having been seriously wounded by one of the guards. On inquiry,
I learned that the poor fellow was caught fishing out scraps from a slop
barrel and was shot for it. A small, very thin piece of light-bread with a
tin pint cup full of what purported to be soup twice a day was the rations
for the prisoners. I heard the men say: "My soup has only three eyes on
it" - meaning there was no grease in it - only hot water. Now, this fare
was not enough to sustain life in healthy, able-bodied men. The result was
that where they could not make something - make rings, etc. - and thus secure
something from the sutlers, many, yea hundreds of the poor fellows would be
attacked with dysentery - so common and often so fatal in camp, and
especially in prison life. The food they had seemed to be only enough to feed
the disease; the result was that scores and hundreds died. Speaking of the
light-bread, the Confederates would sometimes hold it up and declare "that
it was so thin that they could read the New York Herald through
it"; then they would grab it and squeeze it up in one hand till it
looked about like a small biscuit. Men died there for the want of food. I do
not know, it may be that the Government issued enough rations, but it had to
pass through too many hands before reaching th
soldiers. The truth is that there was a great deal of speculation and
swindling carried on in the prisons; and I am ashamed to say it, yet it is
true that sometimes some of our own men were engaged in the conspiracy to
cheat and defraud their fellow-prisoners. It was in this way: those in charge
of the prison would take Confederates and make ward-masters, etc., of them
(like in prisons now a few are made "trusties"); and a little authority,
even of that kind, would ruin some men. Some prisoners, like Jeshrun, grew
fat, but others starved for want of suitable food and enough of it. Well, to
go back a little, while standing there, receiving the profane blessing from
Major Beal, I saw drawing near as he dared to venture an old fellow-prisoner
that I had met in Washington, who had preceded me to this place. I do not
remember his name. I had at Washington nicknamed him "Softy." He
recognized me, and as Beal closed his eloquent abuse, and we were ordered to
march into the barracks, "Softy" ventured in a low tone to speak to
me. His greeting was: "Sherrill, you have come to hell at last. Did you
see those four-horse wagons going out? They were full of dead men, who died
last night. They are dying by hundreds here with small-pox and other
diseases." He was discovered by one of the guards (standing too near
us). He hollowed at him: "Get away from there." He got away
immediately, if not sooner. When I reflected on the situation - the cursing
major, the colored guards, the robbing us of our little stock of valuables,
the barrel shirts, the wagons with the dead, the appearance of some of the
living, the earth covered with snow - I thought, "Well, 'Softy' has
given a true bill." When I was located, I found I had kinsfolk there: J.
U. Long (now chairman of the board of county commissioners), Nicholas
Sherrill and W. P. Sherrill. There may have been others, but I do not recall
them now. My haversack had been supplied with rations on leaving Washington.
When I was located in the ward, "Nick" Sherrill came to see me. Of
course we were glad to see each other, for it had been many moons since we
had met. We were not in the same command in the army. "Nick" asked
me if I had anything to eat. I replied, "Yes." He said: "I
want to trade you a cup, spoon, etc., for some bread; I am about
perished." Poor fellow, he looked the picture of despair. I said:
"Nick, I do not want your cup and spoons, but you are welcome to what I
have." He devoured in short order all that I had, and wanted more. Poor
fellow, he soon died, as did W. P. Sherrill; died away from home and loved
ones, buried by their enemies. I had to spend several days in the barracks
before I was transferred to the surgical or hospital ward. I was there long
enough to know why Cousin Nicholas was so anxious for my bread. After I was
placed in the surgical ward of the hospital I fared fairly well - a great
improvement over the fare out in the wards of the regular prison. After a few
weeks I was taken with small-pox, and of course was transferred over S. Creek
to the small-pox camp. I was carried over on a cot, or "stretcher,"
with blanket thrown over my face. When I reached the place, and the blanket
was removed, I found myself in a large "wall tent," with several
cots, or "bunks," about two and a half feet wide, with two
Confederates on each "bunk," in reverse order, i. e., A's
head at one end and B's at the other - so your bed-fellow's feet were in very
close proximity to your face. They were all sandwiched in this way, because
the bed was too narrow to admit of the two to lay shoulder to shoulder. On
waking up on a morning one of these poor fellows would be dead and the other
alive; this, of course, occurred day after day, and night after night. Well
might those poor fellows, who had spent at least a part of the night with a
corpse for a bed-fellow, have exclaimed with St. Paul, "Who shall
deliver me from the body of this death?" When I took in the situation, I
told the man who was going to place me on a bunk by the side of a poor fellow
bad off with that awful disease (and who finally died) "that he could
not put me on there." He replied "that he would show me whether he
could or not." I stuck to it that I would not be put there. The fellow
went and brought in the ward-master, and when he appeared it was Jack Redman,
from Cleveland County, Company E, my regiment. Redman said, "Why, hello,
Sherrill, was it you that was raising such a racket?" I told him it was.
He wanted to know what was the matter. I explained that with my amputated
limb it would never do to put me on a bunk with another fellow, and he
finally consented to arrange for me to have one to myself. I said:
"Redman, you must grant me another favor." He wished to know what
it was. I replied: "I want you to let me keep my blanket that came over
from the surgical ward." "Why so, Sherrill?" I said:
"Jack, you see those blankets that you fellows have been using on these
men - there are five 'army lice' to every hair on the blanket." Redman
took a hearty laugh. He knew there was more truth in it than poetry, so he
granted my request. Redman had had small-pox and was an "immune,"
hence was made a ward-master. He was especially kind and considerate towards
me. When I got well and was carried away, I never knew what became of him.
Some of our men who felt that the thing was gone, and that we could not
succeed, never came back South. I am inclined to think that Redman did that
thing. After the doctor had declared me well, and directed that I should be
removed back to the hospital ward from whence I came, this was indeed
glorious news; for of all the diseases that flesh is heir to, small-pox is
the filthiest. The small-pox such as we had there was "sure enough"
small-pox. Such as we have in North Carolina these days, in comparison with
that, is only make-believe. I don't think it an exaggeration to say that
seven out of ten who had it died. I was carried over into what was called a
bath-house, where I was placed in a large bath-tub of water, almost too hot
to bear. The Yankee soldier who had charge went out to look after something
else or to loiter around, and I waited and waited for his return (the water
was beginning to get cold) so I could get out and get clothing to put on. The
atmosphere of the room was colder, if anything, than the water. I was in
great distress, and it seemed that I could make no one hear me; so I had to
wait the return of the villain, who finally came when the water in the
bath-tub seemed to me to be nearly to the freezing point. He came, bringing a
full Yankee suit, and when I gave him a piece of my mind he apologized and
begged me not to speak of it - said he had actually forgotten me. When I
reached the hospital ward I was a blue man in feelings and in appearance. I
was dressed in a Yankee suit, even to a cap. I felt humiliated, and my skin
was blue from cold. But for the kindness of my comrades there, giving me of
their allowance of spirits that night, I don't know but what I would have
gone hence.
Along
toward the close of February, 1865, I with others, was marched to the train
and shipped to Richmond. I think that was the happiest day that I ever
experienced in my life. To get out of that death-hole was enough to make one
happy; and to add to it the prospect of getting home to friends and loved
ones, from whom I had been so long separated, not having heard from them in
ten months, was indeed a treat. Many and great changes had taken place since
I had left Dixie. I never did doubt that we would eventually succeed. I
presume I was cheered up and was kept optimistic from the many rumors all the
time in circulation that France and England would soon recognize our
independence; which, of course, never took place. The air was filled with
that and other rumors, not only in the Confederate army, but even in prison.
Such rumors of great victories for the Confederate arms were all the time
circulating among the poor fellows. As I came on from New York it looked to
me as if the whole world was being uniformed in blue and moving toward
General Grant's army. As we came up the James River, both sides were lined
with soldiers dressed in blue. When we came to the Confederate lines, seeing
such few ragged men confronting all that blue host, my courage came near
failing me. In fact, I could not see how this little thin line of
Confederates could hold at bay such a multitude of well-fed, well-equipped
men. The patriotic women of Richmond tried to be cheerful, but I could see
plainly enough that they were depressed. While they were just as kind in
their attention to the returning soldiers as in former days, yet it was
evident that the cheerful hope of former days was gone. When I reached home I
soon learned that many who were living on the 9th of May, 1864, when we made
that charge, had been numbered with the dead. Among others was my nephew,
James Ferdinand Robinson, a young man a few months younger than myself, a
great favorite in the company, full of humor and wit. He was a sharp-shooter,
and was found dead on the 12th of May, 1864, by Frank Turbyfield, of the Twenty-third
Regiment. After the fighting on the morning of the 9th, he wrote a letter in
pencil to his father, Marion Robinson, in which he stated: "My Uncle
Miles was killed in the charge made early this morning." Two days later
he was killed. I got home to read his letter relative to my death; but he,
poor fellow, was gone. I have not seen the letter since 1865; so I only quote
from memory what I remember.
Such
is war. Many people have an erroneous idea about that war. They blame
President Davis and President Lincoln for the whole thing; when in fact they
were only placed at the head. Both made blunders; so would any one else in
their positions. Davis was not an original secessionist, but went with his
State. He was a United States Senator at the time, from Mississippi. He had
served with distinction in the war with Mexico. Who has not read of
"Colonel Jeff. Davis and his brave Mississippi riflemen"? Mr. Davis
did not desire to be President; he desired to go in the army. He had been
Secretary of War of the United States; had, as stated above, served in the
United States army; so it was natural for him to prefer the army to being
President. As to his taking the responsibility of making peace sooner, I have
seen it stated that had he attempted to do so in 1864, on any terms save
independence, the army and the people of the South would not have submitted
to it. I think myself this is true. He, as well as General Lee, had a hard
time; they were both weighed down with trouble, cares and responsibilities.
He had no more to do with the assassination of President Lincoln than you or
I. He was cast into prison, manacled and placed in a dungeon. (General Miles
would be glad now if he never had put shackles on him.) A soldier was placed
where an eye always rested on Mr. Davis. This was a great annoyance to him.
General
Dick Taylor, who succeeded in getting permission from President Johnson to
visit President Davis at Fortress Monroe, makes the following statement:
"It was with some emotion that I reached the casement in which Mr. Davis
was confined. There were two rooms, in the outer of which, near the entrance,
stood a sentinel, and in the inner was Jefferson Davis. We met in silence,
with grasp of hands. Afterwards he said: 'This is kind, but no more than I
expected of you.' Pallid, worn, gray, bent, feeble, suffering from
inflammation of the eyes, he was a painful sight to a friend. He uttered no
plaint, and made no allusion to the irons. He said 'the light kept all night
in his room hurt his eyes, and the noise made every two hours by relieving
the sentry prevented much sleep; but that matters had changed for the better
since the arrival of General Burton, who was all kindness, and strained his
orders to the utmost in his behalf,' etc." Mr. Davis was no doubt a great
and good man, for General Taylor, on speaking of some kindness shown to him
during the war, said: "No wonder that all who enjoy the friendship of
Jefferson Davis love him as Jonathan did David." Had Mr. Davis been a
traitor and rebel any more than other leaders of the South, and had he been
guilty as charged, of course he would have been tried and executed. It was
not done simply because it would have been an open violation of law, and the
people of our country had had time to cool off. So Mr. Davis was released. We
all believe that had Mr. Lincoln lived we never would have had to go through
the farce and humility of reconstruction. Excuse me, Mr. Editor, for this
divergence. I have done so "lest we forget; lest we forget." There
are many humorous, ludicrous, laughable things that occurred in prison life,
connected with the negro soldiers (sparring between the colored guard and the
Confederate prisoners) that will not do to publish; so I forbear to give any
of them.
It
is indeed wonderful how the prisoners would work to make a little money. One
of the most common occupations was to make finger rings; they did some real
nice work. Some of the men would secure a few cents, and on that little
capital build up quite a business. Some had teachers and attended school. The
teachers were, of course, fellow-prisoners with the pupils. As before stated,
I was in the surgical ward while in New York, and had no personal experience
in the traffic and trading above alluded to, for it was not allowed in the
hospital wards. Mr. John Gray Bynum, of Mountain Creek township, was a
ward-master while a prisoner at Elmyra (and made a good one, too). He could
give some rich incidents of prison life; and so could our mutual friend
Phillip A Hoyle, who was a prisoner at Point Lookout, Md. It may not be
generally known that Mr. A. A. Shuford, of Hickory, one of our successful
business men, made his start as a trader while a prisoner of war. It is my
understanding that such is the case. It was while in prison that Mr. Shuford
manifested a talent and a liking for trade and traffic, and on a small scale
made a success while in prison. Having thus imbibed the business spirit while
in prison, on his liberation and return home he left the farm and old
homestead and went to Hickory and engaged in business with his brother
"Dolph" and W. H. Ellis. How well he has succeeded is a matter of
history, and who can tell what influence his experience in prison may have
had on his subsequent life? A. A. Shuford and P. A. Hoyle belonged to the
gallant Twenty-third North Carolina Regiment and suffered together at Point
Lookout, where the water was impregnated with copperas, thus causing the
death of thousands of as brave men as ever carried a gun. I am reminded that
General Lee says in his memoirs that he used every effort and means at his
command to effect an exchange of prisoners, but General Grant refused.
As
before stated, General Grant refused to exchange as a war measure, and it had
the desired effect.
That
there were some men in uniforms who might be classed as brutes is not to be
denied; we are thankful the number was comparatively small. In the campaign
into Maryland in 1862, our regiment was in the division commanded by the
gallant Gen. D. H. Hill, who held the mountain passes against overwhelming numbers.
My younger brother, James Albert Sherrill, who had been with us only six
months, fell dangerously wounded just at the time the command was given to
fall back. Of course he fell into the hands of the enemy; there, lying
weltering in his blood, the enemy came on him, and instead of ministering to
his wants, a brute in human form in uniform took his bayonet and stabbed the
poor boy to death. I did not see this, but Alfred Sigmon, of Catawba County,
who was also wounded, was an eyewitness to the tragedy. I give this incident
as it came near to me; many others just as cruel might be given. It would not
do to hold General McClelland or his true soldiers responsible for the
conduct of a drunken, cowardly brute. The Union army was afflicted by having
foreign soldiers who could not speak the English language. We have met the
Union soldiers when many of them were so drunk they could hardly tell what
they were doing.
There
never was any trouble between true soldiers, whether they wore the blue or
the gray. It was the warlike civilians who did not fight and the soldiers who
were mere hangers-on and camp followers that made the trouble. But for the
influence of General Grant and other army officers we would have fared much
worse in the South after the close of the war than we did; they, as
conquerors, became our protectors. The true soldiers could be seen exchanging
coffee for tobacco, going in bathing at the same time, in the same river; and
when the enemy fell into his hands as a prisoner he would empty his own haversack
and the canteen to relieve his prisoner. When there was no fighting going on,
the soldiers of the two armies were on the best of terms. The outrages
committed on either side during the war were not attributable to the true
soldier; neither can the outrages perpetrated on the South after the war be
charged up to the United States Army proper, but to the "bummers,"
who were no good in the army or at home.
The
storm has long since gone by. The true soldier has no prejudice against the
soldier who fought on the other side. The blue and the gray have since worn
the blue in the war with Spain - an evidence of reconciliation between the
Confederate and Union soldiers of 1861-'65.
Since
writing the foregoing sketch I have received the following "Memorial Day
Ode," from the pen of my friend, Rev. G. R. Rood, preacher in charge of
Millbrook Circuit. It is so appropriate I let it be the closing chapter:
MEMORIAL
DAY ODE.
The
past is dead, long live the past;
And may its memory ever last
In hearts through which the Southern blood
Leaps on its way an untamed flood.
For we who bear the Southern name
Look on the past and find no shame
Attached to the cause which, though lost,
Was worth the life-blood which it cost.
And though the mournful willows wave
Over the low mounds which we lave
With bitter tears, we feel,
We know the future will reveal
That each martyred hero doth wear
A crown of heavenly laurel fair.
Each spot which heard the dying moans,
And which in death received the bones
Of those who freely gave their all,
In answer to the Southland's call -
No matter where they may be found,
Such spots are sacred, holy ground.
The heroes who sleep 'neath the sods
Rest in sweet peace, their souls are God's,
Until the Judgment trump be blown,
And wrong forever is o'erthrown;
Then they will rise up one and all
To answer to the Last Roll Call.
G.
R. ROOD. MILLBROOK, N. C.,
May 7, 1904.
