A Confederate captain's war diary, 1864-65 (Part 1): 'I loathe the idea of confinement in a Yankee prison'

Capt. Robert Emory Park of the 12th Alabama Infantry was wounded and captured at the third battle of Winchester on Sept. 19, 1864. This post is the first of three giving a condensed version of his diary from that day through the end of the war. In it you'll read the views of an articulate, well-educated and badly wounded young man being shuffled from prison to prison as the cause in which he believes is slowly crushed.

Park remains loyal to that cause to the end. His thoughts and feelings about slavery, the American flag, the nation's history, the 1864 election, Sherman's March, the taking of Richmond, Lee's surrender, the Lincoln assassination and the capture of Jefferson Davis are all here. So is his struggle with whether to take the oath of allegiance to the United States required of prisoners for a ticket home.

Third Winchester, where Park was shot, was the beginning of the end of Confederate control of the Shenandoah Valley. The 14th New Hampshire Infantry was mauled there; I have blogged about this regiment's fight that day here and here.

Park was a 17-year-old college student from Georgia when he enlisted shortly after the war began. My colleague Dave Morin directed me to his diary, which was published during the late 19th century by the Southern Historical Society. Park had lost the early portion of the diary during the war. In 1888, 11 years after the society's journal printed the latter part, Mrs. Vine Smith of Lebanon, N.H., sent Park the rest of it. I know neither who Mrs. Smith was nor how she acquired part of Park’s diary.

You can read more from Park about his regiment and his experience here and here. I condensed the diary by removing repetition and many names, details, detours and diatribes. The first part takes him from his wound at Winchester to the gate of the federal prison camp at Point Lookout, Md.:

Sept. 19 [1864] – Early this morning our cavalry pickets on the Opequon [river] were driven in, and it became evident that an attack was threatened.  . . . As soon as we reached [the battlefield] we were ordered to “forward into line,” and almost as quick as thought we were rapidly hurried to the attack. . . . Battle’s brigade, which had formed in rear of Evans’, rushed forward, and swept, with loud shouts, through the woods, driving the enemy swiftly before it.

Emory tipped his cap to Gen. Jubal Early.

I commanded the right company of our regiment and brigade in the charge. Colonel Pickens was not far from me, and General [Jubal] Early himself rode near me as we entered the action. I lifted my hat to the old hero as we ran forward, and noticed how proudly he watched our impetuous advance.

The enemy soon ran precipitately before us, and officers and men were in the utmost confusion. We raised our well known “Rebel yell,” and continued our onward run, for we actually ran, at our greatest speed, after the disordered host in our front. We could see they had a much larger force than ours, but we cared not for numbers. . . .

As we moved forward we passed scores, yes, hundreds, of dead and wounded Yankees, and a large number of prisoners were captured. We passed entirely through the woods, and into the open space beyond, when we halted for a moment, and then formed our line in the edge of the woods. . . .

The troops soon became impressed with the horrible, unendurable idea that they were flanked, and began to retreat in confusion. Just before this idea became prevalent, Private John Attaway, of my company, was shot through the breast by a minnie ball, and called me as he fell to go to him, saying he was mortally wounded.

I immediately began to walk from the right towards the left of the company, where Attaway was lying, bleeding and faint. I had gone but a few steps, and while raising my right foot was struck in the calf of the left leg by a minnie ball, which broke the small (fibula) bone, and badly fractured the large one. The ball flattened and came out sideways, severing muscles, veins, tendons and nerves.

I was knocked down, but ordered two of my men to carry Attaway off the field, the brave and faithful fellow urging them to carry me off first, declaring he would die anyway, and my life must be saved. However, I had him moved away to the rear before I consented for Privates P. W. Chappell and Tobe Ward to place me on my blanket and carry me to the rear. . . .

I was driven to the Union Hotel, then turned into a hospital. The surgeons examined my wound, pronounced it a serious one, and dressed it, uncertain in their minds whether the leg should be amputated or not. . . . I resolved I would die before submitting to its loss.

The surgeons promised me, in event our army was forced to evacuate Winchester, to send me off in an ambulance, but, a few minutes after, shot and shell were fired into the hospital building, crashing resistlessly through roof, walls, chimneys, etc., and knocking down bricks, plastering, planks and splinters over the helpless wounded and dying. The demoralized surgeons, hastily detailing two or three of their number to remain with the wounded, fled incontinently, forgetting, in their anxiety to escape capture, all thought of their promise to carry me along with them. . . .

Gen. Philip Sheridan led Union forces in the Valley.

Night found [Union Gen. Philip] Sheridan’s hosts in full and exultant possession of much abused, beloved Winchester. The hotel hospital was pretty full of desperately wounded and dying Confederates. The entire building was shrouded in darkness during the dreadful night. Sleep was impossible, as the groans, sighs, shrieks, prayers and oaths of the wretched sufferers, combined with my own severe pain, banished all thought of rest.

Sept. 20 – An elegant lady came in to see us, and inquired from what State we hailed. I replied, “Alabama,” whereupon she said she had lost a favorite cousin, a captain in an Alabama regiment, killed at Seven Pines. He proved to be Captain R. H. Keeling, of my company, and the good woman, Mrs. Hugh Lee, a relative of General R. E. Lee, immediately proposed to take us under her special care. . . .

We gladly consented, and, after a brief absence, she returned with some litters borne by negroes, who still remained faithful to their owners, despite the corrupting influences of the Yankees, and we were carried to the law office once used by Hon. James M. Mason, our Minister to England, and his able and venerable partner, Mr. Clark. . . . I suffered much from my wound to-day. A party of Confederates, perhaps a hundred, marched by the office under guard on their way to some Northern prison. The sight was a painful one. . . .

Sept. 22 – Yankees are continually passing our door, and frequently stop to gaze curiously and impertinently at us, and ask rude, tantalizing questions. They do not wait to be invited in, but stalk in noisily and roughly. Their conversation is coarse and insulting. . . .

Sept. 23 – Six families in the vicinity of the office have agreed to alternately furnish us with our daily meals. . . . Three times each day they send us very palatable and abundant meals, nicely cooked and of fine variety. Negro slaves bring them to us, and are very attentive and respectful, sincerely sympathizing with us in our sufferings, and openly declaring their purpose to remain with their mistresses (their masters are absent in the Southern army), and not regard the seductive promises made by the Yankees to induce them to abandon their life-long friends and homes.

Sept. 26 – My wound gives me constant pain. The torn flesh protrudes nearly two inches, and the severed nerves torture me much.

Sept. 27-29 – Three days of great suffering. Small bones are constantly working their way out of my wound, and the separated nerves and sinews keep me awake night and day. . . .

Sept. 30 – In the afternoon, while in conversation with the beautiful Miss N—— K——, a sharp piece of bone, making its exit from my wound, cut an artery, and “secondary hemorrhage” was produced. Miss N—— ran immediately for a surgeon, and, in an incredibly short time, returned with Dr. Hardy, who promptly applied sulphate of iron, and bandaged my leg very tightly from the foot to the knee, thus checking the dangerous hemorrhage. The blood flowed in jets from the artery, and I soon became very weak and deathly sick.

Drs. Weatherly and Hardy came to see me frequently during the day and night, and although they gave me two large doses of morphine, I could not sleep at all for pain.

Poor John Attaway died of his wound. . . .

Oct. 7-10 – My wound is slowly improving. I bought some tobacco with Confederate money, sold it for greenbacks, and bought a new hat for $3.00. My old military cap was lost as I was carried off the battlefield. The probability is that I will be unable to use my new one in many days to come. . . .

Two or three young ladies call at the office late each afternoon, and give us the latest news. Some of the ladies of the city have been treated very rudely for declining to walk under the United States flag. They will cross to the opposite side of the street, or leave the sidewalk, and go in the street, until they pass the hateful and hated piece of bunting, and thus avoid walking under its folds. Its stars, ostensibly representing a State each, proclaim a lie, and the stripes are emblems of tyranny and cruelty. . . .

Oct. 13 – The Federal surgeon of the post called at the office to examine us, and see whether we were able to bear transportation. I told him, as he looked at my wound, of my recent severe hemorrhage, and suggested that it might be dangerous for me to be moved for several days. He made no reply, but abruptly left us. Drs. W. and H., hearing that I was to be removed, called on the surgeon and protested against it. . . . The Yankee surgeon coarsely replied that he knew his own business, and that he would not exempt me from his order. . . . I loathe the idea of confinement in a Yankee prison, and deeply lament the forced necessity of parting with the unselfish, warm-hearted, glorious women who have so generously cared for me since my capture.

Oct. 14 – About 11 o’clock an ambulance was driven in front of the office, and two Yankees came in to carry me to it. I was not able to walk a step, not with crutches even, and scarcely able to turn over in bed. Many of my lady friends came to bid me good-bye and express their regret at my leaving. They placed a nice lunch in my haversack, and in those of my companions, and, bidding them a reluctant, sorrowful farewell, I was lifted into the ambulance. Farewell, sweet friends, and may Heaven protect you from the ruthless foes by whom you are surrounded.

The pike to Martinsburg was very rough, and I was in constant dread of another hemorrhage from my wound. There was a strong guard of cavalry riding in front, in rear, and on either side of us. . . .

Oct. 15 – The South has a few true and tried friends in Martinsburg, but they are greatly outnumbered by the Unionists. The former are of true Old Virginia stock, while the latter are a rather low class of people. The noted Miss Belle Boyd lives here. Miss Mary A—— and Miss D—— came to the ambulance and bade me good-bye, just as we were sent to the cars, bound for Baltimore.

Oct. 16 – Rode all night on the floor in a rough box car, crowded with twenty-five wounded Confederates. Water was loudly called for, but none was furnished. Reached the Monumental City at 2 o’clock P. M. A crowd of people were at the depot, but the guard kept them at a distance from us. I fancied I could see some sympathetic faces as I was borne on a litter to an ambulance, and driven to West’s Buildings Hospital. Was hoisted on a dumb-waiter to the third or fourth story, and assigned to Officers’ Ward “B.” . . .

Oct. 17 – A large, gray-headed, stern-looking old doctor, called a “contract surgeon,” as he is not commissioned, is in charge of the officers' ward. He is, I find, very unpopular with the wounded officers. His name is Knowles. . . .

Dr. Knowles came to my bed, inquired carelessly about my wound, and requested me to remove the bandage, that he might see it. I did so, telling him at the same time of my recent severe hemorrhage, but that I thought the bone was knitting together. Without uttering a word in reply, he took hold of my leg, and began to roughly press the flesh surrounding the wound. I told him he was hurting me very much, but he continued to press the wounded leg until it began to bleed, and jets of arterial blood flowed from it, just as it had done before I left Winchester.

I saw he had unnecessarily and designedly produced hemorrhage, and, for the first time in my life, I cursed. I denounced him as an inhuman wretch, as he stood smiling grimly and sardonically over me, and ordered him to leave my presence. The malignant old renegade did not offer to check the rapid flow of blood, but walked unconcernedly away, and out of the ward.

The nurse of the ward, a young Southerner, came to my rescue, and wrapped strips of cloth very tightly around my wound, the blood saturating them through several thicknesses, but finally arresting the hemorrhage. . . .

I learn Knowles is a Presbyterian elder, and a very bitter abolitionist. The puritanical old hypocrite has a soul so small it would have as much room in a mustard seed as a tadpole in the Pacific ocean. . . .

Oct. 19-21 – Still suffering from Knowles' malicious treatment. A number of slightly wounded and convalescent prisoners have been sent away from the hospital, some to Point Lookout, and others to Fort McHenry. My meals are brought to me, and are very meager indeed. . . . I have very little strength left, and need nourishing food, such as I had at dear old Winchester. . . .

We are permitted to buy only the Baltimore American and Philadelphia Inquirer, two intensely bitter black Republican sheets. No Democratic papers are admitted in the building. Yet, once in a while, a copy of the New York News, Ben. Wood’s popular paper, is smuggled in. Wood is a bold, defiant editor, and advocates General McClellan’s election over Abe Lincoln.

Oct. 22 – Applied for crutches to-day, as I am literally worn out from lying thirty-three days helpless in bed. A very rude and awkwardly made pair were brought, and, after tying a strip of cloth around my neck and extending it around my knee also, to hold up my wounded limb and thus prevent the painful, unendurable rush of blood to my leg and foot, still very sore from the severed nerves and muscles, I attempted to walk a few steps. Every step jarred my wound, and gave me pain, but I persisted in the effort for some time. . . .

Oct. 26 – Much excitement in the hospital caused by an order to Dr. Chapel, Chief Surgeon, to select the worst wounded prisoners for exchange. Of thirty officers in my ward, only one was chosen to be sent South. . . . Knowles will send only those who have lost an arm or leg, fearing the others, if allowed to breathe once more their free Southern air, may recover too speedily, and soon return with fresh ardor to their places in the Confederate army.

Instead of being treated with the generous kindness due brave men, wounded and captured in honorable battle, we are talked to and treated as if we were criminals. . . . It is an unnatural and diabolical policy to keep . . . sick and wounded prisoners . . . for months, perhaps years, when, by exchanging for an equal number of their own disabled men in Southern prisons, they could diminish greatly the number of deaths, and alleviate a vast deal of unnecessary suffering, both physical and mental.

Oct. 29-31 – Some convalescent prisoners, who were rude and severe in their conversation, while complaining of the scarcity of their food, and the neglect of their comrades and themselves by the surgeon, were punished by being locked up all night in the “Dead House,” where those who died were placed while preparations were being made for their burial. The room was kept in utter darkness, the dead bodies lying, uncoffined, frequently on the floor. . . .

Nov. 1 – Maryland was proclaimed a Free State to-day. I suppose Lincoln and Stanton will lose no time in recruiting soldiers from among the newly-freed negro slaves. Sheridan and Beast Butler would make suitable commanders for them. Cannons are firing, bells ringing, and flags flying in Baltimore. I could see the firing from Federal Hill.

The so-called freedom of the ignorant and helpless negroes will prove a misguided and mock philanthropy. They will never be so well cared for, nor as happy, as in a state of slavery to humane masters.

Like most other southerners, Emory had a favorite in
the northern election of 1864: George B. McClellan.  

Nov. 4-7 – Have been quite sick with dysentery, caused, no doubt, by improper food. . . .

The papers are full of the Presidential election contest between Lincoln and McClellan. While I prefer it, I have no hopes of the latter’s election. The Southern people respect him as a true soldier and gentleman, who, while conducting his army through Southern territory, always bore in mind the rules of civilized warfare, and restrained his soldiers from acts of depredation and lawlessness. Yet his humane mode of war does not suit the Christian (?) North as well as the barbarous style of the barn-burner Sheridan and his robber followers. . . . For this vandalism he was promoted, while the humane McClellan was dismissed from his command. Such is Yankee civilization, humanity and Christianity!

Nov. 8 – Day of election for Northern President. Lincoln received 11,000 majority over McClellan in Baltimore. The Democrats were intimidated and kept away from the polls.

Nov. 9 – The election news indicates that Lincoln and Stanton’s bloody and despotic rule will continue four years more. The renegade Andrew Johnson was rewarded, for betraying and deserting his native section, which had time and again heaped undeserved honors on his unworthy head, by being chosen Vice-President.

Emory considered Andrew Johnson a traitor. 

Nov. 10 – To my surprise and indignation, Knowles gave orders for no more meals to be carried to me, and that I should go to the tables on the ground floor provided for convalescents. I am required to go down and then up three steep flights of stairs, when I have not yet learned to use my crutches with any skill or ease, and have never yet attempted to walk out of my ward, and am still forced to carry my wounded leg and foot in a cloth swing suspended around my neck.

Nov. 16 – Two convalescent prisoners escaped a night or two ago by dashing through the gate into the street and city. They were fired at by the sentinels, but although the long roll was beat, the garrison aroused, and, with the city police, put in active pursuit, the daring youths were not recaptured. Their good fortune is to be envied. I learn they had relations who aided them in their hazardous attempt. Dr. Knowles took the names of a large number who are to be sent to Point Lookout [federal prison camp], we hopefully suppose for exchange. I am one of the rejoicing number.

Nov. 21-22 – We are hoping each day to be sent to Point Lookout, en route for exchange. I have been thirty-five days in Baltimore.

Nov. 23 – Left on the boat S. G. Cannon for Point Lookout, Maryland. I used my crutches more skillfully and swiftly on my way to the boat than I had ever done before. There seemed a prospect of home, sweet home, before me. The chill winds blew fiercely, and I passed a very cold, unpleasant night on deck. Arrived at the Point about 3 o’clock P. M., and was assigned to Ward Fourteen, General Hospital.

Part 2: Held captive at Point Lookout.