Capt. Robert Emory
Park was just 20 years old when he was badly wounded and captured at the third
battle of Winchester, Va., on Sept. 19, 1864. In this, the third and concluding part of a
condensation of his late-war diary, he remains a die-hard Southern firebrand as
he moves from prison to prison and the war news turns grimmer and grimmer for
his cause.
His reactions to
Sherman’s March, Richmond’s fall, the surrender of the Confederate armies, the
Lincoln assassination and the capture of Jefferson Davis are sharp and emotional.
He struggles with his conscience over whether to take the loyalty oath required
of rebel prisoners wishing to go home.
We begin just after
New Year’s Day of 1865. Park, still suffering from his leg wound, is debarking a mail
boat that delivered officers transferred from Point Lookout, Md., to the Old
Capitol Prison in Washington, D.C.
Jan. 3, 1865 – We landed on the wharf at Washington
at 9 o’clock A. M., and found it covered with snow and ice. In this
uncomfortable place, with no shelter from the bleak wind, standing on the
frozen snow, we remained under guard from 9 o’clock till 5 o’clock P. M. We had
no fire, and only a few crackers and some wretched coffee for food.
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| John C. Calhoun, one of Park's heroes. |
At dark we were carried in ambulances to the Old Capitol.
This prison, situated on the corner of A and First streets, is an old brick
building, erected in 1817, for the use of Congress, as the capitol building
proper had been destroyed by fire by the British army under General Ross,
August 24th, 1814. It was used by Congress until the capitol was rebuilt, and
then fitted up as a boarding house.
Honorable John C. Calhoun, of South Carolina, died in it.
This pure and illustrious patriot and statesman – twice elected Vice-President
of the United States, and the greatest of the great “Triumvirate,” Calhoun,
Clay and Webster, the only one who has left any enduring work to perpetuate his
fame – never dreamed that his own room, in sight of the Goddess of Liberty on
the dome of the capitol, would someday be used as a prison dungeon for the victims
of rampant, fanatical abolitionism and the advocates of a higher law than the
constitution which they had sworn to uphold and support. . . .
We reached Old Capitol at 7 o’clock P. M., and about two
hours after, nine of us were assigned to “room 9,” second floor. This room is
about twelve feet by fourteen in size, and contained in one corner five
sleeping berths or bunks, like those used in canal boats, one above the other,
and about eighteen inches apart. The bunks are made of rough plank, three feet wide
and six feet long. . . .
The berths had each a tick, containing a scanty quantity of
old straw, which no doubt had done service for years. Each one was also
furnished with a dirty quilt or blanket, and vermin held high carnival among
them. The dingy walls were festooned with cobwebs, and darkened by smoke from
the very small coal grate in one end of the room. A bench and two boxes were
used for chairs. We have none of the comforts we have been accustomed to at
home. . . .
All my bright dreams of being exchanged and visiting my good
mother were banished. The future looks dark and uncertain. . . .
Jan. 4 – I awoke early, looked out from my bunk, and
scanned my narrow, crowded room more closely. It was used as a committee room
of the old Congress, and had probably been repeatedly tenanted by Calhoun,
Crawford, Webster, Forsyth, Tyler and other leading statesmen of their time. Phantoms of the past rose before me, and I fancied I could hear the voices of
the departed orators, as they declaimed against the abuses and errors of the
day, and gave their powerful aid to the sacred cause of personal liberty and
State sovereignty. . . .
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| The Old Capitol prison in Washington, D.C., a symbol of tyranny for Park. |
January 6-8 – Sunday has come and gone; and I, in
common with most of my fellow prisoners, accepted an invitation given to hear
Rev. Dr.—— preach in the mess-room. Dr.—— preached an ordinary
sermon, which received polite attention from the prisoners, and afterwards
walked into the open ground, 100 feet square, where we were allowed to exercise
half an hour each day at dinner time, and began to distribute tracts to the
prisoners.
He handed me one, at the head of which was a picture in
colors of the “old flag,” that emblem of hate and oppression, called by Horace
Greeley “a flaunting lie.” . . . What connection could there be between the
stars and stripes and the pure religion of Jesus Christ? It was insulting, not
only to us, but to the Almighty, to circulate such sacrilegious literature. . .
.
I threw my tract upon the ground and stamped it with my
crutch and heel, which the young men heartily applauded, throwing down their
tracts also, and some of them crushing the emblems of sectional hate and Yankee
fanaticism beneath their feet. The Yankee’s love for the flag is all sentiment,
false and hollow, as they do not care at all for or regard the principles it
was originally intended to symbolize. . . .
Jan. 9-11 – Our daily bill of fare consists of bread
and tea for breakfast, and a small piece of pork, some beans and bean soup in a
tin cup, with one-third of a loaf of bread, for dinner. Sometimes beef and beef
soup is furnished in lieu of pork and bean soup.
Jan. 13 – This is my birthday, and I am twenty-one
years old. This is an important epoch in a man’s life, when he “becomes of age,”
a “free man,” and enjoys the privilege of voting. Its arrival, however, does
not bring “freedom” to me.
Jan. 26-30 – A sentinel summoned me to the
Superintendent’s office, where I found Mr. Clark, who directed me to a receipt
for a box of clothing, just forwarded by express by my excellent friend, Mr. J.
M. Coulter, of Baltimore.
The box had been opened and its contents examined by Clark,
who ordered the guard to carry it to room 9, where I gladly looked at the
welcome and much needed articles. It contained a gray jacket, a pair of pants,
two over and two undershirts, two pairs drawers, two pairs socks, two silk
handkerchiefs, one pair shoes, two bars of soap and two combs.
 |
| Next stop for Captain Park was the Fort Delaware prison. |
At 4 o’clock we took the cars for Baltimore, arriving there
at half-past 6 o’clock, and there took the train for New Castle,
Delaware, via Havre de Grace. I am getting accustomed to being
dragged about from prison to prison, and think I will soon know all about
Yankee bastilles, and see also a good deal of the country, traveling at the
Government’s expense.
Feb. 4 – We walked a mile from the depot, through New
Castle, to the wharf. The noble ladies of the town cheered us by sympathizing
looks and kind words, as we trudged along, several of us on crutches, and a few
of them brought us tempting lunches of ham, chicken, biscuit, preserves and
fruit.
These lovely Delaware women are our own kith and kin, and
our cause is their cause too. Little Delaware is a slave State, and she has
furnished some great orators and statesmen. . . .
We reluctantly left the good ladies of New Castle, and
entered the boat bound for the dreaded fort, five miles distant. We reached it
at 1 o’clock, landed, and marched on a plank walk (the street or road was mud
itself), till we were near the entrance to the barracks, and then halted.
Here we were ordered to “front,” and a close search of
our persons and baggage was instituted. Every pocket was emptied, and watches,
jewelry, knives, greenbacks and Confederate money were taken possession of. My
canteen, one I had captured in the Valley, was confiscated. I suppose the
authorities feared I would use it as a buoy to aid me in swimming across the
bay some dark night.
After the rigid search, we were ushered into the officers’
barracks yard, where, crowding near the gate, along the plank walk, and at the
windows and doors of the nearest “divisions” (as the rooms of the barracks were
designated), we were greeted by hundreds of fellow prisoners, all eager to
catch a glimpse of the new arrivals. As the gate swung open and we entered,
suddenly the shout “Fresh Fish” was raised, and the different “divisions” were
speedily emptied of their inmates, who rushed eagerly toward us, inquiring “where
we were from,” “the latest news from Dixie,” etc.
Feb. 5 – My sleep was a very cold and uncomfortable
one last night, and I rose early to warm myself by the single stove in the “division.”
The “pen,” as our quarters are called, embraces an area of near two acres. The
building, a mere shell, unceiled and unplastered, is on three sides, with a
high, close plank fence on the fourth side, separating us from the privates’
barracks. . . .
Each division is heated by one large upright stove, which
the prisoners keep very hot when sufficient coal can be obtained. The room is
so open and cold, however, that a half-dozen or more stoves would be required
to heat it. Several poor fellows, who have no bunk-mates and a scarcity of
covering, sit up around the stoves and nod all night. . . .
Feb. 7-8 – The majority of the prisoners are
worn and feeble by sickness, want of necessary food, wounds, scurvy, personal
care, anxiety and privation. Many are sadly depressed on account of long
confinement and cruel delay in exchanges. Some are in complete despair. Others
make Dixie and home themes of constant thought and conversation. They dream and
sigh, and talk and long for home and its loved ones.
A few constitutional cowards, who have a mortal horror of the
battlefield, seem contented here. They prefer to risk the annoyances,
inconveniences, hunger, insults and diseases of prison to the lesser but more
dreaded dangers of the field of battle. This class of persons is very limited.
Over 2,000 officers and 7,000 non-commissioned officers and privates are in the
two prison pens.
Brigadier-General A. Schœff, a Hungarian, is in command, and
has two very unpopular and insolent officers, Captain G. W. Ahl and Lieutenant
Woolf, as his adjutants. . . .
Feb. 9 – A few officers were paroled to-day for
exchange. Why am I not among the number? Very few here are more helpless than
I, and the fortunate parties are strong and well. It is difficult to be patient
and calm under such treatment.
Feb. 10-12 – There is a tent of sutler’s supplies
near the mess hall, kept by an avaricious Yankee, named Emery, who is believed
to be a partner of General Schœff. Tobacco, matches, oil for cooking lamps,
stationery, baker’s bread, pies, cakes, apples, onions, etc., all of very poor quality,
are kept for sale, and from 500 per cent, to 1,000 per cent, profit is charged.
February 13-16 – The privy is on the beach, where the
tide comes in, 150 feet or more distant from the nearest division. It is open
and exposed in front, and is in sight of Delaware city. . . . The sea water
proves no disinfectant, and the constant frequenters of the place are sickened
by the offensive odors which are wafted to their sensitive olfactories.
Diarrhea and dysentery are so prevalent, and the pen is so
crowded, that parties are very often compelled to wait an hour or longer before
they can be relieved. The floor and seats are too filthy and nauseating for
description; yet very many who suffer from the diseases mentioned visit the
foul place dozens of times, day and night, in rain, wind, hail, sleet and snow,
and in spite of the most intense cold and blackest, most impenetrable darkness,
pollution is scarcely avoidable on such occasions.
Feb. 21-24 – The newspaper accounts of Sherman’s
march from Georgia through South Carolina are heartrending. . . . Would that
the prisoners at Fort Delaware could be exchanged and sent to confront this
ruthless, heartless destroyer of the homes and subsistence of helpless women
and children. We would teach him a wholesome lesson.
Feb. 25-26 – The terrible reports of Sherman’s cruelty
during the burning of Columbia, and of his subsequent march into North
Carolina, are appalling and disheartening to us all. The
Carolinians are specially grieved and indignant.
Sherman’s whole course in the South is in bold and
dishonorable contrast with the gentle and generous conduct of Lee and his veterans
in Maryland and Pennsylvania. I well remember that memorable march into the
enemy’s territory, far more daring and heroic than the unopposed marches of the
brutal Sherman through Georgia and Carolina. . . .
Feb. 28 – One hundred and three officers, of those
earliest captured, were paroled to-day for exchange. We are growing hopeful of
a speedy return to our homes and all are in fine spirits.
March 3-6 – The parapet between our pen and that of
the privates, on which the sentinels walk, had several ladies and gentlemen
walking upon it a day or two ago, and they looked kindly and compassionately
upon the emaciated, ragged, suffering Rebels in the two pens. One of the ladies
carried her handkerchief to her eyes to wipe away the generous tears, as she
gazed pityingly upon the abject misery and wretchedness before her. . . .
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| Prisoners at Point Lookout line up to take the oath of allegiance. Park resisted it, seeing the rebel cause as 'just and holy.' |
These weak and cowardly men are willing to betray their own
country and people, and swear to support a government which they can but
detest. Such men could not have been of any real value to the South, but rather
skulking nuisances, and they are to be pitied as well as despised.
March 16 – Miss Eliza Jamison, my fair unknown friend
of Baltimore, sent me five dollars, promised to correspond with me herself, and
enclosed a bright, sparkling letter, full of wit and humor, from a young lady
friend of hers, signed “Mamie,” offering to “write to me once in awhile to
cheer me in my prison life.” . . .
Mr. J. W. Fellows, of Manchester, New Hampshire, writes he
has sent me twenty-five dollars, but it has never been received. Such a
handsome remittance would be a God-send to me now. I suppose the letter
examiner pocketed it. . . .
March 19 – To my surprise I received a letter from
Abe Goodgame, a mulatto slave belonging to Colonel Goodgame of my regiment, who
was captured in the Valley, and is now a prisoner confined at Fort McHenry,
having positively refused to take the oath. He asks me to write to his master
when I am exchanged, and tell him of his whereabouts, and that he is faithful
to him. I replied to Abe in an encouraging way, and showed his letter to
several officers of my brigade.
The blatant Abolitionists of the North would scarcely be
convinced of the truth of this negro slave’s fidelity to his master, if they
were to see it. They are totally ignorant of the real status of the divine
institution of slavery, and would be shocked at such an evidence of love for
and faithfulness to his master as this slave exhibits. . . .
March 25-26 – Deaths from smallpox, pneumonia, scurvy,
fevers, dysentery, and various other diseases, are alarmingly frequent. There
is honor and glory in death on the field of battle, amid the whistling of
bullets, the shrieks of shells, the fierce roar of cannon, and the defiant
shouts of the brave combatants, but the saddest, most solemn and painful of
deaths is that within prison walls, far from home and loved ones. . . .
April 2-3 – The appalling news of the evacuation of
Richmond and Petersburg has reached us, and the Yankee papers are frantic in their
exultant rejoicings. We have feared and rather expected this dreaded event, for
General Lee’s excessive losses from battle, by death and wounds, prisoners,
disease and desertion, with no reinforcements whatever, taught us that the
evacuation of the gallant Confederate capital was inevitable.
I suppose our peerless chieftain will retreat to Lynchburg,
or perhaps to North Carolina, and there unite his shattered forces with the
army of General Joseph E. Johnston. “There’s life in the old land yet,” and Lee
and Johnston, with their small but veteran armies united, having no longer to
guard thousands of miles of frontier, will yet wrest victory and independence
for the Confederacy from the immense hosts of Yankees, Germans, Irish, English,
Canadians and negroes, ex-slaves, composing the powerful armies under Grant and
Sherman. . . .
April 10 – The news to-day is dreadful indeed. “General
Lee has surrendered” is repeated with hushed breath from lip to lip. No human
tongue, however eloquent, no pen, however gifted, can give an adequate
description of our dismay and horror at the heart-rending news. . . .
After four long weary years of battle and marches, of
prayers and tears, of pain and sacrifice, of wounds and woe, of blood and
death, such an ending of our hopes, such a shocking disappointment, is bitter,
cruel, crushing. . . . We feel deep, unutterable regret at our failure, but no
humiliation. We have done nothing wrong. Our rights were trampled upon, our
property stolen, and our liberties attacked, and we did but our sacred duty to
defend them as well as we could. . . .
The Yankees of New England first practiced and taught us the
doctrine of secession, and then by force forbade us to apply it peaceably. The
heroic men who fought, bled and died, are in prison or in exile for this
principle, this inherent right, ought not and will not be known in history as
traitors.
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| Some prisoners cheered news of the assassination. Captain Park expressed ambivalence about it even though he considered Lincoln a scoundrel. |
“ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN,
John Wilkes Booth the murderer.
ATTEMPTED MURDER OF SECRETARY SEWARD,
John Howard Payne the Supposed Assassin.”
I called aloud to my hospital comrades, and as I read, they
left their bunks and crowded around me, listening with awe to the tragic
recital. One of them remarked that he would gladly divide his last crust of
bread with the daring Booth, if he should meet him in his wanderings. I said I
looked upon Lincoln as a tyrant and inveterate enemy of the South, and could
shed no tears for him, but deprecated the cruel manner of his taking off. While
we were eagerly and excitedly discussing the startling news, the young
galvanized renegade Curry came to my bunk and took down my card, saying, “the
doctor says you must go to the barracks.” . . .
Protesting against the inhumanity of his order, I crawled on
my hands, right foot and hips to the door of the ward, and nearby, in a small
ante-room, put on my old suit of clothes, laying aside my hospital garb. I was
then directed to the door of the hospital, down a long, bleak, windy passage,
near the gate to the officers’ barracks. Here I waited for my crutches and
further orders. . . .
Many who were quite sick – some of the scurvy afflicted
among them – hobbled slowly and painfully out of their wards, and the long,
cold hall was soon crowded with the sick, the lame and the halt. . . . The
plank walk near and space in front of the gate were filled with anxious and
curious Confederate officers, who eagerly asked the news. . . . I headed the
long procession, and repeated, as I walked, “Abe Lincoln was killed last night.”
The news spread like wildfire, and a few thoughtless fellows
seemed overjoyed at it, throwing up their hats, dancing, jumping, and even
shouting aloud. Their imprudence caused General Schoepff to order his guards to
fire upon any Rebel manifesting pleasure at the news, and he actually had the
huge guns of the fort turned frowningly toward us.
A large majority of the prisoners regret Lincoln’s death,
and in the wonderful charity which buries all quarrels in the grave, the dead
President was no longer regarded as an enemy, for, with the noble generosity
native to Southern character, all resentment was hidden in his death.
April 24-25 – Captain Ahl came into the pen, arranged
the officers in three sides of a hollow square, and had the roll called
alphabetically, offering the oath of allegiance to all, with a promise of early
release, if accepted. Nearly 900 out of 2,300 agreed to take it.
It was a trying and exciting time as each name was called
and the response “Yes” or “No” was announced. I answered “No” with emphasis and
bitterness. Born on Southern soil, reared under its institutions, nurtured upon
its traditions, I cannot consent to take the hated oath. The very thought is
repulsive in the extreme.
April 26-29 – The distressing news of the surrender
of General Johnston to Sherman in North Carolina is announced in words of
exultation by the Northern papers. The cup of bitterness and sorrow seems full.
Those officers who had declined the oath were again ordered
out, the roll called a second time, and the oath again offered. Hundreds who
had promptly and boldly replied “No” when their names were called after Lee’s
surrender, now faintly and reluctantly answered “Yes.” . . . When my name was
called, I promptly and defiantly answered at the top of my voice “No.”
April 30-May 4 – Another offer of the villainous
oath, and only 165 of the entire number of officers in the barracks now
continue to resolutely decline it. I again refused. . . .
The Confederate cause is right and holy, and I cannot swear
not to aid or comfort it and its still faithful defenders. None but a base and
cowardly despotism would force a man to swear against his own conscience, to do
something he can only do through perjury. To swear under such circumstances is
to suppress the noblest impulses of the heart.
May 5-10 – General Dick Taylor has surrendered to
General Canby all the forces east of the Mississippi river. Everything grows
darker and more hopeless. The Trans-Mississippi army, under General Kirby
Smith, alone remains.
A few of us, “like drowning men catching at straws,” still
hope for exchange and deliverance through this source.
May 19-31 – The mortifying news of the capture of
President Davis, near Washington, Georgia, is received, and the false report of
his attempt to escape in female attire is circulated and maliciously harped
upon by the fanatical Yankee newspapers. While I feel sure the report is
totally untrue, yet I confess I think he would have been entirely justified in
it, if he had sought to escape by such means. . . .
The illustrious, undaunted head of our Confederacy is a
manacled prisoner. Our honored, beloved President a chained captive, his
Cabinet prisoners or fugitives, our cause lost, our country ruined, our native
land desolated, our gallant armies surrendered. The grand head, the noble
embodiment of our holy cause, the faithful friend and servant of the South,
President Davis, is now shut up in the dreary prison walls of Fortress Monroe.
On the 26th my last, fond hope was completely crushed.
General Kirby Smith surrendered his forces in the Trans-Mississippi Department
to General Canby at Baton Rouge. . . . What shall I do? If the alternative of
banishment from the country was offered, I would unhesitatingly accept it. But
it is the hated oath of allegiance or perpetual imprisonment. Both are
terrible, revolting. . . .
June 1-5 – I am collecting the autographs of the
brave men who to the last have refused the oath of allegiance, nearly all of
whom now, since the surrender of Kirby Smith and his army, are willing to take
the oath when again offered, in accordance with the proclamation of President
Johnson.
The faithful forty have at last most reluctantly
come to the sad and painful conclusion that further resistance is useless, and
will no longer refuse the oath if offered. . . .
June 13-15 – Transportation for all the crippled
officers was obtained, and in company with Captain Russell and Captain Rankin,
of Georgia, Adjutant Reagan, of Tennessee, and a large number of other wounded
officers, I was escorted to the fort, where the oath was read to us, while we
stood with our right hands raised aloft. I managed to drop to the rear and
lowered my hand during its reading. Soon we took a boat for Philadelphia, and
began to realize that the war was indeed over, and we on the way to our
respective homes.
Next: A prequel: Capt. Park at Gettysburg
Next: A prequel: Capt. Park at Gettysburg
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