This installment of
the Civil War diary of Capt. Robert Emory Park of the 12th Alabama Infantry
covers his weeks of captivity at Point Lookout, Md., a Union prison camp. The
2nd, 5th and 12th New Hampshire regiments spent several months as guards at
Point Lookout. An earlier blogpost tells the story of a killing at the camp during
their tenure.
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| The monument at the cemetery at Point Lookout. Of the 50,000 prisoners incarcerated there, about 4,000 died. |
We pick up Park’s
story upon his arrival at Point Lookout two months after he was severely
wounded in the leg and captured at Winchester, Va.
Nov. 24 – Thanksgiving Day for the Lincolnites. Had a
good dinner, better than any I have had since I left Winchester. We are anxious
for a flag of truce boat to carry us to Dixie, and it is the perpetual theme of
conversation. I bunk with Lieutenant Edmondson, of the Thirty-seventh Virginia,
in order to keep warm.
Nov. 25 – This is an intensely cold place. The Point
is very bleak in winter, situated between Chesapeake bay and the Potomac river.
The privates in the “prison pen” must suffer terribly, as they are thinly
clothed, many in rags, and are poorly supplied with blankets and coal or wood.
The fare is much better than at West’s Buildings Hospital.
Nov. 26-30 – Weather
continues freezingly cold, and no truce boat yet.
Dec. 1-9 – The officers have been separated from the
privates, and put in ward “D,” a Swiss cottage. Lieutenant J. P. Arrington,
A.D.C., and Adjutant W. B. L. Reagan, Sixteenth battalion Tennessee cavalry,
and myself are in the same room.
They are very genial, pleasant gentlemen. Adjutant Reagan
has had a leg amputated above the knee, and is in very delicate health. All
three of us use crutches.
Dec. 9 – Letters have been received from Captain
Hewlett, now at Fort Delaware; from Misses Lizzie Swartzwelder, Nena Kiger,
Gertie Coffroth and Jennie Taylor, of Winchester, and Misses Anna McSherry,
Mollie Harlan and Mary Alburtis, of Martinsburg. The dear young ladies who
write me so promptly and so kindly have my warmest gratitude for their cheering
letters. These charming, hitherto unknown “Cousins” contribute greatly towards
relieving the tedious, unvarying monotony of this humiliating prison life. . .
.
Private Sam Brewer, of my company, also wrote me from
Elmira, New York, where he is confined as a prisoner of war. Sam was the
well-known, humorous sutler of the Twelfth Alabama. He says that a poor,
starving Tar Heel at Elmira, looking up piteously and pleadingly at him, as he
sucked a bare beef-bone, said: “Mr., when you finish that bone, please, sir,
let me juice it a while.”
This letter must have been overlooked or very hurriedly read
by the prison inspectors who examine all letters and condemn hundreds of them,
or I would never have been permitted to receive it. Sam says it is bitter cold
at Elmira, and he has but one blanket. They have snows several feet deep. Poor
Dick Noble, from “Big Hungry,” near Tuskegee, died a prisoner at Elmira. He was
a faithful fellow.
A kind letter was received, too, from Mr. J. W. Fellows, of
Manchester, New Hampshire, who,
with Professor William Johns, prepared me for
college at Brownwood Institute, La Grange, Georgia, in 1859. He is now
practicing law, and is an uncompromising Democrat. He has lived among the
Southern people, formed friendships there, and understands their peculiar
institution – slavery. His letter is very kind and full of sympathy, and he
offers to aid me.
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| Plaque at Point Lookout gives the prison's history. |
Alfred Parkins, of Winchester, a prisoner in the “Bull Pen,”
as the quarters of the privates is designated, came to see Lieutenant
Arrington, having as a guard over him a coal-black, brutal-looking negro
soldier, an escaped “contraband,” as Beast Butler styles the stolen and refugee
slaves from the South. Parkins says there is great destitution and suffering in
the “Pen,” their food is insufficient, many are in rags and without blankets,
and very little wood is furnished for fires.
He says that several of the negro soldiers guarding them
were once slaves of some of the prisoners, and have been recognized as such.
Some of them are still respectful, and call their young owners “master,” and
declare they were forced to enlist. A majority of them, however, inflated by
their so-called freedom, are very insolent and overbearing. They frequently
fire into the midst of the prisoners, upon the slightest provocation.
One negro sentinel, a few days ago, shot a prisoner as he
walked slowly and faithfully from sheer debility away from the foul sinks to
his tent, simply because he did not and could not obey his
imperative order to “move on faster dar.” Instead of being court-martialed and
punished for the wanton murder, the villain was seen a few days afterwards
exulting in his promotion to a corporalcy, and posting a relief-guard.
This employment of former slaves to guard their masters is
intended to insult and degrade the latter. Such petty malice and cowardly
vengeance could originate only in ignoble minds. . . .
Dec. 10-13 – Our meals are growing exceedingly
scanty, and there is universal complaint of hunger. . . .
The prisoners are employed as laborers to empty vessels of
provisions, coal, wood, etc., and to do all sorts of menial offices. Their
small rations are slightly increased as a reward, and they enjoy a respite from
the rigid confinement. They are glad to get on these working squads.
My brave men, one of whom is Wesley F. Moore, are true as
steel, and, despite their sufferings and privations, are still hopeful of
success, and resolved to remain faithful to the bitter, end. I write them
encouragingly, send them some tobacco, bought from the sutler, and urge them to
remain faithful to their cause, and never despair of ultimate deliverance from
prison, and the final success of the Southern Confederacy. . . .
Dec. 14-17 – Have received a kind letter from Mr.
James M. Coulter, of Baltimore, stating that he inclosed five dollars, and
generously offering to send anything else I might need. The letter had been
opened and money abstracted before it was handed me. . . . We have no redress,
and must submit to the unpunished and unrebuked robbery.
Dec. 18-20 – Our cottage is some distance from the
main hospital buildings. . . . My Dutch doctor has been sending my meager meals
to me, but two days ago he ordered me to go to my meals. A painful accident
happened to me on my first attempt, and I am now confined to my bed.
It had rained and sleeted the night before, and the long
piazza was covered over with ice. The morning was windy and bitter cold; but
knowing I could not afford to miss a meal, I took up my crutches and began my
walk over the frozen ground to the nearest steps of the circular piazza. I was
filled with dread on finding it covered with sleek, glassy ice, and used my
crutches and right foot with great care and slowness. My left foot and leg were
tied up as usual by a white cloth swing suspended around my neck, and I feared
I might fall at any time. . . .
Just as I had reached within two buildings of the breakfast
room, and was congratulating myself on my good fortune, some Yankee guards,
composed of Irish and Dutch, met me, and as they did not offer to make room for
me, I moved towards one side, and as I did so one of my crutches slipped on the
treacherous ice, and I fell forward, throwing, without thought, my wounded foot
and leg in front of me, breaking the thin cloth swing as I did so, and falling
with all my weight on my disabled limb. . . .
My unfortunate leg was again seriously injured and my whole
nervous system shocked and unstrung. The soldiers picked me up and assisted me
to my room, where I have lain ever since in a state of helplessness and severe
pain.
Dec. 21-24 – Our prison circle has been thrown into a
state of feverish excitement by the perpetration of one of the most brutal and
cowardly outrages ever inflicted upon unarmed, helpless, wounded prisoners of
war and brave, honorable gentlemen and soldiers.
Lieutenant Morgan, of North Carolina, and Lieutenant
Hudgins, of Virginia, were apprehended in a very daring and reckless
attempt to escape from the Point, by seizing a small boat fastened to the river
bank and rowing to the Virginia shore. Both of these officers had been wounded,
and Hudgins was still on crutches, and the probabilities are, if they had not
been swamped and drowned during the dark, blustering night, that the terrible
cold and piercing wind would have frozen them to death, clothed as they were,
before they could have reached the Virginia shore, said to be over two miles
distant. . . .
While Morgan was striking at the chain which fastened the
boat, the noise was heard, and he and his bold comrade were arrested and
closely confined all night in a guard room, without fire or blankets. They were
afterwards clad in a peculiar felon’s suit, made of blankets sewed up before
and open behind, the close fitting body being joined to the covering for the
arms and legs, all being one garment. They wore blanket caps running to a
point, with tassels; a ball and chain, attached only to condemned criminals,
was fastened to a leg of each.
This infamous and barbarous treatment of gallant Confederate
officers, honorable prisoners of war, under no parole whatever, was a shame and
disgrace to the authorities who ordered its infliction. . . .
Dec. 25 – How keenly and vividly home recollections
come to my mind to-day! I see the huge baked turkey, the fat barbecued
pig, delicious oysters, pound and fruit cakes, numerous goblets of egg-nog and
syllabub, etc., etc., on my beloved mother’s hospitable table. My brothers and
sisters are sitting around it as of yore, and my dear fond mother, with warmest
love and pride beaming from her still handsome blue eyes, now somewhat dimmed
by approaching age, sits at one end bountifully helping each plate to a share
of the well-cooked eatables before her. . . .
Over three months have passed since I have heard from home
and mother. What changes may have occurred since my capture, the 19th of
September! Two of my brothers are members of the First Georgia reserves, now
guarding the thirty thousand Yankee prisoners at Andersonville – one is major,
and the other, a youth of sixteen years, is one of Captain Wirz’s sergeants. .
. . I hope and feel that my brothers are civil and kind to the Yankees they are
guarding. They are too brave to act otherwise.
My poor prison dinner was in sad contrast with my Christmas
dinners at home. It consisted of beef soup, a small piece of pickled beef, some
rice, and a slice of loaf bread. Lastly, to our astonishment, about three
mouthfuls each of bread pudding, not very sweet, were handed us.
Dec. 29-31 – The last days of eventful, never to be
forgotten 1864. All hope of a speedy exchange is now dying within us. The
prospect is exceedingly gloomy. Savannah has been captured by Sherman, and
Hood defeated in Tennessee. I am not at all despondent, however, and believe
the Confederate States will be successful and independent yet. It is rumored we
are to be removed in a day or two to Old Capitol Prison, Washington city. Our
surgeon confirms the report. Point Lookout will be left with no regrets.
Jan. 1, 1865 – The first day of 1865 is far from
bright and cheerful; it is snowing, cold and windy. Our little band of
Confederates remain closely in quarters, discussing the past and speculating on
the future, now apparently dark and gloomy, of our sorely pressed county.
Recently captured prisoners tell us of the great straits to
which General Lee’s army around Richmond has been reduced, of the long, thinly
scattered line of soldiers, pale and worn by hunger and constant watching, and
of the gloom and despondency enveloping the heroic citizens of the beleaguered
Confederate capital.
They confirm also the disheartening accounts of the
dastardly conduct of Sherman in my native State, dear old Georgia, of his
expelling the citizens of Atlanta from their homes, and the destruction of the
entire city, and of his bloodthirsty letter to Honorable J. M. Calhoun, Mayor
of Atlanta, declaring his purpose “to shorten the war by increasing its
severity.”
The Northern papers, too, gloat over his cruel and boasted “march
to the sea,” and of his capture of Savannah, December 21st. . . . Totally disregarding
all the laws and usages of civilized war, unrestrained and uninfluenced by the
humane and Christian conduct of General Lee, when in Pennsylvania, Sherman says
in his official report: “We consumed the corn and fodder in the region of
country thirty miles on either side of a line from Atlanta to Savannah; also
the sweet potatoes, hogs, sheep and poultry, and carried off more than 10,000
horses and mules. I estimate the damage done to the State of Georgia at
$100,000,000, at least $20,000,000 of which inured to our advantage, and the
rest was simple waste and destruction.”
Here he confesses to have wantonly destroyed $80,000,000
worth of property of private citizens. Attila, Genseric and Alaric were not
more cruel to the conquered Romans, than the brutal Sherman has been to the
defenseless, utterly helpless old men, women and children of pillaged and
devastated Georgia.
No wonder our reflections and conversation on the first day
of the new year were of a sad character. Added to our gloom at the news from
the South was the painful intelligence that all hope of our exchange was now at
an end, and we are to be carried to Old Capitol Prison as soon as
transportation is furnished.
Jan. 2 – After 9 o’clock at night all the officers at
Point Lookout, except Major Hanvey, who was too sick to be removed, were put on
board the boat “Johnson,” and at 1 o'clock in the morning were carried to the
mail boat “James T. Brady,” bound for Washington city, and sailed up the
Potomac.
The wind blew fearfully cold, and as we were compelled to
sleep on deck and in the gangway, our suffering was severe indeed. Fortunately
I got near the boiler, and fared better than the majority of the party. As we
advanced towards the city, the river was blocked by ice, covering it several inches
in thickness, from shore to shore. The passage was slow, as the ice had to be
broken in front of the steamer every foot of the way.
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