A
SOLDIER'S STORY.
[From Newton Enterprise.]
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 p!
resent 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
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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 o!
nly 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
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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:
a.. United States prisoners held in Southern prisons, . 270,000
b.. United States prisoners died in Southern prisons, . 22,000
c.. About 8 per cent.
a.. Confederate prisoners held in Northern prisons, . . 220,000
b.. Confederate prisoners died in Northern prisons, . . 26,000
c.. About 12 per cent.
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
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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 ru!
n 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"
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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
state!
d 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
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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
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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
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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 fr!
om 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 bi!
scuit. 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
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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 marc!
h 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
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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 (an!
d 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
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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 to!
wards 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 g!
et cold) so I could get out and get clothing to put on. The atmosphere of the
room was colder, if anything, than the
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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 fa!
iling 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
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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 g!
one. 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 my!
self this is true. He, as
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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 an!
d 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
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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
under!
standing 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
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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
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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.
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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.