“Sick call,” And the scenes that accompanied it-mustering the lame, halt
and diseased at the south gate-an unusually bad case-going out to the
hospital-accommodation and treatment of the patients there-the horrible
suffering in the gangrene ward-bungling amputations by blundering
practitioners-affection between A sailor and his ward-death of my
comrade.

Every morning after roll-call, thousands of sick gathered at the South Gate, where the doctors made some pretense of affording medical relief.  The scene there reminded me of the illustrations in my Sunday-School lessons of that time when “great multitudes came unto Him,” by the shores of the Sea of Galilee, “having with them those that were lame, blind, dumb, maimed, and many others.”  Had the crowds worn the flouting robes of the East, the picture would have lacked nothing but the presence of the Son of Man to make it complete.  Here were the burning sands and parching sun; hither came scores of groups of three or four comrades, laboriously staggering under the weight of a blanket in which they had carried a disabled and dying friend from some distant part of the Stockade.  Beside them hobbled the scorbutics with swollen and distorted limbs, each more loathsome and nearer death than the lepers whom Christ’s divine touch made whole.  Dozens, unable to walk, and having no comrades to carry them, crawled painfully along, with frequent stops, on their hands and knees.  Every form of intense physical suffering that it is possible for disease to induce in the human frame was visible at these daily parades of the sick of the prison.  As over three thousand (three thousand and seventy-six) died in August, there were probably twelve thousand dangerously sick at any given time daring the month; and a large part of these collected at the South Gate every morning.

Measurably-calloused as we had become by the daily sights of horror around us, we encountered spectacles in these gatherings which no amount of visible misery could accustom us to.  I remember one especially that burned itself deeply into my memory.  It was of a young man not over twenty-five, who a few weeks ago-his clothes looked comparatively new -had evidently been the picture of manly beauty and youthful vigor.  He had had a well-knit, lithe form; dark curling hair fell over a forehead which had once been fair, and his eyes still showed that they had gleamed with a bold, adventurous spirit.  The red clover leaf on his cap showed that he belonged to the First Division of the Second Corps, the three chevrons on his arm that he was a Sergeant, and the stripe at his cuff that he was a veteran.  Some kind-hearted boys had found him in a miserable condition on the North Side, and carried him over in a blanket to where the doctors could see him.  He had but little clothing on, save his blouse and cap.  Ulcers of some kind had formed in his abdomen, and these were now masses of squirming worms.  It was so much worse than the usual forms of suffering, that quite a little crowd of compassionate spectators gathered around and expressed their pity.  The sufferer turned to one who lay beside him with: 

“Comrade:  If we were only under the old Stars and Stripes, we wouldn’t care a G-d d-n for a few worms, would we?”

This was not profane.  It was an utterance from the depths of a brave man’s heart, couched in the strongest language at his command.  It seemed terrible that so gallant a soul should depart from earth in this miserable fashion.  Some of us, much moved by the sight, went to the doctors and put the case as strongly as possible, begging them to do something to alleviate his suffering.  They declined to see the case, but got rid of us by giving us a bottle of turpentine, with directions to pour it upon the ulcers to kill the maggots.  We did so.  It must have been cruel torture, and as absurd remedially as cruel, but our hero set his teeth and endured, without a groan.  He was then carried out to the hospital to die.

I said the doctors made a pretense of affording medical relief.  It was hardly that, since about all the prescription for those inside the Stockade consisted in giving a handful of sumach berries to each of those complaining of scurvy.  The berries might have done some good, had there been enough of them, and had their action been assisted by proper food.  As it was, they were probably nearly, if not wholly, useless.  Nothing was given to arrest the ravages of dysentery.

A limited number of the worst cases were admitted to the Hospital each day.  As this only had capacity for about one-quarter of the sick in the Stockade, new patients could only be admitted as others died.  It seemed, anyway, like signing a man’s death warrant to send him to the Hospital, as three out of every four who went out there died.  The following from the official report of the Hospital shows this: 

Total number admitted .........................................12,900 Died ................................................. 8,663 Exchanged ............................................ 828 Took the oath of allegiance .......................... 25 Sent elsewhere ....................................... 2,889

Total ................................................12,400

Average deaths, 76 per cent.

Early in August I made a successful effort to get out to the Hospital.  I had several reasons for this:  First, one of my chums, W. W. Watts, of my own company, had been sent out a little whale before very sick with scurvy and pneumonia, and I wanted to see if I could do anything for him, if he still lived:  I have mentioned before that for awhile after our entrance into Andersonville five of us slept on one overcoat and covered ourselves with one blanket.  Two of these had already died, leaving as possessors of-the blanket and overcoat, W. W. Watts, B. B. Andrews, and myself.

Next, I wanted to go out to see if there was any prospect of escape.  I had long since given up hopes of escaping from the Stockade.  All our attempts at tunneling had resulted in dead failures, and now, to make us wholly despair of success in that direction, another Stockade was built clear around the prison, at a distance of one hundred and twenty feet from the first palisades.  It was manifest that though we might succeed in tunneling past one Stockade, we could not go beyond the second one.

I had the scurvy rather badly, and being naturally slight in frame, I presented a very sick appearance to the physicians, and was passed out to the Hospital.

While this was a wretched affair, it was still a vast improvement on the Stockade.  About five acres of ground, a little southeast of the Stockade, and bordering on a creek, were enclosed by a board fence, around which the guard walked, trees shaded the ground tolerably well.  There were tents and flies to shelter part of the sick, and in these were beds made of pine leaves.  There were regular streets and alleys running through the grounds, and as the management was in the hands of our own men, the place was kept reasonably clean and orderly for Andersonville.

There was also some improvement in the food.  Rice in some degree replaced the nauseous and innutritious corn bread, and if served in sufficient quantities, would doubtless have promoted the recovery of many men dying from dysenteric diseases.  We also received small quantities of “okra,” a plant peculiar to the South, whose pods contained a mucilaginous matter that made a soup very grateful to those suffering from scurvy.

But all these améliorations of condition were too slight to even arrest the progress of the disease of the thousands of dying men brought out from the Stockade.  These still wore the same lice-infested garments as in prison; no baths or even ordinary applications of soap and water cleaned their dirt-grimed skins, to give their pores an opportunity to assist in restoring them to health; even their long, lank and matted hair, swarming with vermin, was not trimmed.  The most ordinary and obvious measures for their comfort and care were neglected.  If a man recovered he did it almost in spite of fate.  The medicines given were scanty and crude.  The principal remedial agent-as far as my observation extended-was a rank, fetid species of unrectified spirits, which, I was told, was made from sorgum seed.  It had a light-green tinge, and was about as inviting to the taste as spirits of turpentine.  It was given to the sick in small quantities mixed with water.  I had had some experience with Kentucky “apple-jack,” which, it was popularly believed among the boys, would dissolve a piece of the fattest pork thrown into it, but that seemed balmy and oily alongside of this.  After tasting some, I ceased to wonder at the atrocities of Wirz and his associates.  Nothing would seem too bad to a man who made that his habitual tipple.

[For a more particular description of the Hospital I must refer my reader to the testimony of Professor Jones, in a previous chapter.]

Certainly this continent has never seen-and I fervently trust it will never again see-such a gigantic concentration of misery as that Hospital displayed daily.  The official statistics tell the story of this with terrible brevity:  There were three thousand seven hundred and nine in the Hospital in August; one thousand four hundred and eighty-nine-nearly every other man died.  The rate afterwards became much higher than this.

The most conspicuous suffering was in the gangrene wards.  Horrible sores spreading almost visibly from hour to hour, devoured men’s limbs and bodies.  I remember one ward in which the alterations appeared to be altogether in the back, where they ate out the tissue between the skin and the ribs.  The attendants seemed trying to arrest the progress of the sloughing by drenching the sores with a solution of blue vitriol.  This was exquisitely painful, and in the morning, when the drenching was going on, the whole hospital rang with the most agonizing screams.

But the gangrene mostly attacked the legs and arms, and the led more than the arms.  Sometimes it killed men inside of a week; sometimes they lingered on indefinitely.  I remember one man in the Stockade who cut his hand with the sharp corner of a card of corn bread he was lifting from the ration wagon; gangrene set in immediately, and he died four days after.

One form that was quit prevalent was a cancer of the lower one corner of the mouth, and it finally ate the whole side of the face out.  Of course the sufferer had the greatest trouble in eating and drinking.  For the latter it was customary to whittle out a little wooden tube, and fasten it in a tin cup, through which he could suck up the water.  As this mouth cancer seemed contagious, none of us would allow any one afflicted with it to use any of our cooking utensils.  The Rebel doctors at the hospital resorted to wholesale amputations to check the progress of the gangrene.

They had a two hours session of limb-lopping every morning, each of which resulted in quite a pile of severed members.  I presume more bungling operations are rarely seen outside of Russian or Turkish hospitals.  Their unskilfulness was apparent even to non-scientific observers like myself.  The standard of medical education in the South-as indeed of every other form of education-was quite low.  The Chief Surgeon of the prison, Dr. Isaiah White, and perhaps two or three others, seemed to be gentlemen of fair abilities and attainments.  The remainder were of that class of illiterate and unlearning quacks who physic and blister the poor whites and negros in the country districts of the South; who believe they can stop bleeding of the nose by repeating a verse from the Bible; who think that if in gathering their favorite remedy of boneset they cut the stem upwards it will purge their patients, and if downward it will vomit them, and who hold that there is nothing so good for “fits” as a black cat, killed in the dark of the moon, cut open, and bound while yet warm, upon the naked chest of the victim of the convulsions.

They had a case of instruments captured from some of our field hospitals, which were dull and fearfully out of order.  With poor instruments and unskilled hands the operations became mangling.

In the Hospital I saw an admirable illustration of the affection which a sailor will lavish on a ship’s boy, whom he takes a fancy to, and makes his “chicken,” as the phrase is.  The United States sloop “Water Witch” had recently been captured in Ossabaw Sound, and her crew brought into prison.  One of her boys-a bright, handsome little fellow of about fifteen-had lost one of his arms in the fight.  He was brought into the Hospital, and the old fellow whose “chicken” he was, was allowed to accompany and nurse him.  This “old barnacle-back” was as surly a growler as ever went aloft, but to his “chicken” he was as tender and thoughtful as a woman.  They found a shady nook in one corner, and any moment one looked in that direction he could see the old tar hard at work at something for the comfort and pleasure of his pet.  Now he was dressing the wound as deftly and gently as a mother caring for a new-born babe; now he was trying to concoct some relish out of the slender materials he could beg or steal from the Quartermaster; now trying to arrange the shade of the bed of pine leaves in a more comfortable manner; now repairing or washing his clothes, and so on.

All the sailors were particularly favored by being allowed to bring their bags in untouched by the guards.  This “chicken” had a wonderful supply of clothes, the handiwork of his protector who, like most good sailors, was very skillful with the needle.  He had suits of fine white duck, embroidered with blue in a way that would ravish the heart of a fine lady, and blue suits similarly embroidered with white.  No belle ever kept her clothes in better order than these were.  When the duck came up from the old sailor’s patient washing it was as spotless as new-fallen snow.

I found my chum in a very bad condition.  His appetite was entirely gone, but he had an inordinate craving for tobacco-for strong, black plug -which he smoked in a pipe.  He had already traded off all his brass buttons to the guards for this.  I had accumulated a few buttons to bribe the guard to take me out for wood, and I gave these also for tobacco for him.  When I awoke one morning the man who laid next to me on the right was dead, having died sometime during the night.  I searched his pockets and took what was in them.  These were a silk pocket handkerchief, a gutta percha finger-ring, a comb, a pencil, and a leather pocket-book, making in all quite a nice little “find.”  I hied over to the guard, and succeeded in trading the personal estate which I had inherited from the intestate deceased, for a handful of peaches, a handful of hardly ripe figs, and a long plug of tobacco.  I hastened back to Watts, expecting that the figs and peaches would do him a world of good.  At first I did not show him the tobacco, as I was strongly opposed to his using it, thinking that it was making him much worse.  But he looked at the tempting peaches and figs with lack-luster eyes; he was too far gone to care for them.  He pushed them back to me, saying faintly: 

“No, you take ’em, Mc; I don’t want ’em; I can’t eat ’em!”

I then produced the tobacco, and his face lighted up.  Concluding that this was all the comfort that he could have, and that I might as well gratify him, I cut up some of the weed, filled his pipe and lighted it.  He smoked calmly and almost happily all the afternoon, hardly speaking a word to me.  As it grew dark he asked me to bring him a drink.  I did so, and as I raised him up he said: 

“Mc, this thing’s ended.  Tell my father that I stood it as long as I could, and -”

The death rattle sounded in his throat, and when I laid him back it was all over.  Straightening out his limbs, folding his hands across his breast, and composing his features as best I could, I lay, down beside the body and slept till morning, when I did what little else I could toward preparing for the grave all that was left of my long-suffering little friend.