English Diary 2

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18th. The doctor wanted to know this afternoon if I got my medicine; I told him that what I wanted was something to eat, instead of medicine.

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24th. The doctor told me that upwards of twelve thousand prisoners have died since we came here.

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28th. One month in the hospital today, but do not seem to improve; our rations are a little better here than in the pen.

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30th. Six men died in this tent since I came here; they say they are dying very fast.

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October 6, 1864. Father Hamilton, a Catholic priest, paid a visit to our tent today; he is a very fine old gentleman, and seemed to take considerable interest in me; he said he would call again tomorrow.

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7th, Father Hamilton called on me again this morning; he says that he is going to attend to the sick at this place, the most of whom are Catholics. He was surprised when I told him I came from "the old sod" and could read Latin; he thought I was too young to be in the army.

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8th. A little better this morning; Father Hamilton and two Sisters of Charity called on me today and gave me something nice to eat.

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9th. I turned on my bed of straw this morning and found that the man next to me was dead; this makes seven out of eleven.

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10th. I got the dead man's rations this morning and feel considerably better: there is great moaring here, day and night, occasioned by so much suffering; it would make you sick to see some of the men swollen as large as a barrell with the dropsy, and doubled up with rheumatism and scurvy, and a great number with arms and legs cut off; I got seven new tent mates today.

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11th. Father Hamilton called today and brought me an under shirt; he said I looked better.

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12th. One year a prisoner today.

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13th. The surgeons have their hands full taking off arms and legs.

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14th. Father Hamilton told me he sold his property in Savannah and bought sixteen hundred barrels of flour for the sick; that accounts for our getting wheat bread.

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15th. Another tent-mate died this morning; I don't seem to improve much; it is quite cool in the mornings now.

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17th. My diary is almost full; only a few leaves are now left. Walter Webb of my company was brought out here today; the poor fellow is almost dead.

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19th. Another tent-mate died this morning, I got hold of a new piece of pencil this morning — mine was hardly an inch long. Webb tells me that one hundred of our regiment are dead; Father Hamilton brought me some cold roast beef this morning, and oh! how good it was.

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20th. Webb called to see me this morning, but had to crawl on his hands and knees, as the cords of his legs are so drawn up that he cannot stretch them out.

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22d. Nothing to say, except that the groans of the sick and dying are terrible; they cry in their dying agony for a mother a wife, child or friend to come to them. Oh! Lord of Heaven, it is awful, awful! It would bring tears from a stone to hear the heartrending cries for a distant friend; some one will have a great deal to answer for.

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When our country called for men, we came from forge and shop and mill;
From workshops, farms and factories, our broken ranks to fill.
We left our quiet Northern homes that once we loved so well.
To vanquish all the Union's foes, or fall where others fell.
Now in prison drear we languish, and it is our constant cry,
Oh! ye who yet can save us, will you leave us here to die!
The voice of slander tells you that our hearts are weak with fear.
That all or nearly all of us were captured in the rear;
But the scars upon our bodies from musket ball and shell.
The missing legs and shattered arms, a true tale will tell.
We tried to do our duty in sight of God on high;
Oh! ye who yet can save us, will you leave us here to die!
There are hearts with hopes still beating, in our pleasant
Northern homes,
Awaiting, watching footsteps that may never come.
In Southern prisons pining, meagre, tattered pale and gaunt.
Growing weaker, weaker, daily, from pinching cold and want.
Those brothers, sons and husbands, poor and helpless captive lie.
Oh! ye who yet can save us, will you leave us here to die!
From out our prison gate there is a grave close at hand,
Where lies thirteen thousand Union men, beneath the Georgia sand
Scores and scores are laid beside them as day succeeds today,
And thus it will ever be till they all shall pass away;
And the last can say when dying, with upturned and glaring eye.
Both love and faith are dead at home, they have left us here to die.

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23d. I forgot to mention that there are fifteen wards in this hospital, twelve tents in each ward, and each tent will contain twelve men; the floor of each tent is covered with straw, without any quilts or blankets. I am in the eleventh ward, tent No. 4; Webb is in the thirteenth ward, tent No. 9. The doctor visits us each day; he does not come in, but stands at the door and asks each patient how he is, and then tells the hospital steward, who accompanies him, to give him such and such a medicine — all by numbers; if they would stay away and give us more grub, we would get well sooner.