English Diary 2

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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.

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25th. Have not seen Wirz since I came in here. If some of the prisoners come across him after the war is over, he won't live long.

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26th. Father Hamilton called on me this morning and brought me a nice slice of bread and butter; he says he will try and bring me a little milk.

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28th. Feel considerably better; four died in this ward last night, and one fellow died in my tent this afternoon; his name was Darus March. He gave me a picture, in case I get home, to send to Emaline Wooding, Jackson, Susquehanna county.

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29th. Walter Webb called to see me this morning.

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November 8, 1864. Election Day in the North for President of the United States. Wirz has requested that we have a mock election, and each prisoner is to vote, whether of age or not, and says that whatever will be the majority in the hospital will be a fair test as to the result in the North. We all like McClellan but to spite the rebels most of us will vote for Lincoln, So this afternoon each man was given two slips of paper with the names of McClelhm on one and Lincoln on the other; two rebel sergeants visited each tent with a basket and gathered the vote, and at five o'clock they announced the result, which stood, McClellan 531, and Lincoln 1,239. Wirz is terribly angry and says it will be "Link-in and Link-out" for us for some time to come.

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12th. Had another visit from the priest today; he brought me a bottle of milk. it is the first milk I have tasted for thirteen months.

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13th. All the Irish who could walk were called to the gate this afternoon by a Col. McNeill, of the 10th Tennessee (rebel) regiment to see if any of them would take the oath to join the rebel service. Not an Irishman enlisted, but two Yankees did, one from Connecticut and the other from a New York regiment; so you see the Irish are the most loyal.

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14th. Webb called on me today; we had a talk over the excitement caused by the appeal to the Irish; he says McNeill is no true Irishman or he would not try to degrade Ireland and her people by making such a proposition. It is quite cool now and we have hardly any clothing.

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29th. Had another severe attack of rheumatism and feel badly. While one of the doctors visited us yesterday, his dog strayed into one of the tents, and one of the prisoners threw an old blanket over him and killed him; he ate part of it and said it was elegant; he buried the entrails, but one of the other poor fellows dug them up, cooked and ate them.

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December 4, 1864. I asked Dr. Pollott, who attends this ward, if he would examine the records out in the surgeons headquarters let me know how many of my regiment have died at Andersonville since I came here.

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10th. I feel no better. My diary is full; it is too bad, but cannot get any more. Good bye all; I did not think it would hold out so long when I commenced.
Yours sufferingly,
MICHAEL DOUGHERTY,
Co. B, 13th Pa. Volunteer Cavalry.
Confederate State Military Prison Hospital.

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Later Events,
From the time of the last record in my diary in December, 1864, up to April, 1865, I remained in the hospital, and was not able to keep any daily record, even if I had the facilities to do so, which I had not. During this time, as during the previous months, there were constant rumors of exchange and parole, but we heard the same so often that I would not believe it until I found myself homeward bound. We did know, however, that they were sending a great many prisoners north from Andersonville and presumed it was for exchange or parole, although we did not know definitely; and even when my own turn came to leave, I did not know what my destination was until after I had left Andersonville; the sick in the hospital were the last prisoners to be sent away.