FROM ASHBY TO ANDERSONVILLE: THE CIVIL WAR DIARY AND REMINISCENCES OF PRIVATE GEORGE A. HITCHCOCK, 21st MASSACHUSETTS INFANTRY
Edited by Ronald G. Watson
FLORENCE STOCKADE
FLORENCE, SOUTH CAROLINA
A Confederate military prison was located two miles from Florence, South Carolina, and was constructed in September 1864 to provide facilities for prisoners sent to Charleston from Andersonville. While the stockade was being erected, the prisoners were restrained in an open field. Twenty-three acres were enclosed by a stockade (1,400 feet long and 725 feet wide) that was surrounded by a ditch five feet deep and seven feet wide. Dirt was piled against the stockade to form a guard walk which was three feet from the top of the palisades. This construction prevented tunneling. A large stream flowed through the prison, but the Andersonville swamp was duplicated (six acres were swampy). The dead-line was ten to twelve feet from the palisades and was marked by a small ditch and in some places by a pole-fence. On each corner of the stockade a platform was erected for a piece of artillery. Six hundred blacks were utilized to construct the facilities, and they were still working on November 5.
There were 12,362 prisoners at Florence on October 12: 860 were hospitalized and 20 were paroled. Most of the prisoners were emaciated and covered with vermin. They had no blankets and very little clothing. A Confederate inspection report, dated November 5, 1864, reported 11,424 prisoners: 599 were hospitalized and 90 were paroled. The prisoners were divided into detachments of 1,000 men and companies of 100 men. Colonel George P. Harrison, Jr., was the commander of headquarters post at Florence. Lieutenant Colonel John F. Iverson, 5th Georgia Regiment, was commandant of the prison and in charge of the guards.
The hospital, which was located within the stockade and was built with branches from trees, afforded protection from the heat but not the rain. There was only one medical officer assigned on October 12. In November, although a rough frame-work was partially completed for a proposed 100-patient hospital, the sick prisoners were separated by a pole-fence within the stockade.
The prisoners received very little meat and subsisted on sorghum syrup and meal. Since the Union soldiers at Florence had been imprisoned for some time, the mortality rate was high: twenty to fifty died each day from diarrhea, scurvy and other ailments. A total of 18,000 prisoners passed through the Florence prison. Since the prison records were destroyed, almost all of the approximately 2,800 who died were unidentified.
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November 25, 1864
The day was clear. How the eyes brightened as we heard the faint but distinct rumble of heavy guns off to the northeast. The guard told us they were from our fleet off Charleston. What a welcome sound; it seemed as if it was the voice of friends calling to us. The kindhearted people of Savannah continued to bring in food and clothing all day. It is cheering to feel that we are near to those whose humanity overmasters their enmity. I secured some boiled rice which sustained me until the rations arrived at dark, which were hardtack and molasses. A train of cars came at nine in the evening when we were hastily hurried on board. Inquiry of a rebel officer who was directing the loading brought out the usual answer: "You are going to Charleston to be exchanged." In our great longing to believe it, many brightened up with hope while some said that it was the same old ruse to keep us from attempting escape. Yet the suspicious haste and evident disturbed manner of our captors caused a great amount of conjecture and surmising among us.
November 26
We rode all night through what seemed an interminable wilderness of rice swamps. It was here that my mind was made up to attempt to escape. I had secured a place near the door and believing that I could not be many miles inland from Beaufort, which I supposed to be held by our forces, I felt as if this might be my opportunity. Crowding up close to the door, I watched for my chance to jump. But mile after mile I could see only the tall grass standing out of the water; we were passing through the immense savannas of Georgia which surround the Charleston and Savannah Railroad. The outlook was dubious and before I could make up my mind for the decisive leap, sleep had overtaken me; when I next opened my eyes, it was daylight and by sunrise we were approaching the noted nest of the Palmetto rattlesnake, Charleston. Crossing the broad Cooper and Ashley rivers, our train enters the city and is brought to a halt on one of the broad streets in the upper part of the city. Very pretty and tasty dwelling houses lined the street with wide shady piazzas surrounding them. The day was fine and mild, and as we remain stationary all the forenoon, many spectators came to view the Andersonville pack. Not any of the sympathetic interest which the good people of Savannah had exhibited was here vouchsafed to us; only a cold curious stare greeted us. Soon after noon our train moves out of the city for about five miles; we are ordered to change cars, and as we turn northward, we realize that our exchange is "of cars only." Again we move through the same low level monotonous pine region up through central South Carolina until ten o'clock when we arrive at Florence, a junction with the Columbia and Wilmington Railroad - one hundred miles north of Charleston.
November 27
Bivouac by the side of the railroad until morning, when our names are registered and once more we are turned into the old familiar stockade. Here we meet all the old prisoners who had gone before us, crowded as badly as at Andersonville. The great prison pen in the form of a quadrangle with the entrance on the south, considerably narrower than Andersonville but running northward nearly a quarter of a mile. The location is low and swampy with a stream running sluggishly through. Laird and I spread our blankets together and at night draw a ration of meal and flour, which with a few chips we make a supper. Lie down on the cold, damp ground and although our hopes are dashed by this termination of the "exchange," I feel that the change of scenes and air have stimulated me so that I am by no means ready to say "die" yet.
November 28
After a cheerless, sleepless night, I get a breakfast of flour paste. Found all the old comrades of the 21st Massachusetts well; also Jim Miller and Middy, my Ohio friend. The camp is crowded badly and the rations are said to be smaller and poorer than ever. The sick are being paroled each day.
November 29
The night was milder. I bought some straw with a borrowed five dollar confederate scrip. Mended clothes which are in a miserable condition. The sleeves of my blouse and shirt are almost entirely gone, showing a pair of skeleton arms; the backs of both garments are worn thin as gauze, while my pants are worn entirely away from the knees down. My cap consists of simply two pieces of cloth sewed together. I was detailed to go outside for wood. Ration of a pint and a half of flour and a splinter of green gumwood. More prisoners from Millen stockade came.
November 30
Had the chills last night thereby losing my sleep. Jim Miller was admitted to the hospital. I bathed in the creek. Rations of a pint and a half of meal with beans and salt. No more sick are sent away as the railroad is occupied in rushing troops down to intercept Sherman, whom appears to be pushing right into the heart of the Confederacy.
December 1
Winter has arrived and I still live. All the portion of the camp on one side of the creek was moved to the other, and then the entire camp made to move back again, each man being counted as he crossed the little bridge (a very original method of taking the census). A lot of "Galvanized Yanks," the turncoats who enlisted in the rebel army at Millen, were sent back into camp, as the rebels feared they would escape to our lines.
December 2
Six months a prisoner of war. Light rain last night. I traded away a dollar and a half "Confed" for a meal of sweet potatoes. Reports that General Foster has cut the railroad this side of Savannah; we were just a few days too soon in passing there.
December 3
Roll call and wood rations were omitted because of the large number of paroled sick returning to camp. It is difficult for us, however, to see the connection. I had succeeded in concealing a map of the seat of the war from the rebel searchers, which I traded away for a mess of sweet potatoes. Ration of a pint of meal and half a pint of grits.
December 4
We were again marched and countermarched across the creek in order to get a correct count - so much for the mathematical education of the chivalrous southerners. I copied a map of North and South Carolina. This is an occupation which finds much favor among the prisoners. Although much secrecy attends it, the purpose is very apparent. Rations - a pint of rice. A sick man was shot on the dead-line.
December 5
Frosty night but beautiful today. The sick have been passed out today. I drew a ration of a pint and a half of meal but no wood to cook it with.
December 6
Foggy in the morning but clear and cold at night. I heard preaching from a clergyman from Florence. Went out for wood. Rations of meal and grits and half a dozen spoonfuls of molasses. As molasses is not considered a necessary article of diet, the boys revived trade in order to dispose of the ration.
December 7
Chilly wind and some rain. The surgeons have taken out all the sick. Two hundred prisoners came in who belonged to Sherman's command and were captured near Milledgeville while raiding. This is the first authentic news we have yet had concerning Sherman's great movement toward the sea coast and was hailed with great interest.*
December 8
The day is very cloudy and chilly. The remaining four thousand men in the camp, which included Laird and myself, were ordered to report at the dead-line near the main entrance for an examination by the rebel surgeons. We took along our shelters and everything which could be of use to us, because they would quickly have been appropriated by others if left behind. Drawn up in two ranks at open order, Laird and I were near the left of the line; the rebel surgeons walked along down the lines stopping here and there when some unusually pitiable looking prisoner was noticed. Some received sharp questioning and the usual professional examination and were then passed outside the gate to be paroled, but not one in a dozen were thus favored. Not much disappointment was manifested by any who were passed by - apathy was over us all. The disappointed hopes of the past month had taught us not to expect anything, so that when the doctor came along and passed me, I didn't mind it.
But he glanced back and evidently took in my dilapidated appearance, for he stepped back, asked my condition and examined me more closely: thumped my heart and my heart thumped back. Asked the name of my regiment and state. In answer to his question, "When does your term of service expire?" I answered that "it expired more than three months ago and I suppose my regiment has disbanded and gone home." He asked with some sarcasm: "Don't you want to reenlist and fight again?" I answered: "I'm fixed so I can never do any more fighting." With a smile he said: "You may go." Not crediting my own senses, I answered: "What did you say?" He repeated: "You may go." Forgetting everything in my bewilderment, even my old chum, I darted out of the gate. Dazed by my sudden fortune, I tried to think it was only another change of prisons to which I was subjected. While gathering my wits, I looked up and saw Laird following me. In our weakness and joy we clasped each other in our arms and cried like babes. Then we were called up to sign our parole papers which we understood forbade us to take up arms against the enemy for three months.
After this the gathering crowd of feeble-bodied, feeble-minded fellows were turned out into a large, level field where we remain all day and night with only a few guards to watch us. A ration of meal and sweet potatoes was given to us, and I devoured the potatoes, leaving the meal for tomorrow.
December 9
The day opened cloudy and cold; a bleak wintry wind chilling us - bloodless creatures - to the bone. The small fires were not sufficient to keep us warm while the smoke from them filled and blinded our eyes. Our names were called and each man drew a loaf of wheat bread. Soon after this, the sound of a whistle from the north started every man to his feet and away we all rushed for the cars.
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Notes
* On November 15, 1864, General Sherman started his "March to the Sea" and reached Savannah, Georgia ( 285 miles from Atlanta) on December 10, 1864.
** Excerpt From Ashby to Andersonville, pages 272 - 280.