Andersonville Diary
Megan

In this diary, John L. Ransom describes in great detail his life in a Confederate prison camp, called Andersonville Prison, during the Civil War. This account gives you the exact impression of what some soldiers had to go through. These are just few of the many entries that were published from his diary, called Andersonville Diary.
July 3. Three hundred and fifty new men from West Virginia were turned into this summer resort this morning. They brought good news as to successful termination of the war, and they also caused war after coming among us. As usual, the raiders proceeded to rob them of their valuables, and a fight occurred in which hundreds were engaged.

Wirtz [prison superintendent Henry Wirtz] flew around as if he had never thought of it before, issued an order to the effect that no more food would be given us until the leaders were arrested and taken outside for trial. The greatest possible excitement-hundreds that have before been neutral and noncommittal are now joining a police force; captains are appointed to take charge of the squads, which have been furnished with clubs by Wirtz. As I write, this middle of the afternoon, the battle rages. The police go right to raider headquarters, knock right and left, and make their arrests. Sometimes the police are whipped and have to retreat, but they rally their forces and again make a charge in which they are successful.

Can lay in our shade and see the trouble go on. Must be killing some by the shouting. The raiders fight for their very life and are only taken after being thoroughly whipped. The stockade is loaded with guards who are fearful of a break. I wish I could describe the scene today. A number killed. After each arrest a great cheering takes place

Night. Thirty or forty have been taken outside of the worst characters in camp, and still the good work goes on. No food today and don't want any. July 4. The men taken outside yesterday are under Rebel guard and will be punished. The men are thoroughly aroused, and now that the matter has been taken in hand, it will be followed up to the letter. Other arrests are being made today and occasionally a big fight. Little Terry, whom they could not find yesterday, was today taken. Had been hiding in an old well, or hole in the ground. Fought like a little tiger, but had to go. Jimmy Devers regrets that he cannot take a hand in, as he likes to fight, and especially with a club. The writer hereof does no fighting, being on the sick list. The excitement of looking on is most too much for me. Can hardly arrest the big graybacks crawling around.

Has lost his voice entirely and is nothing but a skeleton. Hardly enough of him for disease to get hold of. Would be one of the surprising things on record if he lives through it, and he seems no worse than months ago. It is said that a court will be formed of our own men to try the raiders. Anyway, so they are punished. All have killed men, and they themselves should be killed. When arrested, the police had hard work to prevent their being lynched. Police more thoroughly organizing all the time.…

July 5. Rations again today. I am quite bad off with my diseases, but still there are so many thousands so much worse off that I do not complain much, or try not to however.…

July 7. The court was gotten up by our own men and from our own men; judge, jury, counsel, etc. Had a fair trial and were even defended, but to no purpose. It is reported that six have been sentenced to be hung, while a good many others are condemned to lighter punishment, such as setting in the stocks, strung up by the thumbs, thumbscrews, head hanging, etc. The court has been severe, but just. Mike goes out tomorrow to take some part in the court proceedings.

The prison seems a different place altogether; still, dread disease is here and mowing down good and true men. Would seem to me that 300 or 400 died each day, though officially but 140 odd is told. About 27,000, I believe, are here now in all. No new ones for a few days. Rebel visitors, who look at us from a distance. It is said the stench keeps all away who have no business here and can keep away. Washing business good. Am negotiating for a pair of pants. Dislike fearfully to wear dead men's clothes and haven't to any great extent.

July 8. Oh, how hot, and oh, how miserable. The news that six have been sentenced to be hanged is true, and one of them is Moseby. The camp is thoroughly under control of the police now, and it is a heavenly boon. Of course, there is some stealing and robbery, but not as before. Swan, of our mess, is sick with scurvy. I am gradually swelling up and growing weaker. But a few more pages in my diary. Over 150 dying per day now, and 26,000 in camp. Guards shoot now very often. Boys, as guards, are the most cruel. It is said that if they kill a Yankee they are given a thirty-day furlough. Guess they need them as soldiers too much to allow of this. The swamp now is fearful, water perfectly reeking with prison offal and poison. Still men drink it and die. Rumors that the six will be hung inside. Bread today and it is so coarse as to do more hurt than good to a majority of the prisoners. The place still gets worse.

Tunneling is over with; no one engages in it now that I know of. The prison is a success as regards safety; no escape except by death, and very many take advantage of that way. A man who has preached to us (or tried to) is dead. Was a good man, I verily believe, and from Pennsylvania. It's almost impossible for me to get correct names to note down; the last-named man was called "the preacher," and I can find no other name for him. Our quartette of singers a few rods away is disbanded. One died, one nearly dead, one a policeman, and the other cannot sing alone, and so where we used to hear and enjoy good music evenings, there is nothing to attract us from the groans of the dying.…

July 9. Battese brought me some onions, and if they ain't good, then no matter; also a sweet potato. One-half the men here would get well if they only had something in the vegetable line to eat, or acids. Scurvy is about the most loathsome disease, and when dropsy takes hold with the scurvy, it is terrible. I have both diseases but keep them in check, and it only grows worse slowly. My legs are swollen, but the cords are not contracted much, and I can still walk very well. Our mess all keep clean, in fact are obliged to or else turned adrift. We want none of the dirty sort in our mess. Sanders and Rowe enforce the rules, which is not much work, as all hands are composed of men who prefer to keep clean. I still do a little washing, but more particularly haircutting, which is easier work. You should see one of my haircuts. Nobby! Old prisoners have hair a foot long or more, and my business is to cut it off, which I do without regard to anything except get it off.…

William Collins, alias Moseby, said he was innocent of murder and ought not to be hung; he had stolen blankets and rations to preserve his own life, and begged the crowd not to see him hung as he had a wife and child at home, and for their sake to let him live.

The excited crowd began to be impatient for the "show" to commence as they termed it. Sarsfield made quite a speech; he had studied for a lawyer; at the outbreak of the rebellion he had enlisted and served three years in the army, been wounded in battle, furloughed home, wound healed up, promoted to first sergeant and also commissioned; his commission as a lieutenant had arrived but had not been mustered in when he was taken prisoner; began by stealing parts of rations, gradually becoming hardened as he became familiar with the crimes practised; evil associates had helped him to go downhill, and here he was. The other did not care to say anything. While the men were talking, were interrupted by all kinds of questions and charges made by the crowd, such as "don't lay it on too thick, you villain," "get ready to jump off," "cut it short," "you was the cause of so and so's death," "less talk and more hanging," etc., etc.

At about 11 o'clock, they were all blindfolded, hands and feet tied, told to get ready, nooses adjusted, and the plank knocked from under. Moseby's rope broke and he fell to the ground, with blood spurting from his ears, mouth, and nose. As they was lifting him back to the swinging-off place, he revived and begged for his life, but no use, was soon dangling with the rest, and died very hard. Munn died easily, as also did Delaney; all the rest died hard, and particularly Sarsfield, who drew his knees nearly to his chin and then straightened them out with a jerk, the veins in his neck swelling out as if they would burst. It was an awful sight to see, still a necessity. Moseby, although he said he had never killed anyone, and I don't believe he ever did deliberately kill a man, such as stabbing or pounding a victim to death, yet he has walked up to a poor sick prisoner on a cold night and robbed him of blanket, or perhaps his rations, and if necessary using all the force necessary to do it. These things were the same as life to the sick man, for he would invariably die. The result has been that many have died from his robbing propensities. It was right that he should hang, and he did hang most beautifully, and Andersonville is the better off for it. None of the rest denied that they had killed men, and probably some had murdered dozens. It has been a good lesson; there are still bad ones in camp, but we have the strong arm of the law to keep them in check.

All during the hanging scene the stockade was covered with Rebels, who were fearful a break would be made if the raiders should try and rescue them. Many citizens, too, were congregated on the outside in favorable positions for seeing. Artillery was pointed at us from all directions ready to blow us all into eternity in short order; Wirtz stood on a high platform in plain sight of the execution and says we are a hard crowd to kill our own men. After hanging for half an hour or so, the six bodies were taken down and carried outside. In noting down the speeches made by the condemned men, have used my own language; in substance it is the same as told by them. I occupied a near position to the hanging and saw it all from first to last, and stood there until they were taken down and carried away.

July 12. Good order has prevailed since the hanging. The men have settled right down to the business of dying, with no interruption. I keep thinking our situation can get no worse, but it does get worse every day, and not less than 160 die each twenty-four hours. Probably one-fourth or one-third of these die inside the stockade, the balance in the hospital outside. All day and up to 4 o'clock P.M., the dead are being gathered up and carried to the south gate and placed in a row inside the dead line. As the bodies are stripped of their clothing, in most cases as soon as the breath leaves and in some cases before, the row of dead presents a sickening appearance. Legs drawn up and in all shapes. They are black from pitch-pine smoke and laying in the sun. Some of them lay there for twenty hours or more, and by that time are in a horrible condition.

At 4 o'clock, a four-or six-mule wagon comes up to the gate, and twenty or thirty bodies are loaded onto the wagon and they are carted off to be put in trenches, one hundred in each trench, in the cemetery, which is eighty or a hundred rods away. There must necessarily be a great many whose names are not taken. It is the orders to attach the name, company, and regiment to each body, but it is not always done. I was invited today to dig in a tunnel but had to decline. My digging days are over. Must dig now to keep out of the ground, I guess. It is with difficulty now that I can walk, and only with the help of two canes.…

Have two small gold rings on my finger, worn ever since I left home. Have also a small photograph album with eight photographs in. Relics of civilization. Should I get these things through to our lines they will have quite a history. When I am among the Rebels, I wind a rag around my finger to cover up the rings, or else take them and put in my pocket. Bad off as I have been, have never seen the time yet that I would part with them. Were presents to me, and the photographs have looked at about one-fourth of the time since imprisonment. One prisoner made some buttons here for his little boy at home, and gave them to me to deliver, as he was about to die. Have them sewed onto my pants for safekeeping.

July 14. We have been too busy with the raiders of late to manufacture any exchange news, and now all hands are at work trying to see who can tell the biggest yarns. The weak are feeling well tonight over the story that we are all to be sent North this month, before the 20th. Have not learned that the news came from any reliable source. Rumors of midsummer battles with Union troops victorious. It's "bite dog, bite bear" with most of us prisoners; we don't care which licks, what we want is to get out of this pen. Of course, we all care and want our side to win, but it's tough on patriotism. A court is now held every day and offenders punished principally by buck and gagging, for misdemeanors. The hanging has done worlds of goods, still there is much stealing going on yet, but in a sly way, not openly. Hold my own as regards health. The dreaded month of July is half gone, almost, and a good many over 150 die each day, but I do not know how many. Hardly anyone cares enough about it to help me any in my inquiries. It is all self with the most of them. A guard by accident shot himself. Have often said they didn't know enough to hold a gun. Bury a Rebel guard every few days within sight of the prison. Saw some women in the distance. Quite a sight. Are feeling quite jolly tonight since the sun went down.

Was visited by my new acquaintances of the 9th Michigan Infantry, who are comparatively new prisoners. Am learning them the way to live here. They are very hopeful fellows and declare the war will be over this coming fall, and tell their reasons very well for thinking so. We gird up our loins and decide that we will try to live it through. Rowe, although often given to despondency, is feeling good and cheerful. There are some noble fellows here. A man shows exactly what he is in Andersonville. No occasion to be any different from what you really are. Very often see a great big fellow in size, in reality a baby in action, actually sniveling and crying, and then again you will see some little runt, "not bigger than a pint of cider," tell the big fellow to "brace up" and be a man. Stature has nothing to do as regards nerve, still there are noble big fellows as well as noble little ones.…

July 15. Blank cartridges were this morning fired over the camp by the artillery, and immediately the greatest commotion outside. It seems that the signal in case a break is made is cannon firing. And this was to show us how quick they could rally and get into shape. In less time than it takes for me to write it, all were at their posts and in condition to open up and kill nine-tenths of all here. Sweltering hot. Dying off 155 each day. There are 28,000 confined here now.…

July 17. Cords contracting in my legs and very difficult for me to walk-after going a little ways have to stop and rest and am faint. Am urged by some to go to the hospital but don't like to do it; mess say had better stay where I am, and Battese says shall not go, and that settles it. Jimmy Devers anxious to be taken to the hospital but is persuaded to give it up. Tom McGill, another Irish friend, is past all recovery; is in another part of the prison. Many old prisoners are dropping off now this fearful hot weather; knew that July and August would thin us out; cannot keep track of them in my disabled condition. A fellow named Hubbard, with whom I have conversed a good deal, is dead; a few days ago was in very good health, and it's only a question of a few days now with any of us.

Succeeded in getting four small onions about as large as hickory nuts, tops and all, for two dollars Confederate money. Battese furnished the money but won't eat an onion; ask him if he is afraid it will make his breath smell? It is said that two or three onions or a sweet potato eaten raw daily will cure the scurvy. What a shame that such things are denied us, being so plenty the world over. Never appreciated such things before but shall hereafter. Am talking as if I expected to get home again. I do.

July 18. Time slowly dragging itself along. Cut some wretch's hair most every day. Have a sign out "Haircutting," as well as "Washing"; and, by the way, Battese has a new washboard made from a piece of the scaffold lumber. About half the time do the work for nothing, in fact not more than one in three or four pays anything-expenses not much though, don't have to pay any rent. All the mess keeps their hair cut short, which is a very good advertisement. My eyes getting weak with other troubles. Can just hobble around. Death rate more than ever, reported 165 per day; said by some to be more than that, but 165 is about the figure. Bad enough without making any worse than it really is. Jimmy Devers most dead and begs us to take him to the hospital and guess will have to. Every morning the sick are carried to the gate in blankets and on stretchers, and the worst cases admitted to the hospital. Probably out of 500 or 600, half are admitted. Do not think any lives after being taken there; are past all human aid. Four out of every five prefer to stay inside and die with their friends rather than go to the hospital. Hard stories reach us of the treatment of the sick out there, and I am sorry to say the cruelty emanates from our own men who act as nurses. These deadbeats and bummer nurses are the same bounty jumpers the U.S. authorities have had so much trouble with. Do not mean to say that all the nurses are of that class, but a great many of them are.

July 19. There is no such thing as delicacy here. Nine out of ten would as soon eat with a corpse for a table as any other way. In the middle of last night I was awakened by being kicked by a dying man. He was soon dead. In his struggles he had floundered clear into our bed. Got up and moved the body off a few feet, and again went to sleep to dream of the hideous sights. I can never get used to it as some do. Often wake most scared to death, and shuddering from head to foot. Almost dread to go to sleep on this account. I am getting worse and worse, and prison ditto.…

July 21. Nothing but cornbread issued now, and I cannot eat it any more.

July 22. A petition is gotten up signed by all the sergeants in the prison, to be sent to Washington, D.C., begging to be released. Captain Wirtz has consented to let three representatives go for that purpose. Rough that it should be necessary for us to beg to be protected by our government.

July 23. Reports of an exchange in August. Can't stand it till that time. Will soon go up the spout.

July 24. Have been trying to get into the hospital, but Battese won't let me go. George W. Hutchins, brother of Charlie Hutchins of Jackson, Michigan, died today-from our mess. Jimmy Devers is dead.

July 25. Am myself much worse, and cannot walk, and with difficulty stand up. Legs drawn up like a triangle, mouth in terrible shape, and dropsy worse than all. A few more days. At my earnest solicitation was carried to the gate this morning to be admitted to the hospital. Lay in the sun for some hours to be examined, and finally my turn came, and I tried to stand up, but was so excited I fainted away. When I came to myself I lay along with the row of dead on the outside. Raised up and asked a Rebel for a drink of water, and he said: "Here, you Yank, if you ain't dead, get inside there!" And with his help was put inside again. Told a man to go to our mess and tell them to come to the gate, and pretty soon Battese and Sanders came and carried me back to our quarters; and here I am, completely played out. Battese flying around to buy me something good to eat. Can't write much more.

July 26. Ain't dead yet. Actually laugh when I think of the Rebel who thought if I wasn't dead I had better get inside. Can't walk a step now. Shall try for the hospital no more. Had an onion.

July 27. Sweltering hot. No worse than yesterday. Said that 200 die now each day. Rowe very bad and Sanders getting so. Swan dead, Gordon dead, Jack Withers dead, Scotty dead, a large Irishman who has been near us a long time is dead. These and scores of others died yesterday and day before. Hub Dakin came to see me and brought an onion. He is just able to crawl around himself.

July 28. Taken a step forward toward the trenches since yesterday and am worse. Had a wash all over this morning. Battese took me to the creek; carries me without any trouble.

July 29. Alive and kicking. Drank some soured water made from meal and water.

Aug. 2. Two hundred and twenty die each day. No more news of exchange.…

Aug. 13. A nice spring of cold water has broken out in camp, enough to furnish nearly all here with drinking water. God has not forgotten us. Battese brings it to me to drink.…

Aug. 20. Some say 300 now die each day. No more new men coming.…

Aug. 26. Still am writing. The letter from my brother has done good and cheered me up. Eyesight very poor and writing tires

Aug. 27. Have now written nearly through three large books, and still at it. The diary, am confident, will reach my people if I don't. There are many here who are interested and will see that it goes North.…

Sept 6 Those who cant must saty behind. If left behind, shall die in twenty-four hours. Battese says I shall go.

Later. Seven detachments are going out of the gate; all the sick are left behind. Ours is the tenth detachment and will go tomorrow, so said. The greatest excitement; men wild with joy. Am worried fearful that I cannot go, but Battese says I shall.

Sept. 7. Hope is a good medicine and am sitting up and have been trying to stand up but can't do it; legs too crooked and with every attempt get faint. Men laugh at the idea of my going, as the Rebels are very particular not to let any sick go, still Battese says I am going.

Marine Hospital, Savannah, Ga., Sept. 15, 1864. A great change has taken place since I last wrote in my diary. Am in heaven now compared with the past. At about midnight, September 7, our detachment was ordered outside at Andersonville, and Battese picked me up and carried me to the gate. The men were being let outside in ranks of four, and counted as they went out. They were very strict about letting none go but the well ones, or those who could walk. The Rebel adjutant stood upon a box by the gate, watching very close. Pitch-pine knots were burning in the near vicinity to give light. As it came our turn to go, Battese got me in the middle of the rank, stood me up as well as I could stand, and, with himself on one side and Sergeant Rowe on the other, began pushing our way through the gate. Could not help myself a particle, and was so faint that I hardly knew what was going on. As we were going through the gate the adjutant yells out: "Here, here! hold on there, that man can't go, hold on there!" and Battese crowding right along outside. The adjutant struck over the heads of the men and tried to stop us, but my noble Indian friend kept straight ahead, hallooing: "He all right, he well, he go!" And so I got outside, and adjutant having too much to look after to follow me. After we were outside, I was carried to the railroad in the same coverlid which I fooled the Rebel out of when captured, and which I presume has saved my life a dozen times. We were crowded very thick into boxcars. I was nearly dead and hardly knew where we were or what was going on.

We were two days in getting to Savannah. Arrived early in the morning. The railroads here run in the middle of very wide, handsome streets. We were unloaded, I should judge, near the middle of the city. The men, as they were unloaded, fell into line and were marched away. Battese got me out of the car and laid me on the pavement. They then obliged him to go with the rest, leaving me; would not let him take me. I lay there until noon with four or five others, without any guard. Three or four times, Negro servants came to us from houses nearby and gave us water, milk, and food. With much difficulty I could set up but was completely helpless. A little after noon a wagon came and toted us to a temporary hospital in the outskirts of the city, and near a prison pen they had just built for the well ones. Where I was taken it was merely an open piece of ground, having wall tents erected and a line of guards around it. I was put into a tent and lay on the coverlid. That night some gruel was given to me, and a nurse whom I had seen in Andersonville looked in, and my name was taken.

The next morning, September 10, I woke up and went to move my hands, and could not do it; could not move either limb so much as an inch. Could move my head with difficulty. Seemed to be paralyzed, but in no pain whatever. After a few hours a physician came to my tent, examined and gave me medicine, also left medicine, and one of the nurses fed me some soup or gruel. By night I could move my hands. Lay awake considerable through the night thinking. Was happy as a clam in high tide. Seemed so nice to be under a nice clean tent, and there was such cool, pure air. The surroundings were so much better that I thought now would be a good time to die, and I didn't care one way or the other.

Next morning the doctor came, and with him Sergeant Winn. Sergeant Winn I had had a little acquaintance with at Andersonville. Doctor said I was terribly reduced, but he thought I would improve. Told them to wash me. A nurse came and washed me, and Winn brought me a white cotton shirt and an old but clean pair of pants; my old clothing, which was in rags, was taken away. Two or three times during the day I had gruel of some kind, I don't know what. Medicine was given me by the nurses. By night I could move my feet and legs a little. The cords in my feet and legs were contracted so, of course, that I couldn't straighten myself out. Kept thinking to myself, "Am I really away from that place Andersonville?" It seemed too good to be true.



Throughout the diary entries, the reader can observe the health of John Ransom. His health declines in the three-month period of his entries. This indicates that the medical help of the Civil War was very poor. In the beginning, John Ransom was one of the healthier prisoners in the Andersonville Prison, located in Georgia. However, towards the end, Ransom describes how poor his health is getting. Ransom can not walk during the last few entries-he just hobbles around. This is due to a disease he had called Scurvy. His health became so poor that he was once laid in the row of the dead prisoners. Yet, John Ransom was determined to survive, and relied on hope to do so, as stated in one of his last entries. The reader can also examine the punishment the Union soldiers had to live through during that time. The punishment was horrid, but if they committed the crime, they paid the price. Ransom informs the reader in great aspects the brutal hangings of his prison mates. John Ransom also describes the rations in parts of his diary. By what he describes the reader can observe that the food was scarce, especially in prisons. Sometimes the guard would not give the prisoners food, or perhaps all they would get to eat would be an onion. The Andersonville Prison was one of the most recognized war prisons in the Civil War. Andersonville Prison conditions were very bad, as described in Ransom's diary. The history of Andersonville can be read below. "After the prison site was selected, Captain Richard B. Winder was sent to Andersonville to construct a prison. Arriving in late December of 1863, Captain Winder adopted a prison design that encompassed roughly 16.5 acres, which he felt was large enough to hold 10,000 prisoners. The prison was to be rectangular in shape with a small creek flowing roughly through the center of the compound. The prison was given the name Camp Sumter. During the 15 months during which Andersonville was operated, almost 13,000 Union prisoners died there of malnutrition, exposure, and disease; Andersonville became synonymous with the atrocities which both North and South soldiers experienced as prisoners of war. After the war ended, the United States government as a National Cemetery administered the plot of ground near the prison where nearly 13,000 Union soldiers had been buried. The prison reverted to private hands and was planted in cotton and other crops until the Grand Army of the Republic of George acquired the land in 1891." http://www.cr.nps.gov/seac/histback.htm http://207.100.203.18/csacurrency/andersonville/anderson.htm "From Andersonville Diary," Microsoft® Encarta® Encyclopedia 2000. © 1993-1999 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved