This essay answers the question: Did Andersonville deserve the reputation as the war's worst military prison? Andersonville Prison October 30, 2017 In the winter of 1863, Richard Winder, quartermaster of the newly constructed Camp Sumter, made passable arrangements for corn to be ground for the arriving prisoners.[1] However, Camp Sumter, better known as Andersonville prison, was remotely located from clean water and sources of supply, disadvantaging the prison from receiving proper requirements. Before the first one-thousand men arrived, Winder had yet to gather cooking instruments, flour, meal, and beef, and his bacon rations were enough to last the prisoners for only three days.[2] It is evident that Andersonville prison was off to a difficult start, and that its conditions would deteriorate by the end of the American Civil War. The thesis of this paper is that Andersonville prison deserves the reputation as the war’s worst military prison, due to the location of the prison, the living conditions, the treatment of prisoners, the Confederacy’s prisoner of war system, and postwar claims regarding that treatment. Initially, as the prison’s location was scoped out by Confederate officials, it was arguably more favorable than the Confederacy’s Camp Richmond, located in Belle Isle, an island in the city of Richmond, Virginia. It seems, at first, that Andersonville prison had a squeaky-clean reputation compared to the atrocities at Belle Isle prison. Belle Isle was a place of bug infestation, overcrowding, and constant low rations.[3] Federal inmates huddled together for lack of heating and space, and some even froze to death. Even more so, some of the Belle Isle captives betrayed their fellow brothers, as they stole from the weak to feed the strong.[4] These prisoners were among the first one-thousand shuttled to Andersonville prison, as some likened the prison as a “pen not-fit for hogs.”[5] Indeed, Andersonville prison was not situated on lice-infested sand like Belle Isle, but on a stretch of low hills, marshes, and swamps.[6] Instead of laying on the cold, hard ground of Belle Isle, men burrowed themselves into the Andersonville ground for warmth, as a mole burrows underground for refuge.[7] It was almost as if these prisoners of war knew they would not be properly buried unless they did it for themselves, as they ran the risk of suffocation from cave-ins or drowning from heavy rains.[8] Not only did most prisoners lack proper shelter from various elements of extreme heat or cold, but they also lacked adequate clothing. Men who had arrived from numerous Confederate prisons already wore scraps for clothing, and some wore nothing but the skin on their backs. One prisoner sewed his shirtsleeves, sugar and coffee bags, and a tentmate’s knapsack together to create a makeshift bivouac.[9] Winder’s preparations for the prisoners lack any real progress before prisoners arrived, as its stockade was partially completed, along with the kitchen and officer headquarters. Once these were even completed, the stockade was so congested it made little difference.[10] As shelter and clothing were withheld from Union prisoners, rations were stretched and malnutrition was a longtime companion. One Andersonville inmate described his daily ration as a “pint of cooked beans well-seasoned with sand and bugs, a piece of bacon most as large as a walnut and four ounces of corn bread.”[11] The monotony of these meals, coupled with a tainted water supply from overuse and fecal matter, caused chronic diarrhea, dysentery, scurvy, dropsy, and inflammation of the bowels, not to mention smallpox and typhoid.[12] However, it can be said that Winder’s desire for more substantial fare stemmed from a rational fear of an outbreak than any real kindness on his part.[13] The diet of these men was insufficient, as some went without food for days; the Confederacy as a nation was running scarce on food, and the holistic mismanagement of distributing food to prisoners heightened feelings of despondency and the sound of hungry bellies. Although each of these claims are rational and even justifiable, it was not the case after late fall of 1863. Due to the state of the Confederacy, the rebel government authorized a policy that reduced prisoner rations in order to “sustain” the Union prisoner’s health. Even so, officials decided that if the Confederate army could not supply troops with proper meat, then prisoner rations for meat would be completely removed from their diet.[14] Furthermore, several thousand Danville inmates were sent to Andersonville due to its dwindling food supply, officials knowing “full well [Andersonville] was in no way prepared to receive them.”[15] The evils of Andersonville were prevalent, nay, commonplace, in most prisons during the Civil War. Alabama’s Cahaba prison held roughly seven hundred Union prisoners in an unfinished cotton warehouse, which had no roof, no floor, and a crude fireplace that produced more smoke than heat. These men would be sent to Andersonville in April of 1864.[16] The Union’s Camp Douglas, in Chicago, Illinois is often lauded as the “North’s Andersonville.” At Camp Douglas, prisoners were subject to confinement in the dungeon for “trivial infractions,” like drawing water from the wrong well. Camp Douglas would be one of the largest Union prisoner of war camps, “functioning” at a peak of eighteen thousand. Andersonville would have more than double the size, boasting numbers of forty-five thousand incarcerated inmates.[17] Another Union prison, Rock Island, Illinois, was eerily similar to Andersonville. Each similarity fit the bill: there was a widespread endemic of smallpox, the prison was cheaply constructed from stockpiles of boards and framing materials, and it was considerably isolated from potential enemy attack.[18] Libby Prison also had a reputation for harsh treatment, as the walls were whitewashed so the prison guards could clearly see captives trying to escape.[19] The treatment of prisoners in Andersonville harkens images of extermination camps of the Second World War. Two hundred of the first prisoners to arrive were stuffed into four boxcars, where they stood in cramped conditions for three days with only a day’s ration of food.[20] Captain Henry Wirz took command of the prison in 1864, where he established Andersonville’s infamous “deadline.” Although Camp Douglas and other major prisons utilized the deadline, due to the inflating number of inmates, an invisible barrier was needed to control the masses. Essentially, between the stockade wall and the invisible deadline was a no man’s land—anyone who passed the deadline was liable to get a load of buckshot.[21] Although about twenty prisoners were shot in the fourteen months of Andersonville’s existence, the sentries were extremely conscientious about the deadline, often shooting anything that was within range of no man’s land. Despite this claim, prisoners were under the guards’ mercy. One summer night in 1864, a prisoner stepped over the deadline, causing immediate fire from the sentry above, injuring not the offender but two sleeping bystanders. Within the next month, a newly arrived inmate would be shot through the head because he was not aware of the rules.[22] The Confederacy’s prisoner of war system was dismal at best. By the end of 1861, the Confederacy established a system that would oversee the dozens of prison camps during the war, including Andersonville. Confederate leaders realized there was a shortage of foodstuffs, medicine, and basic necessities (including water, shelter, clothing). Thus, scant rations were given to Confederate soldiers, and completely insufficient rations given to Union prisoners. This system was also severely lacking administratively, as there were poorly executed distribution plans and inadequate training of prison guards and sentries. As the war raged on, conditions at Andersonville and southern prison systems would depreciate, underscoring that the conditions were deplorable from the start. Andersonville prison being a prime example—the lack of preparation and the “policy of deliberate neglect” was paltry as well as cruel.[23] While the Confederacy lacked the staff to conduct routine inspections of the prisons’ welfare, some Union prisons had health and welfare examinations.[24] Some Union prisons, like Fort Warren, allowed men to daily cathartics, food, clothing, and money from home, including sending letters to relatives.[25] Overall, the Confederacy’s prisoner of war system was ill-conceived and muddled, thus building Andersonville’s infamous reputation.[26] When Winder assigned Wirz to Camp Sumter, Andersonville prisoners “fend[ed] for themselves.”[27] Sadly, Andersonville would see approximately forty-five thousand inmates pass through its open doors, and peak of over thirty-three thousand prisoners in August of 1864. Of that forty-five thousand, thirteen thousand would perish in the Georgia sun.[28] Daniel Chandler and Dr, Joseph Jones, inspectors sent to Andersonville, were equal in their evaluations of the prison. They both argued that the prison officials made little to no effort in obtaining proper food supplies, that they starved the prisoners so their deaths would decongest the camp, and that the lack of shelter and proper hospitals contributed to most prisoners’ deaths.[29] Andersonville, indeed, was a glimpse of hell. After the war, Andersonville was intended to return to Georgia farmland, the ground rich with fourteen months of human excrement and man-fertilizer. However, the federal government purchased the land from one of the original owners, Ben Dykes, where it was converted into a national monument and cemetery for the lost Union soldiers.[30] Henry Wirz was arrested and executed after the war, a small justification for the atrocities at Andersonville prison.[31] The Confederacy’s justifications of Union prisoner maltreatment are superfluous as well as weak. Regardless that most, if not all southern prisons had limited medical supplies, it does not justify the uncleanliness and unsanitary conditions Andersonville inmates had to face. The nascent Confederacy was not without ability to improve their prisons, but the refusal to make decisions to improve Union captives’ plight.[32] President Davis wrote to a confidante ten years after the war, that, “We all knew of the disease and fatalities among the prisoners at Andersonville,” he just willingly turned a blind eye to its troubles.[33] It seems that Andersonville was a place of great injustice, and would forever remain the most brutal of all Civil War prisons. Bibliography Futch, Ovid. History of Andersonville Prison. With a new introduction by Michael Gray. Gainsville: University Press of Florida, 2011. Marvel, William. Andersonville: The Last Depot. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1994. Pickenpaugh, Roger. Captives in Blue: Civil War Prisons of the Confederacy. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2013. Sanders, Charles W. While in the Hands of the Enemy: Military Prisons of the Civil War. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2005. Footnotes
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5 works of art hang confidently on the stark wall, delighted in being perused by their painter's family. Two of them are white, paper-mache canvases adorned with clumpy yet bright puzzle pieces. The others set in frames are more streamlined, clear. I prefer the white masses on the walls -- I imagine they would look well in a children's library.
The artist is young and humble, he crosses his arms, unaccustomed to his family's fawning; his grandmother smiles proudly and takes lopsided photographs on her digital camera from 2005; his grandfather walks around with his hands in his pockets, the sun glancing off his glasses to shadow his eyes. They had stood in front of my table for a couple minutes to examine artwork behind my head. I felt my jaw tighten and my forehead tense under their scrutiny. I imagine these paintings feel the same odd sensation I do when someone looks at me inordinately longer than usual. It is similar to locking eyes with a stranger when you walk out of the restroom, or your ringtone sounding Eric Clapton's Layla in a study-space. Cringe! Yet I am reminded time and time again, people are beautiful creatures. I notice his overlooked masterpiece is some 90s postmodern scrabble with chicken wire and the word "MISFITS" cut out from newspaper. He certainly is, and you certainly are too. I find rest and solitude in people watching, or people tasting. The artist finds rest in painting. I see the meticulous energy he releases in creating acrylic dreams. it is early morning -- or late night -- my heart is ballooned with friendship. i listen to cantaloupe island and think on dreamy autumn nights when raindrops splatter across my windshield and my ears ring with love's laughter. the song dies out, i open my car door, and i walk inside. in a few hours time, the romance of independence will wane as blue stretches on the horizon. fortunately for me, a waxing sun will take its place among the stars.
A poem that reminds me of my sister, Hannah, who is a little clod of clay:
"The Clod and the Pebble," (1794) by William Blake "Love seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care, But for another gives its ease, And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair." So sung a little Clod of Clay Trodden with the cattle's feet, But a Pebble of the brook Warbled out these metres meet: "Love seeketh only self to please, To bind another to its delight, Joys in another's loss of ease, And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite."
A few friends have asked me how I approach reading. I say it's a one-time encounter with the author's soul.
Whenever I am with someone or reading a book (sometimes the two are synonymous), I ask myself these questions: - What is this person trying to teach me? - How can I be a better listener? Throw your insecurities about dissection and analysis out the window. That is a skill that comes with practice and time, much like throwing a baseball. What the author asks for his reader is to listen. When you listen to a friend, you simply listen. Nitpicking words and over-reading their actions is fruitless and emotionally draining, and eventually, you project your own words into their mouth. I am guilty of this, and so are you. Let's agree to keep our mouths shut. With this in mind, the same goes for reading. Don't spend time postulating on what you think the author is saying, just sit quietly and listen. Then and only then will you hear the roar of deep waters. Being a friend is one of the most beautiful creatures we can be. Henry Dyke agrees with me, "A friend is what the heart needs all the time." Be a friend to the writer. Listen to his words and his heart strumming in his chest. Once you go to bed, you'll realize you weren't listening to his heart under your ear, but reading words on a page. Books are not meant to have dust jackets. A dust jacket is the facade of a building: the home and the world are inside. Any time I have a physical copy of a book, I rip the dust jacket off and throw it away. It is just advertisement. Who needs it but the publisher? The true reader reads regardless of the cover.
I say this because one of my books had 4 dust jackets on before I unclothed it. Underneath was nothing spectacular—but that's what I purchased. I didn't buy the book for the gilded shell, I did for the content and the growth and the language between each page. I wonder what would be revealed to me, to others, to Christ if I allowed His holiness to remove my petals. What would my crooked heart speak? It makes me think of animals and trees and people that hide behind dust jackets. I had observed a squirrel's tail before. Without the translucent fur, it's just a bent line from a cute, fuzzy bum. Would I love a squirrel's bum less because his tail is no longer fluff but crooked? Check out your local squirrel—you'll notice he is chatty and kind-hearted and has a Carroll-esque tail. If I was a book, what color would my spine be? What design or etching would be on my front binding? Would my pages be dog-eared and my words underscored? Would my dedication page be to Christ? I feel loved that His great tome has my name in it. I love having His in mine as well. “And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.” - Kahlil Gibran
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