July 1863
For three days, the steamer wound its way down the Ohio, taking Will and the rest of Morgan’s command to an uncertain future in Cincinnati. Will’s head grew worse, and he felt as though he had a fever.
“You Yanks got a doctor on board this tub?” he asked.
“Reb, no use getting healthy where you’re going. But I’ll ask,” said the guard. He returned an hour later with balding bespectacled man in a dark suit coat, who examined Will.
“Anything unusual in how you feel?”
Will thought he must be an idiot. “Of course it’s unusual. I got thrown off a horse. My head hit the ground, maybe a rock. It hurts something fierce most of the time. One minute I wish they’d shot me. The next minute I feel like we’ll still win the war. Can you at least stop the pain?”
The doctor rummaged about and then said, “I’ll have someone bring you a willow bark tea. I have no laudanum to give you; it’s for soldiers at the front. I’m afraid you’ll just have to cope with the pain. Of course, if you try to escape, one of the soldiers here may grant your wish to be shot.”
When the tea came, Will drank it gratefully, and then tried to sleep. Twice a day someone came by with a bucket of alleged soup and hard tack. Will swayed and struggled to get down to the privy in the stern, and then back. He passed in and out of consciousness.
Finally, they docked in Cincinnati. The officers were unloaded. Will watched Duke disembark and wondered if he would ever see him again. Should he have stayed with the officers? It was too late to change his mind. The private soldiers spent the night on the boat. Early the next morning, a few wagons were at the docks. Will saw that prisoners who could walk were herded off and made to stand in the heat. He was helped off the boat and allowed into one of the wagons. He sat listlessly. He scratched his scruffy week-old beard. He was filthy and sweaty. It was hard to think, hard to concentrate. In some ways, he didn’t want to. After all, what was the point? This is where his devotion to honor and to Morgan led him. The wagons began to move.
✳ ✳ ✳
Julia sat in the kitchen reading the newspaper. Mama Kirsten rarely entered the kitchen, declaring it the domain of servants, not a true lady. Julia rejoiced in that, and used it as an escape.
“More coffee, Mrs. Johannsen?” offered one of the kitchen maids.
“Yes please, Laura,” said Julia, looking up and then returning to the article. The headlines proclaimed General Morgan and his command captured. Some sources disbelieved it, but others said the prisoners would arrive in Cincinnati in a few days. Could Will be among them?
“Laura, bring me some writing paper and ink. I need to send a note to my family.”
Julia had recently returned from visiting Albinia and her parents on the river. She quickly penned a note advising them that Will might be among the prisoners. Then her eye caught another article. It said that portions of the Third Ohio Cavalry were captured, and on their way to Libby Prison in Richmond. Hiram!
✳ ✳ ✳
Julia and her family crowded in with the rest, lining the dock, held back by a rope line and soldiers. Most of the crowd was hostile, jeering and yelling at Morgan’s men coming off the boat. Some actually threw stones or bottles at the men. Julia and Albinia craned their necks to see, but were too short to see over everyone’s head. Little Lydia climbed up on her father’s shoulders. More than once Robert nearly dropped her, as his uneven legs struggled to retain his balance, jostled by the crowd.
“There he is, Pa!” Lydia shouted. She wiggled and got down. She wanted to run to her brother.
Sara held her. “You can’t, Lyddie. You can’t.”
“But it’s Will. I want to go see him!”
Albinia knelt down, pushing someone aside, to be at her sister’s level. “I know, sweetheart. But you can’t. Will is going to have to go away for a while. Maybe they’ll let us see him. Remember what I told you about being in prison? That’s what’s going to happen to Will.”
Julia thought Lydia appeared confused. “But Will isn’t bad. What did he do wrong?” Lydia said.
“I wasn’t bad, either,” Albinia said. “Prisons have bad people in them, but they also have people who just didn’t make the right choices.”
“Well, I’m going to do something!” said Julia.
Julia pushed forward to speak to the officer in charge of the prison detail.
“Sir, my brother is in this group. I’m Mrs. Johannsen, of the Ohio Zephyr steamship company. If I could speak to him, even for a moment….”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. The governor says these men and their officers are common criminals, looters and thieves. The officers are going to the penitentiary. The men are going to Camp Morton.”
“I helped the governor get elected! Please, just for a moment. I can promise you won’t get in any trouble.”
The captain made a face. “Ma’am, I have my orders. Once they arrive at Camp Morton, you can speak to the commandant there. Meanwhile, you best clear the way. Go home, ma’am. These rebels aren’t worth your trouble. Mrs. Lincoln has brothers with the rebels too. She ignores them. You should do the same. Go home.”
She tried to shout and wave to get Will’s attention, but it was hard to hear over the noise of the crowd. She could see Will just sitting, as though made out of wood.
Disheartened, they watched as the men marched and the wagons rolled out. They went back to the Johannsens for lunch. The Crumps and Albinia boarded an Ohio Zephyr steamer, courtesy of Julia. Julia waved them off at the dock, returning home to write to Hiram.
✳ ✳ ✳
Albinia couldn’t wait to get home. She wished she could have talked to Will, to comfort him, to let him know prison wasn’t forever—but also to warn him, based on her own experiences. Prisons did sometimes have bad people in them, or at least, people with pain who wanted to take it out on you.
Since that hadn’t been possible, she offered prayers for him and turned her mind to Peter. Since her parents’ coming, the year had been so busy she barely had time to think. Her school for young Negro children in Georgetown was going well. She and Peter had a few Mondays together, when he would come down after church on Sunday and stay in town for the night. There had been no repeat of their intimate evening together. Could it have been eight months? Had something changed? In all that time she had seen him regularly, but there had been friendship, not intimacy. Increasingly, Mary was always around. Mary was unfailingly friendly toward her, but Albinia saw the glances between them, the laughter when they thought no one was looking. It was hard not to be jealous.
When they arrived at the compound, Albinia peered ahead and saw Peter’s wagon in the yard. As Robert helped her down from the wagon, she thanked him and rushed inside.
As she entered, Mary turned from the stove in Albinia’s kitchen and stumbled over an iron left by the fireplace. Peter caught her, and Albinia gasped a little. They were in an awkward embrace. Peter quickly disengaged himself, seeing Albinia. The image hit her like a knife. She turned and went back out the door, running down the path to the north along the river, toward the inn. She ran past her parents, not yet in the house, even ignoring a question from Lydia as she went by. She couldn’t believe it. Peter must be in love with her, his childhood friend. She was angry, and hot tears streamed down her cheeks as she ran. How could he? She had been a fool to trust him, to dishonor David’s memory! Vaguely behind her, she heard someone calling, but she was determined not to listen. She would stay at the inn tonight. Tomorrow she would figure out what to do. Her parents could have the farm. Ruth could take the school. She wasn’t needed here.
Her eyes were red and swollen, her face blotched with tears, and her hair flying in a hundred directions. She reached the fence that marked the entrance to the yard around the inn, and slowed. This would never do—she couldn’t let herself be seen like this. She stopped to repair the damage as best she could. She heard footsteps pounding up behind her and looked for somewhere to hide, suddenly frightened, checking for her derringer.
She turned and saw Peter running toward her. Her anger and hurt returned. She did not want to see him!
“Albinia! Wait!” Peter gasped, galloping up to her. “I need to talk to you!”
“We have nothing to talk about, apparently,” said Albinia icily. “It’s Mrs. Horner to you.”
Peter reached out for her elbow, but she pulled free and glared at him. “How dare you!”
“Albinia, please! It’s not what you think. Really. Mary and I are just good friends. We’ve known each other since childhood.”
“I’ve heard that story,” said Albinia drily. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m not stupid. I’m hot and tired. I’ve come from a long journey, seeing my brother put in jail. Go away!”
“Please, just hear me out. Just give me a few minutes,” Peter said, holding his hands out palms toward her and backing off a step or two. “Then if you want, I’ll leave you alone,” he said bitterly.
Albinia turned to go, then turned back. “All right. You have two minutes.”
“I know I haven’t been the suitor I should have been these past months. But before you condemn me, at least know that Mary is leaving. Tomorrow. I’m sorry that I’ve let work and friendship steal time from you. I could give you a hundred excuses, but you deserve better than that. I could say I’ve been out here on the Railroad for so long, with no family, that having Mary and her family around has been like a visit to home. But mostly, I just want to ask you to forgive me. I love you, no one else. Not that way. Mary is like a sister. Please. If you won’t forgive me, I’ll regret it until I die.”
Albinia softened a little and was about to reply, when Mary came up the path. She stopped a few feet away. Albinia’s anger flared again and she was about to leave, when Mary spoke, “Please. Mrs. Horner. Wait. I haven’t heard all that Peter has told you, but I can imagine. It’s true. I have no claim on Peter except long friendship. He loves you—he’s told me that. I am not interested in him romantically at all. Peter’s a fine man. He’s just slow at times about how women think.” She flashed an impish grin at him. “I hope you’ll listen to him. I would ask you to forgive us both. I meant it when I said I’d like your friendship. However, I am leaving for Texas tomorrow.” She walked closer and took each of their hands, placing Albinia’s in Peter’s. “But I’m also going to leave now. I think you two have things to discuss.” She turned and walked back down the path.
“Will you forgive me?” Peter pleaded.
She burst into tears and threw her arms around his neck. “Yes, Peter. Yes. With all my heart.”
✳ ✳ ✳
Will looked around the derelict camp. It looked like a place abandoned, stomped on, and then reinhabited. Will guessed that over a thousand of Morgan’s men were in the wagon train to Camp Morton, on the north side of Indianapolis. The march in the summer heat, with little water and rest, covered over one hundred miles, and they arrived on July 23, 1863. Will supposed he might have been lucky to have the head wound, after all, since he got to ride in a wagon with other wounded, in spite of the putrid smell of gangrene.
The camp gate arched, rising from two sides to a point. There was a high white board fence around the outside. Inside were long low-slung barracks and rows of tents. There were trees around the interior, and grass. One of the barracks had a hole in the roof, and a door flapped lazily on its hinges in the wind. Everywhere Will looked, men were sitting, playing cards or checkers, looking bored.
A sergeant from the Massachusetts artillery checked them in and assigned them a bunk. Will walked into the barracks, hundreds of feet long, lined with tiers of bunks stacked four high. Down the center was a long thin table, apparently for eating purposes. Mosquitoes and gnats buzzed around his head, and he felt a wave of dizziness. The stench was overpowering. A rat skittered across the floor in front of them. The bunks were just wooden platforms with straw tick mattresses. Will was assigned to one of the bottom bunks, as the sergeant doubted his ability to climb.
The sergeant looked Will over and said, “You one sorry excuse for a soldier, Reb. I reckon they’ll be plantin’ you with the smallpox group before the week is out.”
Will sank onto the bunk, despairing, and began to pray.
✳ ✳ ✳
August 1863
Camp routine was dull. There was an attempt to make the prisoners drill, without weapons, but after a week or so, the Union soldiers gave up. There was fresh bread, baked daily, but little else besides occasional beans. Still the rest did Will good, and after two weeks he began to feel more normal. It was now three weeks since the battle.
“Hey, you Johnny Reb! You hear the good news? They got that scoundrel Morgan. He’s goin’ to jail worse than here. Who knows? If you’re good and kiss Lincoln’s boots, they might let you outta here by Christmas. Course most of you leave in the natural way, greetin’ Saint Peter.” The guard walked off laughing nastily.
Most of the guards were former prisoners of the Confederates, given parole, but for whom the Federals had not yet exchanged prisoners South. Under the terms of their parole, they were not supposed to fight, but could do guard duty for the army, freeing other troops for combat.
There were two men on each bunk level. Will’s bunkmate was a Scot, Jamie McPherson. Will thought him a good companion, a God-fearing Presbyterian with a mischievous streak. He stood about five feet six inches, with brown hair, wide set eyes, dimpled chin, and prominent nose. He had a wiry strength, and was from the Third Kentucky Cavalry, where he served Morgan as a gunner manning the howitzers and Parrot rifles.
One evening around the stove, Jamie took Will aside.
“What d’ye say we liven up that guard’s life? I’d do it meself, but I need a lookout. Are ye game?”
Will thought and shrugged. He felt all right, just cold and hungry. Some fun to pass the time couldn’t hurt. “Sure. When and where?”
“Tomorra mornin’, early like, before the guards are awake.”
Accordingly, Jamie poked Will the next morning before dawn, and they quietly rose and put their boots on. They cracked open the door and looked around—no one was moving in the camp. It was dark, and any guard on the wall wouldn’t see them. They moved quietly from one barracks building to another, until they reached the guard’s building.
Will stood lookout at the door, though most of the guards were inside, sleeping. He shook his head at Jamie’s daring. Jamie found a bucket and went to one of the few water outlets in the camp. He returned with it nearly full of cold water. Removing his own boots, he crept into the guard’s quarters. He was out again in five minutes with his bucket nearly empty. No one made a sound, no one approached. Jamie stowed the bucket beside the rain barrel, and they both ran back to the barracks. When they were safely back in their bunk, Will saw that Jamie was having trouble not exploding in laughter.
“Jes wait until that Federal tries to put his boots on this morning! I filled each boot with water and smeared a bit o’ butter from their mess on the floor around them, just to make it slippery like.”
Will quietly chuckled and agreed that it would be a good joke.
After dawn, roll call came. The guard who had insulted Morgan the previous day looked angry and sported a black eye.
“You Johnny Rebs think this is some kinda circus, don’t you? Think you’re funny! When I find out who rigged my boots, you’re gonna wish you’d died instead of bein’ a prisoner.”
A few days later, however, the prisoners turned out for an announcement.
Colonel Rose, the commandant, addressed them. “You Kentucky men that came in from Morgan’s command—you’re all being transferred. This here’s a paradise compared to where you’re going. You’re all going to Camp Douglas in Chicago. May God have mercy on your souls.”
True to his word, the next day Will, Jamie, and all the other Morgan men were loaded into freight cars on the train and shipped like cattle to the slaughter, north to Chicago. They arrived at Camp Douglas August 18, 1863. Morgan’s men arrived on successive trains over the next five days, until Camp Douglas had over three thousand new arrivals.
The barracks here were smaller. Will talked with one of the guards and learned they were intended to house about eighty men—they were now crammed with about one hundred per building. Will and Jamie managed to stay together. Will listened and found the sentiment among the men much changed—they were determined to escape and rejoin the fighting. He learned also that mail was easy to get in and out of the camp, and promptly sat down to write letters to his family.
The barracks were pine board construction, raised on stilts off the ground about three feet, to make tunneling more difficult. The camp was laid out in streets and sections, with names like White Oak and Garrison. It was right up against the city, with the University of Chicago across the street. When Will arrived, there were streetcars of gawkers come to see the new prisoners. He learned that the camp was intended for Federal troops, but was converted to a prison. The high walls made it look difficult to escape, but Will soon learned that security was lax and corruption among the guards rampant.
Once he and Jamie settled, they strolled about the camp. Jamie got a favorable reception from the guards, many of them Irishmen, who thought a Scot close kindred. Will saw a post office, barbershop, photographer’s studio, two sutler stores, a commissary house, and a chapel. He smelled sewage, rotting food, and the stench of several thousand unwashed bodies.
There was only one water hydrant for the entire camp, and it wasn’t working. Prisoners were not obliged to work, but Will saw it as a way to pass the time and improve conditions for everyone.
At assembly, the guards took roll. Then DeLand, the commandant, addressed them:
“I’ll not tolerate trouble here. Any man that causes trouble will be confined to the dungeon. I do not have enough troops to work on the camp, only enough to guard you sorry Rebs and keep you from mischief. Should any of you desire to improve your circumstances, see the sergeant of the guard in your section and he will assign you work to help your fellows. Anyone volunteering to work on the walls will receive one dollar and fifty cents Federal per day. Other work will not be paid, but may result in less sickness and better living. That is all.”
Will sought out his sergeant and volunteered to work on digging new sewer and water pipes.
Two weeks later, a ragged gray-clad soldier wandered over to where Will was digging.
“Say, soldier, suppose you take a rest a while and let me borrow your shovel.”
“You want to dig pipes?” Will asked.
The man guffawed. “No, siree, not interested in doin’ the Federal’s work for them. But some of your fellows could use that shovel for the cause,” he said slyly.
Will looked him over.
“No, sir. If you want a shovel, go and ask the sergeant. I’m sure he would let you dig pipes, but not for another purpose.”
“Don’t you want to get out of here?”
“Yes, but not to fight. I’m done with it. I’m tired of killing men and having them try to kill me because of the color cloth we wear.”
“Suit yourself,” the man shrugged. “Some of us are going to find our way back to the captain, or General Morgan, should I say.”
A few days later, Will heard about some of the men sneaking out, only to be caught in the dens of gambling and prostitution that were near the camp. They were marched into the White Oak Dungeon. The dungeon was a hole in the ground accessed by a trap door, lined with white oak logs more than a foot in diameter. Will meant to stay clear of it, only to find that Jamie was in the group. He learned that those in the dungeon would be given only bread and water, and no exercise. It was not quite eighteen square feet, and had twenty-four prisoners at a time in it. Just walking into the square where the dungeon was could make Will gag, so much worse was the stench than the rest of the camp. He went anyway, to see if he could help his friend. The guards went away for a few minutes, and he raced over to the wooden grate.
“Jamie! Jamie Mac! Are you in there? Can you hear me?”
“Aye,” came a weak reply.
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Aweel, ye could pass in that shovel ye dig with. And keep yer mouth shut.”
Will felt conflicted—if he gave them the shovel and was found out, he’d likely be in the dungeon himself. If he became ill, it could be a death sentence. In the weeks he’d been here, dozens died of disease.
He had only moments to decide—he ran and got the shovel, passing it through the narrow opening. He’d barely gotten it in the dungeon and turned away whistling when the guards returned.
Up to this point, prisoners who were private soldiers were allowed to take an oath of allegiance to the United States and be released to fight in the Federal army. Now, in October, the Federals announced no more applications for allegiance would be processed. No prisoner exchanges were to happen. They were stuck for the duration of the war. Will began to wish he had done more to help the stranger who wanted to break out.
A few days later, on October 26, a furious Commandant DeLand lined up the prisoners in the yard.
“Last night, some of you Kentucky men decided to make a mockery of this camp by escaping the dungeon. Somehow, the prisoners obtained a shovel. They dug through the plank floor, into a garbage pit, and out under the wall. They must have had help. I demand to know who helped them. If that man will step forward, he alone will be punished. If not, you will all stand at attention without food or water, all night if necessary.”
Will did not step forward. He waited. The night grew colder. The wind howled. The men shuffled and grumbled, getting poked with bayonets when they became too restless. DeLand retired to his quarters to wait. Whispering began.
“Musta been someone diggin’ for the Federals.”
“Good for him, I say! We’ll show these Federals what we’re made of.”
“Easy for you to say. Rations is short enough already. And then we got to stand here in the cold and starve? Ought to give himself up.”
There were many murmurs of agreement. Finally around midnight, as the temperature dropped toward freezing and a light rain began, Will could stand it no longer. He couldn’t let his fellow soldiers suffer because he’d helped a friend.
Will stepped forward and in a loud voice declared, “Sir! It was I who helped the prisoners.”
Will was astonished when twenty more men stepped forward, making the same declaration. The commandant was summoned.
“You clearly cannot all have been responsible. However, since you wish to suffer with your fellow conspirator, your wish is granted. Sergeant! Take these men to the dungeon. Make them repair the floor and fill in any holes. Any who hesitate or lag, shoot them! You prisoners will then stay in the dungeon for three days. We’ll see if you are then ready to tell me who actually helped.”
After the dungeon was repaired, Will stood for three days, because there was no room to lie down in the dungeon. There was only a single slice of bread each day, and two cups of water. There was one bucket in the corner as a privy for twenty-one men, and no way to empty it. A guard, sometimes retching, entered every two hours, day or night, to check the security of the dungeon. Two other guards stood by, with pistols and rifles ready, in case of a revolt.
At the end of three days, three prisoners were chosen at random, James Allen, John Sweeney, and William Wason. Will watched as the men who stood up for him were strung up with their thumbs supporting the entire weight of their bodies. After a few hours, they began to groan, but none recanted their confession. Will again protested that it was he alone, but others would not let him take all the blame. John Sweeney and William Wason died of exposure. Finally, the sergeant sent the other men back to their barracks and threw Will back in the dungeon for an additional three days. When he emerged, he felt he’d lost twenty pounds and was hot with fever.
For the following two weeks Will lay on his bunk, mostly unable to move except to eat and go to the privy. A private named Curtis Burke came and helped him.
“Will, what you did was brave. Morgan would have been proud. I’m gonna see you get better. Maybe we can break out of this hellhole together.”
Will looked up gratefully. “Thanks, Curt. But all I want to do is survive.” Will took the cup of water Curt offered and then sank back. He went into delirium. He had no idea how long he was out.
When he became conscious again, he felt weak but the fever had broken. He discovered it was almost Christmas.
“Hey, Crump! You got a package here!”
Will’s fingers shook as he untied the string from the large parcel. Inside, he found a veritable treasure trove. There was a warm winter coat, willow bark and dogwood bark, quinine, new socks knit by Albinia, a flannel shirt, new breeches from his mother Sara, hard tack, dried oranges, and eighty dollars in Federal money from Julia. Just as important to Will, there were letters from everyone. Even Lydia scrawled a note and drew a picture of her big brother Will and herself. Albinia also sent a new Bible.
In the letters, Will learned that Luther and Ruth would be married soon. The real surprise was that Peter and Albinia would also be married. Not all of the news was happy. Julia wrote that Hiram was a prisoner, and was in Libby Prison in Richmond. Will felt truly sorry for him, imagining the trials facing that gentle giant. Julia also stated that Morgan had escaped prison and was on the loose again.
With the gifts provided, Will’s recovery accelerated. He began reading the Bible Albinia sent, again turning to God as his strength. He thought about Joseph in prison in Egypt. He didn’t think he was anyone that important, but maybe, somehow, God had a purpose for this difficult time. He began attending the chapel and heard Dwight Moody speak, offering challenges and encouragement. Some others of Morgan’s men listened. Others scoffed at him, said the punishment made him go soft, turned him to a coward. Will ignored the naysayers, except to pray for them.
Day followed weary day. One morning the camp buzzed with news—most of the escaped prisoners were returning, captured. Will stood at the gate as they came in. A much thinner and bedraggled Jamie MacPherson was among them.
DeLand grew furious—prisoners were shot, winter coats from home confiscated as the temperature dropped to zero. The men were living on frozen mud. As the winter dragged on, sickness and death from disease mounted—twenty in Will’s barracks alone died. He carefully measured out and shared the medicine sent from home, but some died anyway. Packages from home were now forbidden and confiscated.
In late February 1864, Will rejoiced at the news—DeLand was out. A new commandant was coming. A letter from Julia had the welcome news that Hiram had escaped from Libby, with many others, and was expected home soon.
News of Federal defeats made the guards surly, victories made them exultant and jeering toward the prisoners. The new Federal commander, Strong, seemed uncertain how to handle the prisoners. His superior, General Orme, had his own ideas.
“What the Federals doing now, Will?” asked Jamie, looking at the wall.
“I dunno, Jamie. Looks like they’re stringing lanterns.”
That night, the walls suddenly lit up, with dozens of oil lamps. A new rail was put up ten feet from the wall, with a notice that any prisoner found between the rail and the wall would be shot.
Will got up to use the privy and check out the new lights. Suddenly he felt a bayonet in his back.
“Halt! You there, out of quarters at night! Stand at attention!”
Will halted and did as he was told.
“What’s your name?”
“Will Crump, sir.”
“We’ll deal with you in the morning, Crump. Back inside.”
The next morning, Will had to report and received a ball and chain shackled to his ankle. The ball weighed about twenty pounds, and he was forced to drag or carry it wherever he went for the next week.
As spring came, yet another commander took over, Colonel Benjamin Sweet. Sweet thought prisoners should not be idle, so in spite of having few guards in proportion to the number of prisoners, he forced the prisoners to work improving the camp. Sweet also restored the prisoners’ ability to receive packages from home. Will wrote to Julia, and soon a weekly stream of goods came his way. The guards pilfered some, but because the packages were regular, he was able to have enough for his needs and some to share with grateful companions like Jamie and Curt. It was largely due to this lifeline from home that Will stayed well and survived when so many died. Rations were cut, and work increased.
By June, food was scarce. Will saw men eating rats and chasing a poor dog, which rumor said turned up in the prisoners’ kitchen and on their table. The prisoners could no longer buy vegetables.
The prison administration again banned packages from the outside, so that Will’s promised birthday presents in August did not arrive. On his twentieth birthday, August 21, 1864, Will was digging trenches for another new sewer at the camp. His birthday breakfast was a single slice of bread and two cups of water. Coffee was now not allowed for prisoners. He heard that the Federal generals wanted to retaliate, and would not allow prisoners to eat better than the Confederate soldiers in the field. On Sunday, boiled beef and hominy was added to the bill of fare.
Curt and some others formerly in Morgan’s command protested the reduced rations vigorously.
“Will ye not join us, this time?” Jamie asked Will. “A few of us are going to try escaping again. These new Pennsylvania boys I don’t think could hit a squirrel with cannon at twenty yards.”
Will just laughed, but then sobered. “You shouldn’t try again, Jamie. It’s not worth your life. I know it’s bad here, but if we band together, share, and trust God, we can make it. You heard the news—Atlanta has fallen. It’s only a matter of time now. The war will end.”
Jamie shook his head. “I’ll never stop trying. It would be like admitting that these blue bellies are right and all we fought for is wrong. There’s always a chance. Never count out Bobby Lee.”
The guards paraded a newspaper in front of the Kentucky men. The headlines told of General Morgan’s death, shot while evading capture, on September 4. Will was sorrowful. Whatever else Morgan may have been, he was consistently good to Will.
Will kept his silence, and on the night of September 7, Curt, Jamie, and about forty others from Morgan’s command rushed the fence, in spite of the dead zone and the lights. Will clanked a bucket noisily near a water hydrant, trying to help distract the guards. He watched as the men successfully broke a plank in the fence as bullets whizzed around them. About ten men made it through the fence before the guards came running to corral the prisoners with bayonets, Jamie among them. Curt however was not successful, and remained in the camp.
“Jamie was right—those Pennsylvania men can’t shoot,” Curt said. “But I guess with Morgan gone and Atlanta fallen, it may not be worth trying again.”
Will nodded. “It can’t be long now. Ol’ Sweet just made it a shooting offense to walk between the outer barracks and the wall.”
Over the next few weeks, Will fell ill again with dysentery. Typhoid was also sweeping through the camp. The weather turned colder. He was shivering in his bunk on the morning of Sept 28 as he woke, when he noticed many of the men missing. He rose to go to the privy and found a guard stationed at the entrance to the barracks. Apparently there was another attempt at mass escape. Thirty prisoners were involved, and two were wounded—the Pennsylvania boys could shoot after all.
Curt fell ill with smallpox. The guards carried him to the hospital wagon, and Will wondered if he’d ever see his friend again.
Will knew that many felt their chances of survival in the camp were worse than if they were fighting. His illness made him wonder, but he didn’t agree. He asked others not to tell him about planned escapes, so he could not be considered guilty, whether they succeeded or failed. He had no medicine left from home.
He gradually regained some strength, but then fell back into a fever. The wind howled, the temperature dropped. Christmas was bleak, with no word from home.
Just after Christmas, a huge storm hit the camp. A late Christmas present arrived from home, with new medicine, food, and dried oranges. This time, Will had to guard his treasure, else it would have been stolen. The storm brought feet of snow, and temperatures about twenty below zero. Pipes froze, and clean water became scarce. Men melted snow on the boilers for drinking water. Will gave a few of the oranges to those most afflicted with scurvy. Many had teeth fall out, and their lips gave way to the disease. Will just stayed in his bunk, attempting to be warm, but shivered and teeth chattered, particularly after the commandant deprived the prisoners of all extra blankets in retaliation for an escape attempt.
When the snow abated and the trains were able to run, more prisoners flooded the camp. They were four to a bunk now, good for warmth but bad for the spread of disease. Will could barely walk. No one bothered with funerals anymore—too many were dying, and the coffins were just carted off in wheelbarrows to a common grave. To combat the problem, those able to walk formed vigilante juries—any man who failed to keep himself clean was liable to be carried to the bathhouse, stripped, and scrubbed, regardless of the outside temperature. Will’s fever grew worse, and only the solicitude of his bunkmates kept him alive. Around him, some got frostbite. Men used to sing hymns after the eight o’clock curfew, but now even talking was forbidden. News of the fall of Fort Fisher, a main Confederate supply depot, spread through the camp, lending credence that the war was almost over.
Will regained some strength. Curt emerged from the smallpox hospital shaky but walking. Curt didn’t live in the same barracks, but came by to see that Will was cared for. Guards were beating and whipping prisoners now for any small or sometimes imagined offense. The camp designed for four thousand now had over thirteen thousand prisoners.
As the weather warmed, news of the war continued to look worse for the Confederates. In late February, word came down that some of Morgan’s men were going to be transferred out of Camp Douglas. Will and Joe Dunavan from Company D, Second Kentucky, were among the group.
They boarded a train on March 2 bound for Maryland, a camp called Point Lookout. Joe was a Mason, and managed through talking to the engineer to get himself and Will a better spot in the train, with more ventilation and privileges to be near the stove.
They arrived at the camp on the ocean and saw a sea of tents. There were few buildings. The wind blew off the ocean and made the coming spring cold. There were eighteen to a tent meant for ten. Will and Joe were separated. Sanitation was nonexistent, and Will fell back into fever. A week later, he was placed on a train headed south. By March 15, he checked into a hospital at Farmville, Virginia. The male nurses there were kind to him, and the conditions better than any of the camps he’d been in. Will felt he knew very little of what went on. After two weeks, he was able to stand and walk. At the end of the third week, the news came—Lee had surrendered. The war was over. Will was free.