A PRISONER OF WAR

LIEUT. COL. ROLLIN M. STRONG, IQTH WISCONSIN INFANTRY

Read March 7, 1894 In October, 1864, I was called to Richmond, Va., by a medical necessity and other causes over which I had no control I was a Prisoner of War. I arrived in that distinguished city at midnight. There was no delegation with a band to welcome me (though the band came later) and the only welcoming speech was from a very sleepy guard to the effect that "Here was another load of d n Yankees wounded." This was not particularly exhilarating at the time, as I had ridden in on my back in the bottom of an ambulance twelve miles, over a corduroy road, with one knee shot away and the tower leg flopping about loose whenever I would get faint and half lose consciousness and neglect to hold it. With me was Sergeant Nolan badly wounded and who died the next day, but who, during this long, painful ride, never groaned or whined, and but for his sand and bravery I believe I should have howled with pain, but did not dare in the presence of such unflinching manhood. We were received with all the care and solicitude with which prisoners were received (wounded or otherwise) by the world-famed chivalry of the south. (See records of Belle Isle, Libby, Andersonville, etc.) My first breakfast consisted of two and one-half inches square of cornbread (and I found in that a half-inch piece of cob), parched corn or barley coffee and rancid bacon. This was a fair sample of all my breakfasts for five weary months, varied at times with a small allowance of beer. After breakfast a surgeon came and informed me that my leg must be cut off. I had a racket with him and finally drove him off, telling him I thought they intended to disable us by amputation or otherwise and that I would not submit. Dinner consisted of cow pea soup and the top was covered with the shells of worms which infest the peas. I did not relish the soup and gave it to a hungrier man than I, who went under the stairs where it was dark and with his face to the wall ate it. I made my dinner off a bit of ox rib, and thought then, and do yet, that the ox came over with John Smith of Pocahontas fame, and a cup of James river water to drink. My supper was what I saved from my rib and breakfast bread. This was substantially the bill of fare at Hotel de Libby of fifty-five wounded men in the winter of 1864-5, an d the hospital was considered the Delmonico of Libby. Three days after my arrival at Libby, through the earnest solicitation of prisoners who had been there some months and knew the surgeon, I concluded to have the amputation performed, which was done that afternoon, and well done, too. That surgeon I never saw again. The day following a surgeon came to look us over, but was too drunk to be of any use, and no surgeon ever saw my limb in Libby thereafter. Several days after the amputation, while lying on my back counting the knots in the floor above, my attention was attracted by a small scrap of paper dangling on the end of a string from a crack in said floor. Calling the nurse, he reached and read : "Colonel, for the love of God, send me some money. I haven t had a bit of tobacker for four days." This was from one of my Company A boys, known as "The Wild Irishman of Company A," who now resides in Holt county, Nebraska, and declares that the money I then

sent saved his life. We had no means for killing time but to talk, and I soon knew the history of every man in that room and each knew mine, even to the color of the eyes and the weight of the last baby. We obtained cards and played all known games, and would have played marbles, but we had no marbles; we had plenty of Confederate money and wagered it with great recklessness at poker, faro and other games of chance. A Richmond daily paper was bought at 50 cents per copy greenbacks or $10 gray backs. This was read to squads and passed around, and many a laugh we enjoyed over the predictions that Johnston had Sherman just where he wanted him and was just about to smash him, and that Grant was played out and that Lee was about to climb on his back. The laugh was intensified at night by the prison guard, which, except officers, was composed of boys, many of whom were just changing their voices. They would start off with a good bass voice and change to a childish treble their cry of "Twelve o clock and all s well!" We were counted every morning by Dick Turner, and to make the ceremony more impressive he would bring into our room a drum corps of ten pieces and order them to play while he counted. You can imagine the effect upon men with arms; and legs just off and others shot through and those sick with fever. After a time we drove him out of the room, and then he would open wide the double doors and have them play on the walk. Dick Turner s reputation is so well established I will not elaborate, but anathemas will arise whenever I think of that beast. We had a red-hot election in November, and a ward caucus was not in it with ours Lincoln and a-fight-toa-finish, McClellan and the-war-a-failure arguments were loud and long, though the Mac men were in the hopeless minority. On election day polls were regularly opened with three inspectors and a clerk, and nearly every man in the room voted within an hour. Lincoln received (as I remember) all but three or four of the fifty-six votes cast, and those three or four flocked by themselves for several weeks after. About these days the weather was getting cold and we were under our blanket (only one thin one each) most of the time, and then not at all comfortable. Finally we were granted some stove wood and one armful per day was our allowance. The stove was a small cannon ball kind such as you see in a railroad caboose; the wood was two feet long, and we could only burn it by allowing it to stand on end and out of the stove door. The room was no feet long and 45 feet wide, and the only comfort we enjoyed from the fire was knowledge of the fact that we had a fire. One tallow candle was our allowance per week, and that was saved for the nurse at night. Some poor fellow would be in great pain, or some sick or wounded man parched with thirst would desire a drink of water, when the nurse would light his candle, assist as best he could to get the drink, blow out his candle and grope back to his cot. When we began to get stronger singing at night was a favorite amusement, and "America," "John Brown" and negro melodies made the old walls ring, and often brought the guard in with plenty of curses, loud and deep, and wishing that all the d Yankees were in Hades, though I don t think he used that word. Whenever a particularly irrascible officer of the guard was on duty, the singing continued until the wee small hours, until the poor devil was near having an apoplectic fit from anger and worn out from the loss of cuss words. Christmas came and with it thoughts of home and all that appertains to that dear word and occasion, and what to do and how to celebrate that day was the question. Finally it was decided to bribe the guard at the front door and have him bring us a canteen of whiskey, which was done; then we arranged for a gallon of

milk and one nutmeg, the latter costing us one dollar in greenbacks, and somehow we managed to get some sugar. Christmas morn this was mixed in a horse bucket and every man received his portion with thankfulness and "a merry Christmas to each and all, and best wishes to the loved ones at home." I would state that I was most fortunate in my capture, as I was not robbed, and took into Libby all my personal belongings (except sword, pistol and spurs), which included my watch, knife and greenbacks, and the only greenbacks in Libby at that time. I have the watch and knife now. We all had the blues at times, but never all at once, and so passed the blue times with the help of each other, and but for the unflagging energy and high courage of a few comrades we would have all sunk in despair. God alone knows the suffering of Libby prisoners from semi-starvation, enforced idleness and ceaseless monotony. Then would come rumors of a flag of truce boat and hopes for a word or box from home. (Many were sent, but none reached us.) Then talk of exchange of prisoners, but Butler was mad and would not allow it, and so we remained until February 22, 1865, when the long-looked for exchange came and we could see with the eye of faith God s country. Soon we were on the boat with some 300 other prisoners and were landed some miles down James River. After a brief ride we climbed up the bank, and there two or three miles away was "Old Glory," and such shouts as we could give were given with a will, and tears were in every eye and on every cheek, and we wept and cheered and were glad.