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A SOLDIER'S STORY.
[From Newton Enterprise.]

   I have been requested to write some incidents, experiences and 
observations of prison life during the war of 1861-'65. After thirty-eight 
or thirty-nine years it is somewhat difficult to recall anything like all 
that transpired in those dark days. Some people say it is time to stop 
talking about that war. Now, that would be a hard thing for those who 
lived in those days to do: stop talking about the war. The men, women and 
children at home had almost as hard a time as those at the front - not 
quite so dangerous, yet it required courage and true patriotism to stand 
in their places. Furthermore, it seems necessary, in order to keep history 
straight, that those who lived and participated in that part of our 
history should occasionally be heard from, otherwise those who write so 
much, who live north of the Mason and Dixon's line, would make our rising 
generation believe what is false. So I say to all such: "Nothing in the 
past is dead to the man who would learn how the present came to be what it 
is." Much has been written and said by our Northern friends as to the 
suffering of the Union soldiers in Southern prisons - Andersonville, 
Salisbury and other places - during that war. They draw an awful picture 
of their poor soldiers suffering and dying in Southern prisons. In some 
respects this was true. To be in prison of itself was bad enough, but to 
be there without proper food or medicine was very bad indeed. The South 
did not have the means, neither the medicine, but the prisoners in our 
care were put on the same footing as our own poor soldiers. The question 
is: Who was to blame for this state of things? The Confederate authorities 
made proposition after proposition for exchange of prisoners, but the 
Government at Washington positively declined. It is said that 

Page 4

General Grant said: "It was hard, and a great sacrifice, to leave the 
Union soldiers in Southern prisons, but it must be made; that the 
Confederates could not afford to leave their men in prison for want of men 
to take their place, but the United States could; to exchange the 
prisoners the Confederates would return to the army and go to fighting 
again." So here is the key to the responsibility for all the suffering and 
deaths on both sides in the prisons. The Confederate Government offered to 
let them send medicine South for their sick prisoners, but they declined 
to do that. It must be remembered the Confederate Government was shut in 
from the outside world, and could not secure necessary medicine, etc. Now, 
as to Andersonville, it was under the command of Wirtz, and since men have 
had time to cool off it has long since been decided that the hanging of 
that poor man was simply murder. He did the best he could for the poor 
prisoners there. General Dick Taylor in his book, "Destruction and 
Reconstruction," gives the following account of meeting with Wirtz, as his 
troops were passing Andersonville, during the march of Sherman through 
Georgia, in 1864: "In this journey through Georgia, at Andersonville, we 
passed in sight of a large stockade inclosing prisoners of war. The train 
stopped for a few moments, and there entered the carriage to speak to me a 
man who said his name was Wirtz, and that he was in charge of the 
prisoners near by. He complained of the inadequacy of his guard and the 
want of supplies, as the adjacent country was sterile and thinly 
populated. He also said that the prisoners were suffering from cold, were 
destitute of blankets, and that he had not wagons to supply fuel. He 
showed me duplicates of requisitions and appeals for relief that he had 
made to different authorities, and these I endorsed in the strongest terms 
possible, hoping to accomplish some good. I know nothing of this (man) 
Wirtz, whom I then met for the first and only time, but he appeared to be 
in earnest in his desire to mitigate the condition of his prisoners. There 
can be but little doubt that his execution was a 'sop' to the 

Page 5
assions of the 'many-headed.'" So, then, poor Wirtz was made a scape-goat 
to cover the sins of those who could have had those poor prisoners 
released at any time but would not. The sacrifice was made to quiet the 
poor prisoners and their friends. Many things will be settled at the great 
Assize, when the Judge of all shall sit in judgment.

   Let us have the official record on prison life, and see the truth of 
history:

United States prisoners held in Southern prisons, . 270,000 
United States prisoners died in Southern prisons, . 22,000 
About 8 per cent. 

Confederate prisoners held in Northern prisons, . . 220,000 
Confederate prisoners died in Northern prisons, . . 26,000 
About 12 per cent. 

   The North is said to be more healthy than the South, and yet of the 270,
000 Northern soldiers in Southern prisons, only 22,000 died, while of the 
220,000 Confederates in Northern prisons (50,000 less than we had of 
theirs) 26,000 died. The deaths in Northern prisons exceeded the deaths in 
Southern prisons four thousand men. While about eight per cent of the 
Union prisoners died, about twelve per cent of the Southern prisoners in 
Northern prisons died. "Tell it not in Gath, and publish it not in the 
streets of Askelon." Facts and figures are wonderful things. Now, I have 
made this long statement before coming to the "incidents of prison life," 
as seen by myself et al. I have done so for the purpose of trying to keep 
the record correct, that justice might be done to all, and history speak 
the truth.

   I was shot in the first charge that was made at Spottsylvania Court-
House, Virginia, early on the morning of the 9th day of May, 1864. The 
charge was made by our brigade, composed of the Fifth, Twelfth, Twentieth 
and Twenty-third N. C. Regiments, led by General R. D. Johnston. The 
charge was a success so far as the enemy in our front were concerned, but 
our lines were overlapped by Burnside's troops. Our regiment (the Twelfth) 
and our company (A), being on the extreme 

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right, were exposed to an enfilading fire clear across an open field; so 
we were exposed to a fire from front and from the right. The enemy had 
torn down a rail fence and made temporary breast-works in our front, from 
which our men drove them, but could not hold the position because 
Burnside's whole army corps was on hand, and could easily have cut off our 
little brigade; so General Johnston gave the command to fall back. As our 
troops fell back, Sergeant Silas Smyre (now county commissioner of 
Catawba) and Corporal E. G. Bost endeavored to carry me from the 
battlefield. They were so exhausted from marching and fighting that they 
could not hold me up so as to prevent the crushed leg from dragging on the 
ground. To prevent their being captured, I begged them to leave me to my 
fate. (May I never forget this act of kindness by these brave men, who 
risked so much for me.) I was in the broiling hot sun, without water, my 
canteen having been shot in the fight, and the water all run out.

   I was concealed from the enemy by some shrubbery. Late in the afternoon 
I realized that I could not live without water. The loss of blood, 
together with the burning rays of the sun, made me feel that life was 
about to ebb out; so I called to the enemy and surrendered. Here I 
commenced the life of a prisoner, which lasted ten months. Besides the 
suffering from wounds, the humility, the loss of liberty, the absence of 
all friends and loved ones, no face but that of enemies, was just about as 
much as I could bear up under in my condition. In that hour home and 
friends would have been "a haven of rest" sure enough.

   The day following, May 10, 1864, when I was laid on the slaughter 
table, my eyes caught the sight of arms and legs piled on the ground - an 
indication of what I might expect. Dr. Cox, of Ohio, examined my leg. The 
only conversation that passed between us was this: I said, "Doctor, can 
you save my leg?" He replied, "I fear not, Johnny." Chloroform was 
applied, and when restored to consciousness I was minus one limb. I lay 
there in what was designated "a field hospital" 

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for two or three days without any further attention to the wound, and the 
result was the flies "blowed" the amputated limb, and when I reached 
Alexandria City, some days later, the nurse who dressed the wound found 
that I was being eat up by the vermin. Just here I will state that on the 
last day spent at the field hospital there was a great rush in gathering 
us up in ambulances. Under great excitement, I said to the doctor who was 
supervising the movement: "Doctor, what is the matter?" He replied that 
"Burnside was falling back to get a better position." I had been in the 
army long enough to know that was an evasive answer. The fact was that our 
troops were driving Burnside back, and the Federals were not willing to 
lose any of their prisoners though maimed for life. The roads from this 
place were cut to pieces by the artillery and wagon trains of the Union 
army going to the front. Those of us who were badly wounded cried for 
mercy. No mercy came until we reached the boat-landing, where we (those 
living) were transferred from ambulance to the boat. I do not know how 
many died en route from the battlefield to the boat-landing. I do know 
that Charles P. Powell, Adjutant of the Twenty-third North Carolina 
Regiment, who had lost his leg just as I had, died on this trip, and they 
stopped on the roadside and covered him up. This young man Powell was from 
Richmond County, N. C. He was a private soldier at Malvern Hill, July, 
1862. When in line of battle, in front of the artillery, a shell fell in 
the ranks. The men could not leave the line of battle. There lay the 
shell, sputtering, ready to explode. Young Powell sprang up, grappled the 
shell and "soused" it into a pool of water near by. What a risk was that! 
Yet that heroic act may have saved the lives of several men. Later that 
day he was wounded, and again at the battle of Gettysburg in July, 1863, 
and died as above stated. On page 189 of Volume II, North Carolina 
Regimental Histories, it is stated that C. P. Powell, Adjutant, was killed 
on the 9th of May, 1864, whereas the truth is he was shot on the 9th and 
his leg was 

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amputated, and about the 11th or 12th of May he was jolted to death 
between Spottsylvania Court-House and Bell Plains. I venture the assertion 
that he was not buried two and a half feet deep; and the place is unknown 
to his people, who think he was buried on the battlefield. We were shipped 
to Alexandria City, where I spent three months in the "Marshall House," 
where the proprietor, Jackson, shot and killed Colonel Ellsworth, who tore 
down his Confederate flag in April, 1861, and Jackson was killed by Frank 
Brownwell, of Colonel Ellsworth's regiment. This hotel was used as a 
prison hospital for those who were permanently disabled. For awhile the 
patriotic women of Alexandria were permitted to visit us, and often when 
they would bid us good-bye a "green-back" bill or something else was left 
in our hand. However, before we were removed from there the good women 
were prohibited from coming to see us.

   While a prisoner here our troops, under General Early came down near 
Washington City, and there was great excitement in Washington and 
Alexandria, for it did seem that the Confederates were going into 
Washington. We prisoners were expecting to be released and get home, but 
our expectations were soon blasted by the Confederates having to retreat 
back to the south side of the Potomac, and did not come via Alexandria. My 
next move was to the Lincoln Hospital in Washington City. Here I spent 
about two months. After I could walk with crutches I was transferred to 
the old Capitol Prison. I was honored with a seat in the old Capitol, but 
had to look through iron bars. While here I was guilty of "cruelty to
bugs," if not to animals, in the common acceptation of that term. (Just 
here by way of parenthesis.) I know how to appreciate the traveling man's 
experience given by "Red Buck," in Charlotte Observer, of September 11, 
1903. Night after night I suffered from the onslaughts of those "bugs" - 
no telling how much I endured. "Weeping endureth for the night, but joy 
cometh in the morning." They had all the "innings" at night, but in the 
morning I 

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would take my turn at the bat. As soon as it was light enough to see I 
would sit upon my humble couch (I was myself a picture of humility) and 
commence a war of revenge. As they would take to the wall I would go for 
them, and before I left that prison many, many "bugs" were slaughtered, as 
the blood-stained wall bore testimony. Yes, that wall was well striped 
with Confederate blood. The loss of blood in that way, if not with as much 
pain, was attended with much more genuine disgust. How much I would have 
liked to "express myself," but my lips were hermetically sealed. I learned 
how to sympathize with Pharaoh and his people, though there is no 
statement that any of this kind were sent on him when Moses and the 
Israelites were asking permission to leave. In November, 1864, I (with 
others) was shipped off to Elmyra, N. Y. "Thus when I shun Scylla, your 
father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother."

   Leaving the old Capitol Prison, I got away at least from the multitude 
of B. B.'s, but I ran into the B. L.'s - army body lice, or what the 
soldiers call "grey backs." Later on I may speak of my experience with 
this pest while in the small-pox camp.

   We reached Elmyra, N. Y., on Sunday morning. Being in the mountains, 
the ground was covered with snow. Arriving at the barracks, we were lined 
up (I was on my crutches, and had to stand there on one foot for what 
seemed to me a very long time) just inside the gate, negro soldiers on 
guard. The commanding officer, Major Beal, greeted us with the most bitter 
oaths that I ever heard. He swore that he was going to send us out and 
have us shot; said he had no room for us, and that we (meaning the 
Confederate soldiers) had no mercy on their colored soldiers or prisoners. 
He was half drunk, and I was not sure but that we might be dealt with then 
and there. Then we were searched and robbed of knives, cash, etc., and 
sent into various wards. While we were standing in the snow, hearing the 
abuse of Major Beal, some poor ragged Confederate prisoners were marched 
by with what was 

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designated as barrel shirts, with the word "thief" written in large 
letters pasted on the back of each barrel, and a squad of little drummer 
boys following beating the drums. The mode of wearing the barrel shirts 
was to take an ordinary flour barrel, cut a hole through the bottom large 
enough for the head to go through, with arm-holes on the right and left, 
through which the arms were to be placed. This was put on the poor fellow, 
resting on his shoulders, his head and arms coming through as indicated 
above; thus they were made to march around for so many hours and so many 
days. Now, what do you suppose they had stolen? Why, something to eat. 
Yes, they had stolen cabbage leaves and other things from slop barrels, 
which was a violation of the rules of the prison. One large, robust 
prisoner from Virginia was brought into the surgical ward where I was, 
having been seriously wounded by one of the guards. On inquiry, I learned 
that the poor fellow was caught fishing out scraps from a slop barrel and 
was shot for it. A small, very thin piece of light-bread with a tin pint 
cup full of what purported to be soup twice a day was the rations for the 
prisoners. I heard the men say: "My soup has only three eyes on it" - 
meaning there was no grease in it - only hot water. Now, this fare was not 
enough to sustain life in healthy, able-bodied men. The result was that 
where they could not make something - make rings, etc. - and thus secure 
something from the sutlers, many, yea hundreds of the poor fellows would 
be attacked with dysentery - so common and often so fatal in camp, and 
especially in prison life. The food they had seemed to be only enough to 
feed the disease; the result was that scores and hundreds died. Speaking 
of the light-bread, the Confederates would sometimes hold it up and 
declare "that it was so thin that they could read the New York Herald 
through it"; then they would grab it and squeeze it up in one hand till it 
looked about like a small biscuit. Men died there for the want of food. I 
do not know, it may be that the Government issued enough rations, but it 
had to pass through too many hands 

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before reaching th soldiers. The truth is that there was a great deal of 
speculation and swindling carried on in the prisons; and I am ashamed to 
say it, yet it is true that sometimes some of our own men were engaged in 
the conspiracy to cheat and defraud their fellow-prisoners. It was in this 
way: those in charge of the prison would take Confederates and make ward-
masters, etc., of them (like in prisons now a few are made "trusties"); 
and a little authority, even of that kind, would ruin some men. Some 
prisoners, like Jeshrun, grew fat, but others starved for want of suitable 
food and enough of it. Well, to go back a little, while standing there, 
receiving the profane blessing from Major Beal, I saw drawing near as he 
dared to venture an old fellow-prisoner that I had met in Washington, who 
had preceded me to this place. I do not remember his name. I had at 
Washington nicknamed him "Softy." He recognized me, and as Beal closed his 
eloquent abuse, and we were ordered to march into the barracks, "Softy" 
ventured in a low tone to speak to me. His greeting was: "Sherrill, you 
have come to hell at last. Did you see those four-horse wagons going out? 
They were full of dead men, who died last night. They are dying by 
hundreds here with small-pox and other diseases." He was discovered by one 
of the guards (standing too near us). He hollowed at him: "Get away from 
there." He got away immediately, if not sooner. When I reflected on the 
situation - the cursing major, the colored guards, the robbing us of our 
little stock of valuables, the barrel shirts, the wagons with the dead, 
the appearance of some of the living, the earth covered with snow - I 
thought, "Well, 'Softy' has given a true bill." When I was located, I 
found I had kinsfolk there: J. U. Long (now chairman of the board of 
county commissioners), Nicholas Sherrill and W. P. Sherrill. There may 
have been others, but I do not recall them now. My haversack had been 
supplied with rations on leaving Washington. When I was located in the 
ward, "Nick" Sherrill came to see me. Of course we were glad to see each 
other, for it had been many moons 

Page 12

since we had met. We were not in the same command in the army. "Nick" 
asked me if I had anything to eat. I replied, "Yes." He said: "I want to 
trade you a cup, spoon, etc., for some bread; I am about perished." Poor 
fellow, he looked the picture of despair. I said: "Nick, I do not want 
your cup and spoons, but you are welcome to what I have." He devoured in 
short order all that I had, and wanted more. Poor fellow, he soon died, as 
did W. P. Sherrill; died away from home and loved ones, buried by their 
enemies. I had to spend several days in the barracks before I was 
transferred to the surgical or hospital ward. I was there long enough to 
know why Cousin Nicholas was so anxious for my bread. After I was placed 
in the surgical ward of the hospital I fared fairly well - a great 
improvement over the fare out in the wards of the regular prison. After a 
few weeks I was taken with small-pox, and of course was transferred over 
S. Creek to the small-pox camp. I was carried over on a cot, or
"stretcher," with blanket thrown over my face. When I reached the place, 
and the blanket was removed, I found myself in a large "wall tent," with 
several cots, or "bunks," about two and a half feet wide, with two 
Confederates on each "bunk," in reverse order, i. e., A's head at one end 
and B's at the other - so your bed-fellow's feet were in very close 
proximity to your face. They were all sandwiched in this way, because the 
bed was too narrow to admit of the two to lay shoulder to shoulder. On 
waking up on a morning one of these poor fellows would be dead and the 
other alive; this, of course, occurred day after day, and night after 
night. Well might those poor fellows, who had spent at least a part of the 
night with a corpse for a bed-fellow, have exclaimed with St. Paul, "Who 
shall deliver me from the body of this death?" When I took in the 
situation, I told the man who was going to place me on a bunk by the side 
of a poor fellow bad off with that awful disease (and who finally died) 
"that he could not put me on there." He replied "that he would show me 
whether he could or not." I stuck to it that I would not be put there. The 

Page 13

fellow went and brought in the ward-master, and when he appeared it was 
Jack Redman, from Cleveland County, Company E, my regiment. Redman said, 
"Why, hello, Sherrill, was it you that was raising such a racket?" I told 
him it was. He wanted to know what was the matter. I explained that with 
my amputated limb it would never do to put me on a bunk with another 
fellow, and he finally consented to arrange for me to have one to myself. 
I said: "Redman, you must grant me another favor." He wished to know what 
it was. I replied: "I want you to let me keep my blanket that came over 
from the surgical ward." "Why so, Sherrill?" I said: "Jack, you see those 
blankets that you fellows have been using on these men - there are five 
'army lice' to every hair on the blanket." Redman took a hearty laugh. He 
knew there was more truth in it than poetry, so he granted my request. 
Redman had had small-pox and was an "immune," hence was made a ward-
master. He was especially kind and considerate towards me. When I got well 
and was carried away, I never knew what became of him. Some of our men who 
felt that the thing was gone, and that we could not succeed, never came 
back South. I am inclined to think that Redman did that thing. After the 
doctor had declared me well, and directed that I should be removed back to 
the hospital ward from whence I came, this was indeed glorious news; for 
of all the diseases that flesh is heir to, small-pox is the filthiest. The 
small-pox such as we had there was "sure enough" small-pox. Such as we 
have in North Carolina these days, in comparison with that, is only make-
believe. I don't think it an exaggeration to say that seven out of ten who 
had it died. I was carried over into what was called a bath-house, where I 
was placed in a large bath-tub of water, almost too hot to bear. The 
Yankee soldier who had charge went out to look after something else or to 
loiter around, and I waited and waited for his return (the water was 
beginning to get cold) so I could get out and get clothing to put on. The 
atmosphere of the room was colder, if anything, than the 

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water. I was in great distress, and it seemed that I could make no one 
hear me; so I had to wait the return of the villain, who finally came when 
the water in the bath-tub seemed to me to be nearly to the freezing point. 
He came, bringing a full Yankee suit, and when I gave him a piece of my 
mind he apologized and begged me not to speak of it - said he had actually 
forgotten me. When I reached the hospital ward I was a blue man in 
feelings and in appearance. I was dressed in a Yankee suit, even to a cap. 
I felt humiliated, and my skin was blue from cold. But for the kindness of 
my comrades there, giving me of their allowance of spirits that night, I 
don't know but what I would have gone hence. Along toward the close of 
February, 1865, I with others, was marched to the train and shipped to 
Richmond. I think that was the happiest day that I ever experienced in my 
life. To get out of that death-hole was enough to make one happy; and to 
add to it the prospect of getting home to friends and loved ones, from 
whom I had been so long separated, not having heard from them in ten 
months, was indeed a treat. Many and great changes had taken place since I 
had left Dixie. I never did doubt that we would eventually succeed. I 
presume I was cheered up and was kept optimistic from the many rumors all 
the time in circulation that France and England would soon recognize our 
independence; which, of course, never took place. The air was filled with 
that and other rumors, not only in the Confederate army, but even in 
prison. Such rumors of great victories for the Confederate arms were all 
the time circulating among the poor fellows. As I came on from New York it 
looked to me as if the whole world was being uniformed in blue and moving 
toward General Grant's army. As we came up the James River, both sides 
were lined with soldiers dressed in blue. When we came to the Confederate 
lines, seeing such few ragged men confronting all that blue host, my 
courage came near failing me. In fact, I could not see how this little 
thin line of Confederates could hold at bay such a multitude of well-fed, 
well-equipped men. The 

Page 15

patriotic women of Richmond tried to be cheerful, but I could see plainly 
enough that they were depressed. While they were just as kind in their 
attention to the returning soldiers as in former days, yet it was evident 
that the cheerful hope of former days was gone. When I reached home I soon 
learned that many who were living on the 9th of May, 1864, when we made 
that charge, had been numbered with the dead. Among others was my nephew, 
James Ferdinand Robinson, a young man a few months younger than myself, a 
great favorite in the company, full of humor and wit. He was a sharp-
shooter, and was found dead on the 12th of May, 1864, by Frank Turbyfield, 
of the Twenty-third Regiment. After the fighting on the morning of the 
9th, he wrote a letter in pencil to his father, Marion Robinson, in which 
he stated: "My Uncle Miles was killed in the charge made early this 
morning." Two days later he was killed. I got home to read his letter 
relative to my death; but he, poor fellow, was gone. I have not seen the 
letter since 1865; so I only quote from memory what I remember.

   Such is war. Many people have an erroneous idea about that war. They 
blame President Davis and President Lincoln for the whole thing; when in 
fact they were only placed at the head. Both made blunders; so would any 
one else in their positions. Davis was not an original secessionist, but 
went with his State. He was a United States Senator at the time, from 
Mississippi. He had served with distinction in the war with Mexico. Who 
has not read of "Colonel Jeff. Davis and his brave Mississippi riflemen"? 
Mr. Davis did not desire to be President; he desired to go in the army. He 
had been Secretary of War of the United States; had, as stated above, 
served in the United States army; so it was natural for him to prefer the 
army to being President. As to his taking the responsibility of making 
peace sooner, I have seen it stated that had he attempted to do so in 
1864, on any terms save independence, the army and the people of the South 
would not have submitted to it. I think myself this is true. He, as 

Page 16

well as General Lee, had a hard time; they were both weighed down with 
trouble, cares and responsibilities. He had no more to do with the 
assassination of President Lincoln than you or I. He was cast into prison, 
manacled and placed in a dungeon. (General Miles would be glad now if he 
never had put shackles on him.) A soldier was placed where an eye always 
rested on Mr. Davis. This was a great annoyance to him.

   General Dick Taylor, who succeeded in getting permission from President 
Johnson to visit President Davis at Fortress Monroe, makes the following 
statement: "It was with some emotion that I reached the casement in which 
Mr. Davis was confined. There were two rooms, in the outer of which, near 
the entrance, stood a sentinel, and in the inner was Jefferson Davis. We 
met in silence, with grasp of hands. Afterwards he said: 'This is kind, 
but no more than I expected of you.' Pallid, worn, gray, bent, feeble, 
suffering from inflammation of the eyes, he was a painful sight to a 
friend. He uttered no plaint, and made no allusion to the irons. He said 
'the light kept all night in his room hurt his eyes, and the noise made 
every two hours by relieving the sentry prevented much sleep; but that 
matters had changed for the better since the arrival of General Burton, 
who was all kindness, and strained his orders to the utmost in his
behalf,' etc." Mr. Davis was no doubt a great and good man, for General 
Taylor, on speaking of some kindness shown to him during the war, said: 
"No wonder that all who enjoy the friendship of Jefferson Davis love him 
as Jonathan did David." Had Mr. Davis been a traitor and rebel any more 
than other leaders of the South, and had he been guilty as charged, of 
course he would have been tried and executed. It was not done simply 
because it would have been an open violation of law, and the people of our 
country had had time to cool off. So Mr. Davis was released. We all 
believe that had Mr. Lincoln lived we never would have had to go through 
the farce and humility of reconstruction. Excuse me, Mr. Editor, for this 
divergence. I have done so "lest we forget; lest we 

Page 17

forget." There are many humorous, ludicrous, laughable things that 
occurred in prison life, connected with the negro soldiers (sparring 
between the colored guard and the Confederate prisoners) that will not do 
to publish; so I forbear to give any of them.

   It is indeed wonderful how the prisoners would work to make a little 
money. One of the most common occupations was to make finger rings; they 
did some real nice work. Some of the men would secure a few cents, and on 
that little capital build up quite a business. Some had teachers and 
attended school. The teachers were, of course, fellow-prisoners with the 
pupils. As before stated, I was in the surgical ward while in New York, 
and had no personal experience in the traffic and trading above alluded 
to, for it was not allowed in the hospital wards. Mr. John Gray Bynum, of 
Mountain Creek township, was a ward-master while a prisoner at Elmyra (and 
made a good one, too). He could give some rich incidents of prison life; 
and so could our mutual friend Phillip A Hoyle, who was a prisoner at 
Point Lookout, Md. It may not be generally known that Mr. A. A. Shuford, 
of Hickory, one of our successful business men, made his start as a trader 
while a prisoner of war. It is my understanding that such is the case. It 
was while in prison that Mr. Shuford manifested a talent and a liking for 
trade and traffic, and on a small scale made a success while in prison. 
Having thus imbibed the business spirit while in prison, on his liberation 
and return home he left the farm and old homestead and went to Hickory and 
engaged in business with his brother "Dolph" and W. H. Ellis. How well he 
has succeeded is a matter of history, and who can tell what influence his 
experience in prison may have had on his subsequent life? A. A. Shuford 
and P. A. Hoyle belonged to the gallant Twenty- third North Carolina 
Regiment and suffered together at Point Lookout, where the water was 
impregnated with copperas, thus causing the death of thousands of as brave 
men as ever carried a gun. I am reminded that General Lee says in his 
memoirs 

Page 18

that he used every effort and means at his command to effect an exchange 
of prisoners, but General Grant refused.

   As before stated, General Grant refused to exchange as a war measure, 
and it had the desired effect.

   That there were some men in uniforms who might be classed as brutes is 
not to be denied; we are thankful the number was comparatively small. In 
the campaign into Maryland in 1862, our regiment was in the division 
commanded by the gallant Gen. D. H. Hill, who held the mountain passes 
against overwhelming numbers. My younger brother, James Albert Sherrill, 
who had been with us only six months, fell dangerously wounded just at the 
time the command was given to fall back. Of course he fell into the hands 
of the enemy; there, lying weltering in his blood, the enemy came on him, 
and instead of ministering to his wants, a brute in human form in uniform 
took his bayonet and stabbed the poor boy to death. I did not see this, 
but Alfred Sigmon, of Catawba County, who was also wounded, was an 
eyewitness to the tragedy. I give this incident as it came near to me; 
many others just as cruel might be given. It would not do to hold General 
McClelland or his true soldiers responsible for the conduct of a drunken, 
cowardly brute. The Union army was afflicted by having foreign soldiers 
who could not speak the English language. We have met the Union soldiers 
when many of them were so drunk they could hardly tell what they were 
doing.

   There never was any trouble between true soldiers, whether they wore 
the blue or the gray. It was the warlike civilians who did not fight and 
the soldiers who were mere hangers-on and camp followers that made the 
trouble. But for the influence of General Grant and other army officers we 
would have fared much worse in the South after the close of the war than 
we did; they, as conquerors, became our protectors. The true soldiers 
could be seen exchanging coffee for tobacco, going in bathing at the same 
time, in the same river; and when the enemy fell into his hands as a 
prisoner he would 

Page 19

empty his own haversack and the canteen to relieve his prisoner. When 
there was no fighting going on, the soldiers of the two armies were on the 
best of terms. The outrages committed on either side during the war were 
not attributable to the true soldier; neither can the outrages perpetrated 
on the South after the war be charged up to the United States Army proper, 
but to the "bummers," who were no good in the army or at home.

   The storm has long since gone by. The true soldier has no prejudice 
against the soldier who fought on the other side. The blue and the gray 
have since worn the blue in the war with Spain - an evidence of 
reconciliation between the Confederate and Union soldiers of 1861-'65.

Page 20

   Since writing the foregoing sketch I have received the following 
"Memorial Day Ode," from the pen of my friend, Rev. G. R. Rood, preacher 
in charge of Millbrook Circuit. It is so appropriate I let it be the 
closing chapter:

MEMORIAL DAY ODE.

The past is dead, long live the past; 
And may its memory ever last 
In hearts through which the Southern blood 
Leaps on its way an untamed flood. 
For we who bear the Southern name 
Look on the past and find no shame 
Attached to the cause which, though lost, 
Was worth the life-blood which it cost. 
And though the mournful willows wave 
Over the low mounds which we lave 
With bitter tears, we feel, 
We know the future will reveal 
That each martyred hero doth wear 
A crown of heavenly laurel fair. 
Each spot which heard the dying moans, 
And which in death received the bones 
Of those who freely gave their all, 
In answer to the Southland's call - 
No matter where they may be found, 
Such spots are sacred, holy ground. 
The heroes who sleep 'neath the sods 
Rest in sweet peace, their souls are God's, 
Until the Judgment trump be blown, 
And wrong forever is o'erthrown; 
Then they will rise up one and all 
To answer to the Last Roll Call. 

G. R. ROOD. 
MILLBROOK, N. C., 
May 7, 1904.