by Michael Ross
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 p
risoner 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.
THE SUN BREAKS THROUGH
April 1865
Will had a uniform coat with holes in it, a boot with a sole flapping, no money, no horse, and no weapons when he tottered out of the hospital in Farmville. Nights were still cold. One of the nurses took pity on him an
d gave him a loaf of bread, a blanket, and a flint and steel to make a fire. He still felt ill, but the hospital was turning out all Confederate soldiers. The war was over—they were on their own. He’d never been in this country before. He walked west, stopping often, conserving his bread. He camped at night under whatever tree was available. After four days walking, he came upon a gray-bearded farmer mending fence near Appomattox.
Will approached him. “Sir, I’m a stranger here. Can you tell me the nearest town with a good telegraph?”
“Lynchburg, about twenty miles west. You don’t look in much shape to walk it, though. You a soldier?”
“Was. Just got out of the Federals prison. I need to make it to family in Indiana.”
The farmer looked at him kindly. “You look about the age of my son. Lost him at Chickamauga. Wounded myself at Cold Harbor. Come on up to the house. I ‘spect my wife can find you food and a bed. Tomorrow I’ll drive you to Lynchburg, get a telegram sent for you. I don’t imagine you have any money.”
“No, sir, but I’ll fix that fence for you. I can work.”
The farmer waved it off. “You’re in no condition, boy. If my son were wandering home, I’d want someone to show him kindness. But he’ll never come,” ended the farmer sadly, turning away.
Will accepted gratefully. The next day, he sent a short telegram to Julia.
Julia Johannsen,
I want to see you all. In Virginia. Send cash to Lynchburg bank.
Your brother,
Will
✳ ✳ ✳
Julia heard a knock at the door. The servants were busy elsewhere, and Hiram was at the office, so she answered the door herself.
“Telegram, ma’am. Is there a reply?”
Julia read the short note and began crying. She hadn’t heard from Will for months and wondered if he was alive. Despite all her attempts, the authorities wouldn’t let her visit him—and since the last commandant took charge of Douglas, she couldn’t even get a confirmation as to whether he was alive or dead.