Part 1

_Buy his book and read his story, Every word of which is true. He fought bravely for Old Glory That its folds might shelter you._

_H. C. STAFFORD_, _Captain of Company C. Eighty-Third Pennsylvania Volunteers_.

_Erie, Pa., Aug 25, 1903._

IN DEFENSE OF THE FLAG.

A TRUE WAR STORY (ILLUSTRATED.)

A Pen Picture of Scenes and Incidents during the Great Rebellion.—Thrilling Experiences During Escape from Southern Prisons, Etc.

By DAVID W. STAFFORD.

All Rights to this Story Reserved by David W. Stafford of Company D, Eighty-Third Pennsylvania Volunteers

1904. IHLING BROS. & EVERARD, PRINTERS,

KALAMAZOO, MICH.

A True War Story.

By David W. Stafford.

Now in the commencement of this narrative and tale of my early life, I must say that a good part of my life has been somewhat gloomy. At the time of my entering the service of my country I was seventeen years of age. It was just after the first and second engagements at Bull Run.

My father was a poor man, the father of some nine children, and a shoemaker by trade. I had left home early in my youth, when about fourteen or fifteen years old, and at this time, just before the war, a boy’s chances for labor and wages paid were very small. I worked for only seven dollars a month. This was the first labor I ever performed, working by the month. Oh, how my mind goes back to childhood days!

Now in the fall of 1862, on the 28th day of August I felt it my duty to respond to my country’s call, and I enlisted in the 83rd Pennsylvania Volunteers, to serve three years.

After I had been some two years in the service, my brother, two years younger than myself, enlisted and came to the army at Rappahannock Station, on the Rappahannock River. Now I had written a good many letters home to my poor brother, advising him not to come to the army, but it was of no avail. He would and did come, but I have reason to thank God that it was his own good will, and that my brother’s life blood was not shed in vain for his country, although I did try my best to have him stay at home.

Soon after he came to the regiment and was placed in the same company with me, I was detailed to go on picket duty. Very shortly thereafter I became injured while assisting in the building of rifle pits at night and was sent from our headquarters to Washington. I had previous to this been through all of the engagements from the Antietam war, where we first found the regiment. I had participated in all of the engagements, such as the first and second Fredericksburg battles and the Chancellorsville battle, or “Stick in the Mud,” and the Culpepper battle and Mine Run, and at this place it certainly did seem as though we run, for we retreated clear beyond Manassas Junction, in the direction of Washington, and we could not stop long enough to steep our coffee without getting shelled from the rebel batteries. For six miles, on what was called the stone pike, we double marched, and it did seem as though the rebels were destined to lick us every time we met them. I had, up to the time of my brother’s coming into the army, participated in all of the engagements that our regiment had been called into.

There is one thing that I recall to memory very distinctly. It is the incident of our camping on the battle field of Bull Run, on our retreat from Mine Run, near the Rapidan River. Near this run the rebels had very strong fortifications thrown up. Now on the battle field of Bull Run our dead had just been covered—a great many by the enemy—on top of the ground, and so shallow that the bones of thousands of the dead, skulls and all others, lay on top of the ground. Oh, how sad it did seem to wake in the morning to find the country strewn with human bones for miles around, and it is one thing that I can’t forget very soon.

I had gone over the ground in the direction of Bull Run, and very close to the run, studded with trees, sat the skeleton of one of our Indiana men against a large elm tree, just as he had died one year before. I called the attention of the officers to this spectacle. The skeleton was in a sitting posture, the flesh having entirely disappeared, and on the ground lay his blue clothes. On the arms of the clothes were the emblems showing the sergeant’s stripes and the number of his company and regiment. One of the officers just touched his sabre under the chin of this skeleton and it fell all to pieces. I thought this a wonderful sight.

Now after my injury at Rappahannock Station, of which I have already spoken, and being sent to Washington, I stayed in Lincoln hospital. Here I was treated some two months and was sent home on a seventeen days’ furlough, when the Battle of the Wilderness came on. This was the first battle that my poor young brother had ever been in. As our troops were charging on the enemy’s works for the third or fourth time, my brother fell, pierced through the right thigh, and another ball passed through the shoulder very close to the heart. After the battle he lay on the field eight hours before he was finally taken to Alexandria, near Washington, and here he was placed in what was called the Haywood church. This church had been made over into a hospital in which to place the wounded soldiers.

I had not been home but a few days at this time. As soon as I found on the list of the wounded that my brother had been hurt, I went back to Washington and returned to Lincoln hospital, from which place I had received my furlough. I was very uneasy until I got a pass to go to Alexandria, where my poor brother lay dying of his wound, received in the Battle of the Wilderness. On receiving the pass and arriving at Alexandria I stayed two days. I found on leaving my poor brother that his stay in this world was very short. I went to headquarters and called for another pass and told them of the condition of my brother. They told me if I was able to travel back and forth to the city that they would send me to the front and ordered me to go back to the barracks until the next morning at ten o’clock, and, oh, with what a sad heart I spent the night, scarcely sleeping, and then to think of the suffering my poor wounded brother would have to endure! It made my heart ache as I thought of his parting words. While at his bedside he told me of a good old lady nurse who had told him of his Lord and Saviour, how He had died to redeem him, and, oh, how happy he was in all of his suffering! He would point me to the kind old nurse, tell me how much she had told him about his Creator, and it was wonderful what faith he had in God. He would tell me how much the old nurse reminded him of our mother. He told me if he could only see our poor old mother he could die contented. Oh, what sad hours these were to me! I would go out on the street to pass away the time. I felt so sad after I started to leave him and to think of his last words, when he would look up and say, “David, don’t be gone as long as you were before.” I think I saw him twice before he passed away.

Now comes almost the saddest part of my life. The next morning dawned and at nine o’clock there were collected before the doctor’s office twenty men to be looked over and sent to the front, myself being included. Some were pronounced able for duty and some were sent across the Potomac River, three miles from Alexandria, where my dear brother lay dying of his wounds.

Just as soon as I got to this distributing camp I went straight to headquarters for a pass to go to Alexandria, three miles away, and see my brother, as I thought, for the last time. I could see the spires from where I was. Well, I went and laid the matter before the commander at this place and told him of the condition of my brother and plead in tears for him to let me go to him. He told me that there were passes ahead of my request, and with all of my pleading I could not get a pass under two or three days. Well, I went around in the enclosure of the distributing camp, which was surrounded with a fence ten or twelve feet high. At the south side there was a piece of a board off, about two feet in length, and through this I finally made my way and started for the city, taking the chances of the guards shooting me. They halted, then followed me some distance, but I got to the city, and with a good deal of trouble I finally got through the guard lines that surrounded the town and went to the church where my brother was, but, oh, what a surprise awaited me! At the door or entrance I found the hospital steward and the old lady who had cared for and shown my poor brother the way to his Redeemer, and on entering to where the couch was I found to my sorrow that he had died the day before and was laid in the cemetery to rest, and it is difficult to tell what a sad night I put in that night, lying on the same couch where my poor brother had died, and thinking of what the next day would bring forth, and knowing that I had deserted from the camp. It indeed was a sad night to me, yet with my faith and trust in God I was in hopes that I would not be punished for deserting camp. Oh, how this continued to haunt me through the night: And the loss of my poor brother! All this made me very sad, indeed. Well, when morning dawned I went and gave myself up to the guards and returned to camp, and to tell you the truth, this seemed like a hopeless trip. I finally arrived at camp and went before the commander. He well remembered my pleading a day or two before and wanted to know if I understood what deserting would do to me if brought to trial. I told him I did. “Well, young man,” said he, “did you find your brother?” In this talk to me I broke down and told him plainly of finding his empty couch and of the sad night I had spent, and he told me to go to my quarters. “Young man, it is all right. I would have done the same thing myself.” This seemed to lift a great weight off me. I went to the barracks with a light heart then.

I will soon commence relating the tale of my confinement in the rebel prison and the story of my escape. After the death of my brother I had no desire to stay longer near Washington or Alexandria, but I wanted to go to the front and get into the battles for my country, and if need be die for it. I did indeed feel sad at heart at this time. Soon there came an order for the men who were able to bear arms to turn out, for part of Longstreet’s corps had come to Washington while Gen. Grant was at Richmond, to see if the rebels could not take Washington. While our army was trying to take Richmond the enemy came up on the Baltimore Pike and got almost into Washington. Here we had a very severe battle, which ended in our driving out the rebels from the city of Washington.

Now soon after our trouble with the enemy, we were sent by transport to Richmond. Here, in rifle pits and bumproofs and from forts, we had some very severe cannonading. We charged each other until we were called to go on a reconnoitering trip on the south side of Richmond and south of Petersburg, on what was called the Weldon railroad. This road we tore up and continued to hold it against all the odds that could be brought to bear against us.

Now there was one other thing that occurred prior to what I have just written that comes to my mind. This incident occurred at Chancellorsville, on the south side of Fredericksburg, just after the first and second battles of Fredericksburg, while we lay in line, and more severe fighting never occurred at this place. For the time being the battle waged fierce and warm. Now what I mention this for is this: We had orders to get ready for a general inspection of arms and all charges in the guns were to be withdrawn. In front of us there was heavy timber, and perched in the trees were many sharpshooters, ready to shoot any of our men who raised their heads above the line of fortifications that we occupied. We had orders to draw all the loads from our guns and I had tried to obey but could not get the charge in my rifle dislodged. I had to get a special instrument, called a wormer, placed on the end of my ramrod to take the ball from my gun. Well, I had got one of these wormers fast in my weapon and I spoke to my captain in regard to my firing the gun. He told me that Col. S. Strong Vincon, our colonel, had given orders for every man to draw the charge from his gun and be ready for inspection, as they must fire their guns. I told him what shape my gun was in and told him in order to unload it I would have to pick some powder and fire it in the fortifications, and did so. The colonel came very soon and looked at each gun close to where I was. Soon he took my gun and raised the hammer and blew in the nozzle. The smoke came out of the tube and he ordered me to climb on the fortifications there and remain for two hours or until he would have me come down. This was supposed to be one of the rashest things that any of our commanding officers had ever done. Well, I had nothing else to do but to obey the colonel and I had no sooner gotten fairly on the line of the works than the enemy’s sharpshooters commenced firing at me. Here is one place in my life where I knew that I was being fired at, and if there was one shot fired I believe there were thirty. Captain Woodard of our Company went right after the colonel and told him that he had command of Company D and he would either take that man from those works or either one or the other would die, and while they were contending over the matter I came down off the works. Well the next battle that occurred was at Gettysburg, in my own native state, and here the colonel was shot by sharpshooters and died in a few hours. Thus ends this thrilling experience.

Now I will, by the help of the all-wise God, proceed to relate another sad picture of my life and the story of my capture and confinement in southern hells, called stockade prisons. Now, as I should have given the date of my enlistment, also of my capture, I will say that I entered the army on the 28th day of August, 1862, in Company D, Eighty-Third Regiment, commanded by S. Strong Vincon, of Erie county, Pennsylvania, and our company commander was Captain O. S. Woodard, of Waterford, Erie county, Pennsylvania. At the battle of the Weldon Railroad, while on outside picket, I was taken prisoner, with many others, and carried to Macon state prison and was confined in this prison about two weeks. This was the first prison in which I was ever confined. This prison is just ten miles from Andersonville. Now for about two days before we got to this place, we had about one day’s rations of corn meal issued to us, with about four ounces of bacon, and this bacon was nearly rotten. I felt that I must let my friends know where I was confined, for my poor mother, after the death of my brother, had mourned his loss so much that she nearly died. What I wished to do was to get a letter to my captain. I knew that this would soon be sent home and would let my folks know where I was. I observed in this prison a man who had formerly been a Union man and whom the rebels had drafted into the southern service. He wrote a very few lines for me, and while he wrote he told me that he had been pressed into the rebel army, but just as soon as an opportunity presented itself he deserted and had been court-marshaled and was sentenced to be shot the next day at ten o’clock. Yet he wrote a very fine letter and told me that he had friends that he expected would help him out. We were at this time in the outside yard to the prison. Some sixteen feet of wall surrounded us, the top of which was covered with glass. Now when we all fell in line it seems there was a box close to a large flight of stairs that led up to the second floor. This man said to me that his cell mate, if I remember right, was to shove this box, which had an open end, up to the wall as he passed close by after he had been placed in behind. The cell mate was to answer to the call of both names. This was very successfully performed and the next morning when the prisoners were let into the yard the fact revealed itself, that the condemned man had disappeared. This man was a Northern man who had a good lot of property in Georgia, and had not left as soon as he should have done. Like many others, his property was confiscated, and I don’t know whether he got away or not. My prayers were that he did and I hoped and prayed that God might lead me in all that I might do in order that I might continue to write and work for others. I now realize that this life is closing very rapidly.

While we were confined in this prison our fare was about twelve ounces of corn bread for a day’s ration and about four ounces of bacon. We were kept here about three weeks and then sent to Andersonville prison. Now when we arrived here we were soon visited by Captain Wirz, the commander of this prison. We were left in the hot Georgia sun for some time before we were taken inside. This Captain Wirz was a very cruel man, for he would take the life of a helpless prisoner upon the slightest provocation. We did some complaining because we were not taken inside the stockade, and soon Wirz found that we were dissatisfied about being obliged to remain in the hot sun. At the time of our capture we had been stripped of all our clothing, except shirt and drawers; no shoes, not even a cap to our heads. When we were taken prisoners we were captured by Colonel Masfies’ guerrillas, and it was known that these men did not spare many prisoners’ lives. Now, as I was saying, we were lying in the hot southern sun, wondering why they did not take us inside. Captain Wirz came along and with much cursing told us that we would get in there soon enough. We soon found out that in this he was telling the truth, if he never had before, for I say he was a very bad man. It was well known that he was the cause of thousands starving to death at Andersonville through his orders. Now I must say that we soon realized what a place it was in which we had to stay. It was the saddest and the most sickly place that I or any human being could conceive. Here we met with the most ghastly sights that eyes could ever behold, for there were fathers, sons and kindred, of both North and South confined in this prison hell, starving to death, with no eye, as it seemed, to pity, and in tattered rags, and hundreds without a rag to cover their backs, and men found walking in the sluggish stream that ran through this stockade from the north to the south side, waiting for the water to get clear, which never did. I often think of these starving souls, and how it is that there were not more lunatics than there were. Right here I want to speak of the great spring that broke out on the northeast side of the prison, near the north gate, and all in answer to prayers to God. Oh, how often I now think of the wonderful prayer meetings, and oh, with what power did the real saints of God prevail through Christ, the Lord Jesus. I do thank God in later years that I have learned to trust fully in Him. Now think of poor suffering humanity living on less than one pint of field peas for a day’s rations for nearly thirteen months! Such was the suffering of many in this prison, and how often I have thought how little one man’s experience was, considering the vast suffering in this place. Oh, this is a sad thing to contemplate, but in my old age and the crippled condition of my body, and mental and bodily suffering, I have been led to write up for the last time, a true story of my life and suffering.

There has not been a moment of time the last four years, coming April 28th, that I haven’t suffered almost untold agony from a severe fall from a basement barn, which unjointed and broke my left hip and caused other internal injuries, from which I can never recover.

Now there were many things that happened in Andersonville that have never gone down in history, simply because there were many things that were not generally known. There is the story of the hanging of the six men, and such things that are known by almost every man who was not there at the time, but now comes three men for their rations of the rebel sergeant, two brothers and a father. Well, very soon the poor old man gets sick and becomes so bad that he cannot rise from the cold, damp ground. Soon the scurvy takes hold of him, with many other bodily ailments. His sons are then called on to get his rations. The rebel sergeant thinks it is some Yankee trick. He was the rebel police who was always on hand at the time of issuing Yankee rations. We used to remark that they were so very delicious you could smell them at least ten rods. You knew they were coming if you were on the windward side, because they were cooked up some two or three days ahead of dealing out and of course they would ferment and get sour. Now these were steamed in very large lots, in two bushel sacks, and emptied into a large army cart drawn by a three mule team. As I was saying, here goes the two sons for their own and their father’s rations. You would think it very cruel if you had been in their place and had just got less than one pint, and then have those rebel guards beset you as they did those poor boys and almost kill you for asking for a small bit of stuff that you would not be guilty of giving to your dog, for surely he would not eat it unless he were nearly starving. Then to see the rebel guards without any earthly excuse shoot men clear across the prison merely for pastime to let the southern ladies see how good and correct they shoot, killing poor praying men. These are sad pictures, but they are nevertheless true. And to think of men catching a small dog belonging to Wirz while he with Jeff Davis were inspecting the prison, and skinning and eating it, and to punish them would make them go three days without rations. I have seen men fight for a chance to carry out dead men to get a little fresh air. Now I feel that I should not linger much longer with these sad scenes, but hasten to the story of my final escape from the rebel prison.

Now along late in the fall came a report that Sherman was on his way; that is, General Sherman, to release all of the prisoners of Andersonville prison and at Macon. The rebels had sent papers to the prison, stating that they were going to take us to the nearest point of exchange. This they did so that we would not try to escape, while being removed to other quarters. Soon after this, in a very few days, there came a rush of cars, and they put us aboard of these trains, composed of box cars, and we were crowded into bacon and cattle cars. As many as seventy-five or eighty of these poor starving men were put into one of these box cars and sent to different quarters of the South. Now at this time General Sherman was near Macon, about ten miles away—when they sent the last train load of us away from Andersonville, and all the way we plainly saw the devastation of burned and destroyed railroads and stations. It seemed that the extent of the destruction was for over forty miles, and here our progress was very slow and tedious. The train moved very slowly over all of this new road, and while passing along through this country the rebels would stop the train once in a while, to our great relief, and open the car doors to let the people see the Yankees, who were quite a sight for those Southern people. They would stand and gaze at us with great curiosity, and I have no doubt it was a great sight for them, for there were men in all conceivable shapes, without a rag to cover their backs. Many of them were the hardest looking sights, I do believe, that my eyes ever beheld, and at one of those small stations there was quite a large gathering of people and a large company of young boys, who had just been conscripted into the rebel service. Here they all stood to see the great train load of Yankee prisoners.