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They didn’t see the Confederates surrounding the camp early that misty morning in late October of 1864. Several Union soldiers died in the skirmish that day. The rest of the regiment was taken as prisoners and marched through the cold and freezing rain. Ten long, hard miles through the outskirts of Georgia to a place they called hell—Andersonville Prison.

The walls of the stockade were made of pine and stood fifteen feet in the shape of a rectangle. Every thirty yards sat a pigeon roost, where sentries stood guard over prisoners. Upon entry, the chilled breeze carried the suffocating stench of excrement. Their blood froze with horror at the sight of thousands and thousands of soldiers—walking skeletons covered with filth and vermin—staggering and shivering, exposed to the harsh elements of the upcoming winter.  

“God protect us!” cried a soldier as the men were shoved and pushed further inside the plague- ridden prison. Small tents were erected to help ease the bitterness of the frigid wind. But with so many men and so little shelter, thousands dragged themselves about trying to find a warm fire and a place to rest their sagging bones.

Timothy Wilson’s eyes swelled with tears at the appalling sight before him. Only God could bring him out alive from this terrible place.

The knapsack, with his blanket and dog tent, weighed heavily on his back. His leather boots were sodden, and his feet ached from the weary walk. He pulled his thick, wool frock coat closer to his quaking body. The Confederates confiscated his musket, pouch of ammunition, and haversack, giving his supplies to a needy Confederate soldier.

Timothy and a few other men made their way near the dead line.

A scrawny, grimy blue coat yelled a warning, “Wouldn’t get too close, the Rebels will gladly end your misery for ya!” He chuckled.

Timothy could see that the man was missing most of his teeth.

“Over here!” called out another thin soldier. His gray hair and beard were matted. The deep blue uniform was now faded, tattered, and torn.

Timothy quickly made his way to the man’s side. The shabby tent was small. Inside was a worn blanket, a wooden stool, and a rusted tin can.

“Where ya from?” he asked, then spat on the ground.

Timothy’s stomach was in knots. He felt like throwing up. “Pennsylvania—and you?” he asked.

The older soldier smiled a cocky grin. “Ohio—Second Infantry—Sergeant Olin Macomb at your service.” He held out a skinny, blistered hand.

Timothy graciously shook it. “Private Timothy Wilson—Seventy-Seventh Company B, Infantry.”

Olin motioned for Timothy to sit on the stool. Timothy took off his backpack and placed it on the ground.

Immediately, Olin pulled it inside. “Gotta watch your things around here…the Raiders will snatch it up right in front of your eyes if you’re not careful.”

Timothy placed his arm over his few belongings. Who are the Raiders?”

“Bad men who feed off their brothers-in-arms, he warned. The old soldier rubbed his frozen hands together. “Better stay clear of them scoundrels.”

Timothy offered his gloves to Olin. Olin gave a slight nod and eagerly shoved them on his chapped, shaky hands.

“Not much to do about here except pray the war ends or ya die in your sleep. Rations are slim…rumor has it, the Union is choking the Rebels…cutting off their supplies.” Olin smiled again. “Of course, if the Rebels can’t feed themselves…well, not much left for us. Hundreds a day are taken away on the back of a wagon. Buried in them hills behind the fence.” Olin coughed. He grabbed the dirty handkerchief and held it to his face. Bright red liquid oozed from his mouth.

Timothy’s eyes flew open wide. “You’re sick, Olin. You need a doctor, sir.”

Olin moved his head slightly back and forth. “There are no doctors for us, son.” And with that said, Olin lay back and curled into a ball.

As the light faded from the evening sky, Timothy set up his thin blanket next to Olin. Then he used his dog tent to cover them both. Under the warmth of the heavy canvas, Olin fell fast asleep. Timothy’s back throbbed from the hard, frozen ground. He closed his tired, burning eyes and thought about the farm. When he left to fight for the freedoms of the North, the sun was shining with a warm summer breeze. He could see his pa working in the fields, getting ready for the harvest. The smell of baked apple pie drifted through an open window from the kitchen of the old farmhouse. Near the barn, little sister Amy was feeding the chickens and hens. He remembered it all so clearly, as if it were only yesterday. With silent lips and a heavy heart, Timothy prayed he’d make it through to get back to his family.

Each week, more and more Federal prisoners arrived. Exposure, malnutrition, and disease spread like wildfire within the overpopulated prison.

Even with the horrific atrocities surrounding him, Timothy seemed to hang on—barely. His physical appearance deteriorated each day from the illnesses and scarcity of nourishing food. But holding on to his slowly slipping mental capacities seemed to be the hardest. He watched in horror at the continuous brutalities to which men were subjected every day. Then his friend, poor Olin, passed away in his sleep—never to see home again.

Days, weeks, and months crawled by with little hope. The words to pray came less and less. Just when Timothy was about to give up faith, good news filled the prison. Union troops broke the line and took hold of Atlanta. Federal raids provoked the Confederates to abandon their posts at Andersonville.

Timothy’s prayers were answered. Even though his body was withered and worn, he still made it back—back where he belonged—back to the farm and his loving family.

originally published in «Vita & The Woolf Literary and Arts Journal»