A Reminiscence of Confederate Prison Life

By Hugh Moore,
Civil War Soldier - Illinois 111th Infantry

Journal of the Illinois State Historical Society"
(printed by the authority of the State of Illinois)
Winter of 1972 - Vol. LXV, No. 4

pages 451 - 461

MANY VALUABLE REMINISCENCES of the Civil War still remain in private hands. One of these, by Hugh Moore, a volunteer from Salem, Illinois, was recently submitted to the Journal by Moore's great-granddaughter, Virginia L. Wertz, of Washington, D.C. The original document that survives is in very poor condition, but a typewritten copy was made from the original many years ago by a member of the family. The extracts that follow are taken from that copy.

Moore enlisted in Captain Amos A. Clark's A Company of the 111th Illinois Infantry on August 12, 1862, and was detailed regimental drummer in October, 1862. He was captured at Atlanta, Georgia, on July 22, 1864, and sent to Andersonville Prison. He was transferred to the prison at Florence, South Carolina, but gained his freedom in an exchange of prisoners in December. After a leave of absence due to poor health, Moore returned to service in January of 1865 and remained on duty until he was mustered out June 6, 1865.

When he enrolled for service, Moore was described in the Company Descriptive Book as a native of Scotland, thirty years of age, 5 feet 7 inches tall, with fair complexion, blue eyes, and brown hair. His occupation at that time was marble cutter, but in 1866 he was elected county superintendent of schools of Marion County, Illinois. Defeated for reelection in 1869, he sold farm implements until February 14, 1877, at which time he became an employee of the United States Pension Office in Washington. He died of pneumonia on April 29th, 1891, leaving a widow, the former Mary Virginia McChesney, and a fifteen-year-old daughter, Olivia.

Moore's narrative was written several years after the war was over. In addition to his account of the war, the narrative contains Moore's musings about a variety of topics as well as many verses; most of these sections have been omitted. Four spaced periods indicate such omissions.

[Transcriber's Note: First line did not copy-----] more troops. This regiment was then being organized at Salem, Marion County, Illinois. The Colonel was James S. Martin, of Salem. After the customary discipline drill, and guard duty, we were ordered to the field....2

In order to give you some idea of a battle, I will ask you to enter with me the bloody fight of Atlanta, fought on the 22nd day of July, 1864, in front of Atlanta.
It has been truly said, that nobody sees a battle; but every one
does see a small section of it, and in portraying this, the color and spirit will be given to the whole thing.

On the morning of the 22nd of July, Gen. Logan's Corps.,
4 of which this regiment was a part, were in position in a rather open woods a short distance east of Atlanta. We had heard the noise of the battle when the Confederate Army struck the Army of the Tennessee, to which Logan's Corps belonged on our left flank, and could tell by the sound of the strife, that our left flank had been forced back and the fight was coming nearer to us each moment.

Our Colonel had been ordered to our left flank to command a brigade that was going into the fight, and the Lieut. Col. was back in a hospital with a wound received at the battle of Dallas;
5 so the command of the regiment fell on the major. Major Mabry was a man who would fight a whole regiment with a company, and a brigade with a regiment. He was a fighting major. Our regiment and an Ohio regiment were ordered out some distance in advance of the division, by Gen. Smith, and told to check the enemy's advance when they came up. We marched out as ordered and the Ohio regiment took position of the north of the railroad which ran east and west while our place was on the south. We made a barricade of fence rails and waited the approach of the enemy.6

We could hear by the discharge of the musketry, and the cries of the onset, that the battle was coming nearer and nearer, and soon, emerging from the woods in front of us, came solid bodies of infantry, marching by columns; they came steadily forward, with bayonets flashing in the rays of the sun, as if they were aflame. When we saw these heavy, distinct lines of battle coming on towards us, we thought what chance had we with our thin lines against them. They soon learned we were only a heavy skirmish line, and came forward to the assault with loud yells, and the first and second of their lines seemed to fire both at once; the bullets swept by like an autumn gust through a tree, from which the leaves, thinned by former gales, were almost stripped. It seemed at the moment as if every man went down. Our batteries tried to cover us and check the enemy's advance. Their shot and shell whizzed past us over the railroad track between the Ohio regiment and us. I heard the voice of Capt. McGuire, of Co. E,
7 cry out, above the din of the battle: "Stand to your guns, my boys, or die!" He had scarcely uttered the words when he fell dead--shot in the temple.

The major now saw that it would be criminal to make a longer stand, and sent word down the line for every man to get back the best he could. The Ohio regiment on our right had already given way, after a gallant stand.

I started back with the others, on a run, as fast as I could go, and saw one of our men who was shot, lying on his face, raising to his feet, I recognized Durell, of Co. C.
8 A glancing ball had struck him on the face, above the eye, making a small, but not dangerous wound. It had knocked him down, and when I found him he was stunned, but not badly hurt. He asked me not to leave him, for he was blinded by the blood and sweat together. I told him we would go to an empty brick house, which was near at hand, on the opposite side of the railroad. When we arrived there, I found a place for him amongst others, who were in like conditions, and, telling him to remain at all hazards, I left him and started on again, with the hope of getting back. After crossing the railroad again, and getting a short distance towards the mouth of a ravine, not far off, I heard the Confederate yell again, and then a tremendous fire of musketry began, that cut the leaves off the trees. This appeared to me the heaviest fire of musketry from the enemy I ever heard. I jumped to one of our rifle-pits and crouched down, while the leaves, cut from the trees by the balls, fell on me until I was nearly covered.

After this heavy fire ceased, I came out of the rifle-pit and started again towards the ravine but saw the Johnnies advancing to meet me, while two who were in advance leveled their guns on me, and ordered a halt, which I obeyed, thinking it was the best thing I could do. The foremost on came forward and said I was his prisoner. I told him it appeared as if that were true. After asking me a number of questions, some of which I answered, and some I did not, we started towards the city of Atlanta. In passing over the field, the number of Confederate dead told how hard they had fought. We had not gone far when we overtook squads with other prisoners, all under guard, of course. When we neared the city, the shot and shell from our batteries began to fall around us so thick that the guards began to hurry their steps and threaten the use of their bayonets to hasten us, as we did not partake of their hurry.

The cause of this heavy fire was that the brave McPherson
9 had fallen, and Logan, the next in line, had command of the Army of Tennessee, and, heedless of personal danger, placed himself at the head of his men, and led them back into the fight; and, in spite of the most determined resistance, and desperate fighting on the part of the enemy, forced them back, until he held our old position of the morning. Many of our shells reached and exploded within the city of Atlanta....

On the evening of this battle there was, out of more than eight hundred men of our regiment, who went into the fight, only three hundred and seventy-five, who answered the roll-call. Quite a number of stragglers came into camp during the night, but a large number were either killed, wounded, or made prisoners....

On the 25th day of July, 1864, in company with 1700 other prisoners of war, I entered Andersonville. I shall never forget that day. The older prisoners, or they who had been held the longest, were worn down with want, sickness, and famine, with shrunken bodies, disheveled hair, eyes deep set in their sockets, fingers long and bony, and emaciated looks. Turn which way you would, you were met with suffering and sorrow, while the air was impregnated with sickening odors of rank corruption and loathsome death....

The Commander of the Post was General Winder, and his lieutenant was the celebrated Capt. Wirz
11 We were divided into detachments, and were drawn up in line every morning and counted, in order to ascertain if any were missing. We were confined within a stockade of yellow pine logs, driven into the ground and 12 ft. high. On the top of this stockade were the guards, who walked their beat day and night. At each of the four corners of the stockade was a park of artillery, loaded with grape and canister and bearing on us.

Out of the 35,000 men gathered there from all parts of the great North, were many who were as good and true, brave and heroic, as ever martyrs were; but while this was true, we had much of the blood of the country, also.
12 We had the gatherings from the slums of the great cities and many murders, as well as thefts, had been committed on inoffensive persons, until crime became so common that a written appeal was sent to Wirz for protection against these roughs, asking that they be taken out for the safety of the whole. This he said could not be done, but aid would be afforded, if thought proper, to try and punish the guilty. Accordingly a court was convened, a judge chosen, and twelve orderly sergeants were selected for a jury, and with the necessary number of lawyers for the State, as well as the defense, a number of arrests were made, and after what was supposed to be a fair and impartial trial, four men were found guilty of murder in the first degree, and they were sentenced to death and hung. This had a wholesome effect in checking the commonness of crime for the time-being.

Our rations in July and a part of August, was a piece of corn bread, about four inches square, and two inches thick: after this it was a pint of meal each day. For cooking vessels we used our tin cup and cast-away fruit cans, such as we could beg or buy from the guards. For shelter, two of us joined and put our blankets together, one on the ground to lie or sit on, the other over us to keep off the scorching rays of the sun by day, and the poisonous dews by night. Under this blanket we sat and talked of what we would get to eat when we arrived home....

It was on the evening of one of the hottest and most sultry days in August, that Courtney, of Co. G. died."
13 As we sat beside his wasted and emaciated body, he said: "Boys, I am growing weaker and weaker every minute, and know that I shall soon pass away; but one thing hangs heavy on my mind, now that I am dying. I shall leave, living in Central City, Ill., a widow and five young girls; they have no shelter, but a small, rented cabin." Then he said, as if speaking to himself, "O God! how will that weak, pale woman support by washing, five fatherless girls!" Then, turning to us he continued: "Boys, will you listen to the last request of a dying man, Will you, if you live to get home, seek out that poor woman, and see that she does not want?" It is needless to say that we all promised. That night he died, and is buried in the Cemetery at Andersonville.

At the close of the war, one day while I was in Central City, I sought out the poor widow and found her living in a small cabin, with five little girls, ranging from two to fifteen years of age. I told her what I had to tell of her husband, and then asked her how she managed. Well, she said she washed every day in the week, and sometimes they had enough to eat and sometimes they had not. I asked her if she got any pension, and she said her claim was on file, but some link was lacking, and her attorney was not sure that it could be gotten, and asked if I could help her get it. I told her I would do what I could, and soon after took my leave. That evening, after my return home, I stepped over to the Col's residence, which was close by, and told him all about Mrs. Courtney and her needs. That night a letter went forward to Gen. Logan, and within a few weeks her pension was granted....

Sometime early in October
14 one hundred of us started a tunnel. The soil was sandy, and we dug a shaft, or hole, in the ground, 12 feet deep, and large enough to admit the body of a moderate-sized man. We then began the tunnel, commencing about thirty feet from the dead line,15 and digging towards the east, making it large enough to allow two men to walk side by side in an upright position. We intended when it was finished to widen the shaft so as to admit the large men of the gang, as they worked above and took care of the dirt, while the slender men dug and filled into buckets which were handed to men above. When the night's work was finished, just before daybreak, we filled up this shaft, and as the soil was sandy, it could not be told from any other part of the ground. The guards saw the accumulation of dirt, and searched diligently for the tunnel, knowing there was one, but they were baffled in all attempts to find it. We were a body of picked men and each took a solemn oath that he would suffer death before he would divulge the secret. We had worked our way under ground for sixty feet, and had passed the dead line, and the first stockade, but it was 120 feet from the inner to the outer stockade, and ten feet outside of that was a strong guard of men, so we had yet a long way to dig. It was about this time that we began to hear the roar of Sherman's guns away off to the north, and soon after word came that we were all to be exchanged, and this stopped the work on our tunnel.

In a few days the larger part of us were told to get ready to travel, but, as we found afterwards, not for exchange, but for removal; accordingly, 10,000 were moved to Charleston, S.C., 10,000 to Milan, Ga., and 10,000 to Savannah, Ga., while about 5,000 were left at Andersonville. I was among the 10,000 that went to Charleston. On the way to that place we stopped for a few hours at Augusta, Ga.

While we waited for a change of cars, I asked permission to go and get a drink of fresh water; it was granted, and two guards were sent with me. We went to a house where we saw an old-fashioned spring-house, and while the guards were trying to make a trade with the colored woman who brought us a tin dipper to drink from, for some corn bread and milk, and as they stepped into the milk-house to see about the milk, I made off as fast as I could go. The Savannah river was within a half mile. I could see the beautiful magnolia trees that lined its banks, and was so tired and sleepy, by being crowded with so many others into a close, unventilated, freight-car, that I thought if I could sleep two hours under those beautiful trees, I would be willing to die; so I was making haste to reach the river, when two guards came towards me, and as they brought their muskets to bear on me, I thought best to stop and turn back with them. That night we arrived in Charleston where we spent a few days and were treated better than we had been at Andersonville. From here we went to Florence, S.C. where a stockade was built for us, with swamp or marshy ground on three sides of us; this was to keep us from digging tunnels, as they could not be dug in swampy or marshy ground.

Winter was now coming on and my wardrobe was wearing very scant. My shirt was entirely worn out; my old blouse worn thin, hung on my body in tatters. My pants were worn out when I was taken prisoner, but I had worn them ever since. The last button was gone from them and they hung on me by means of small, wooden pegs, similar to shoe pegs, and I was barefooted. We were divided into hundreds and thousands.

The sergeant of our company was William Garland, Orderly Sergeant of the 21st Ills. (Grant's regiment.)
17 He received the rations for the thousands, and issued to the ten sergeants of the hundreds. In Garland's relations with the Confederate Adjutant, he was asked to direct him to a Yankee who would make a good head-quarter clerk. Garland told him if I would consent to do so, he had no doubt but that I would make him a good clerk; accordingly, the Adjutant came in, inquiring for No. 20 of the 4th hundred, and the 7th thousand; after a little search he found me, and made his wants known, telling me that I would have nothing to do that would conflict with my duty to the North, and that I would take my meals at the Col's table, and would be furnished with a new suit of the gray. I told him he certainly did me a great honor but that I did not think I would be the right kind of clerk to make up morning reports under the direction of a Confederate Adjutant. He left me somewhat offended....

On the day of the election we were allowed to vote. The Adjutant brought in two sacks of peas, with two ballot-boxes, and we were told that we could vote our sentiments. All who wished to vote for McClellen, could take out of the sack a white pea, and deposit it in the box, while those who wished to vote for Lincoln, the nigger President, could take out of the other sack a black pea, and deposit it in the box. In the hundred to which I belonged, there were only four who voted for McClellen, and the Lincoln men being in such a large majority, and some of them not being very liberal, they fell on the four poor McClellen men and beat them shamefully, and might have killed some of them; but a majority of us interfered, and stopped them....

Some time before the election, the Confederate officers came in, and began to harangue the men to go out and enlist for work on their fortifications. Quite a number of our men went out and joined them, in spite of all we could do. I remember a young man, or boy, coming to me for advice. He had made up his mind to go out and enlist. He had already told me his history. He was a son of a Wall street merchant, lived in a princely mansion on 5th Avenue, N.Y. and had enlisted in a New York regiment when a mere boy against the will of his parents. In one of the battles of the Wilderness he was made a prisoner, and being so young and having been used to luxury and ease, and dainty living, it had seemed to go harder with him than the others. Now he felt that he could endure this life no longer; he said he certainly would die if he remained; he wanted so much to do just the right thing, but he did so want to see his mother and sisters once more, and if he went out he might be able to make his escape. When he said this, he began to cry, and asked me what I would do, if I felt as weak and helpless as he did. I did not know what to say to him, but told him that I could not advise him in this straight; it was a matter he must meet and settle for himself; finally he asked me if he went out and we both lived to meet in God's country again, if I would give him my hand. I told him I would. He went out, and that is the last I ever saw of him.

I now come to the hardest ordeal that I was called upon to pass through during the whole six months
18 that I was a prisoner,--and this was to divide my rations with one of my comrades, who was receiving the same as myself. One evening this comrade came to where I was cooking some mush and red peppers. I had sold my knapsack to one of the guards for red peppers, and had received for it what would perhaps be worth about fifty cents; now, while I stirred the mush with a pine stick, he sat looking on with yearning, hungry-looking eyes. I was cooking it in a old oyster-can and there was a fight going on within me between the man and the animal, which lasted all the time the mush was cooking, and I had spoken no word of welcome to him. I had divided with him before, but this was harder, for the cold and hunger were harder to bear now. Finally the man triumphed, and I took my canteen, which I had split in two, and poured out half of the cooked mush in one and handed it to him, and the other half I reserved and we began to eat; it was not enough for two, but the red pepper warmed us, and for the time, we had a measure of comfort. This was our only meal in the day; it was the pint of meal. After this he staggered off to his quarters, and left me to my thoughts. I found that his three comrades did not divide rations fairly with him, (our rations were a pint of meal each day,) when, shortly after this I went to see him. He then told me he was going to die, and left a message for his wife and boy, telling me that he thought I would live to get home. After this his comrades were kinder to him, but within a few days he died, and we carried his body to the gate the next morning and laid him in a row with 150 or 200 others of the dead, who had died during the night. We wrote and pinned to his breast these words: "Chas. R. Newman, Co. A., 111th Ills. Inf.19 These were the last funeral rites paid to as true and good a man as ever went out....

When I came to Florence my comrade, or the one I took up with, was a Sergeant Major of an Ind. regiment. We got possession somehow of a copy of Hume's history of England, and we read that through, I do not know how many times, and talked it over for days and weeks together. As the cold weather came on, my comrade borrowed an axe from someone and we chopped up a number of the stumps that were inside the stockade, and piled the wood up beside us. One night one of the poor men kept up a terrible noise, groaning and crying because of the cold. I got up and went to see what was the matter, and found a poor man oppressed with cold and hunger so that is seemed he would go crazy. I went and took some of our wood, and made him a fire. The next morning my comrade and myself had a bitter quarrel. He told me I was prolonging the poor man's misery, for he could not live in any event. I told him the wood belonged to us both, and I had rights as well as he, and that I would not stay longer with him. So we separated. I took my blanket and left.

After considerable search for a comrade, I found an Ohio boy, who had the name of being a thief, his squad of company men having turned him off for stealing. So he and I joined together, and put one of our blankets over us, and one under us. I found him quite companionable.

Not long after this, four men were selected from each hundred to go under guard and chop and carry wood from the woods for the hundred, and I was one selected, being one of the best preserved of the hundred.

In our intercourse with fellow-prisoners we were known often to each other by the State from which we came, and by our service, more than by our real names. One day during the noon hour, while cutting wood in the swamp, I sat a long time with a comrade on a fallen cypress tree, and we talked long and earnestly of trying to make our escape, but finally concluded the risk would be too great, and so abandoned the effort. I knew that he was from Iowa, and he knew that I was from Ills., but both were ignorant of our respective names. Years after, one day while walking along one of the business streets of St. Louis, I met a well-dressed gentleman, whose face was familiar; he looked also, as if he knew me. After passing we both looked back and turned, went back and shook hands, but when names were pronounced, there was an awkward embarrassment on both rides, as they were both strange; but finally, we recognized each other as Iowa and Ills., or the friends of the fallen cypress tree. We, of course, were glad to meet and talk over old times....

On the 7th day of December, my hundred was called in line, and some six or more selected by the surgeon for exchange. I was one, and was surprised at it, being one of the strongest men in the hundred. This surgeon was a kind-hearted, humane man. He had hurt my feelings once when I had gone to him for medicine for the sick man, Newman, but apologized and acted the honorable part. When he came to me I fancied he had not forgotten. He asked my name, birthplace, residence, service, length of imprisonment, etc., and finally told me I might go out. Thinking that I might not have understood him, I asked him: "Did you say I might go out?" "Yes," he said, "You may go." And I went and found the men that had been selected for exchange, in a hollow within a strip of woods near the railroad, not far from the village....

We were embarked on the railroad train without breakfast, and at 2 o'clock, p.m. arrived at Charleston. When we left the cars we went to the wharf and got on board a boat which put off towards the south; so that we thought that they were taking us down to the deserted part of the city to put us in some of the empty buildings of that part. There was a deep fog on the harbor, and the shipping could only be seen at a short distance. In a few minutes we saw through the fog a large steamship coming towards us, and it seemed as if every eye were strained to see the flag that was flying from her mast-head. As the stars and stripes glimmered through the fog, a shout of joy and triumph came up from the boat we were in and rolled over the harbor....

The vessel, the steamship, U.S., a large three-decked steamship, came alongside and the plank was thrown out and we were taken aboard.
20 The first thing that the Dr. ordered was that we should take off our clothes and throw them into the harbor, and put on a new suit of blue, that was furnished us, and wash our hands and faces with soap. (this was the first soap that I had used for six months.) We then had our supper, which was one large cracker, a small piece of broiled, pickled pork, and a pint of weak coffee. The Dr. explained that there was plenty on board the vessel for us, and that of the best, but that was all we could safely have at first. He said the pickled pork was to cleanse the stomach. I cannot describe by any written or spoken words the scene of that late dinner or supper on board of the vessel;--I can only say that some of the poor fellows laughed, some cried, and some shouted for joy. It was the grand dinner of my life. The next morning the breakfast was more sumptuous, and something more was added each meal, as we grew more accustomed to a square meal.

On the evening of the third day, we came in sight of Annapolis, Maryland, where we were to land. As the towers and church-spires of the city came in view, I never realized the truth and beauty there is in the National Song, "My Country, 'tis of Thee etc." As we approached nearer to the wharf, we could hear the notes of the "Red, White and Blue", that came over the water from the band that awaited us on the wharf, along with the U.S.A. officers. While we listened to the music, the Captain of the vessel said to us: "See, boys! Uncle Sam receives you home with open arms!" When we came still nearer, we saw all along the shore a large crowd of people--men, women, and children--who had come to look for friends....

After the vessel landed and the plank was thrown out, the dead, of whom there were about twenty, were carried on shore, after them the sick were also helped ashore

Then came the rest of us. When we landed, the people crowed around to ask of some absent one that was dear to them. I had the good fortune to be able to tell a mother and two daughters of the son and brother who was left still at Florence; they were, it is needless to say, delighted, and I told them I thought he would live to see them again, which he did, and came to see me after the war was over.

But, finally, the Col. in command ordered the citizens not to approach us, as our strength might be too severely taxed, and we were soon marched to a number of large bathing houses, in which we, lake Naaman of old, washed and were made clean; we then put on another new suit of clothes, and threw the others away. We then went to the barracks prepared for us, which were large, airy, and pleasant, where we rested until strength came again to us. We were granted sixty days leave of absence, with three months pay, and told that we might go to our homes or stay at Annapolis until we were ready for duty. The Colonel also informed us that he would send a detail of one man with any of us who felt unable to go alone.

After I arrived at Annapolis, I did not write home expecting every day that I would start, as I was very anxious to get home, knowing that my mother was nearly distracted on my account. At the earliest moment possible, I started, and arrived at Salem (my home) on the last day of the year, 1864. I arrived, of course, unannounced, and unlooked for. There was quite a number of persons at the depot as there always are in a village town. I knew every one in the town, and while I was answering questions to the crowd at the depot, a boy carried the news up town to the business part, and when I arrived opposite the courthouse, the people came running from all directions, as if there were a fire or there had been a murder committed. After giving all the news of the rest of the Salem boys, and seeing a member of each family who still had a friend left in Florence, I started home. My father lived one mile out of town and was a farmer, and as I was passing the cross-roads that ran by the mill, I was again stopped and surrounded and obliged to run the gauntlet of a cross-fire of questions for the third time.

When I reached my father's farm, while passing through the woods' pasture, I could hear the distant tinkle of the cow-bell down in the woods: The short winter's day was wearing to a close, and the cows were coming home. When the orchard was reached I passed out between trees that I had set out with my own hands. As I neared the house I could hear voices and found the folks had a visitor. I stopped to listen and recognized the voice of a lady who lived on the adjoining farm. She had finished her visit and had risen to go, and as my youngest sister opened the door for her to go out, I stepped in. My father was sitting by the old fashioned fire-place, piled high with hickory logs, smoking his pipe, and my mother and two sisters were standing and talking with Mrs. R----.

When I stepped in my mother was so stunned that she fell down unconcious. The two girls jumped up and down and clapped their hands, and my father arose from his chair, and took his pipe out of his mouth and said: "Well! Well! is it really you," I stooped down and raised the mother up and placed her in a chair, and asked the girls if they were not going to give me a kiss of welcome: They said they forgot,--I had come on them so sudden. Soon after this my younger brother came in, and he was as much surprised as the rest were, for none of them had dreamed of my coming.

On the day after coming home, Mrs. Newman came to see me and received the message left by her husband. I answered all her questions and softened down the harsh recital of facts as well as the truth would allow; but even then it was hard and she was completely heart-broken. We were all very sorry for her and the girls helped her to cry over her sad lot, until she was in a measure comforted....

In conclusion, let us hope that the time has come, when we can have, both North and South, interest in common as brethren of one commonwealth, knowing no North, no South, no East, no West, with living issues to settle for the common good of all.

1. Copies of his military and pension records from the National Archives are now in the Illinois State Historical Library;
Centralia Sentinel, Nov. 16, 1865, p. 2, cols. 2-3, Nov. 11, 1869, p. 6, cols. 4-5; letter of Virginia L. Wertz and William J. Heynen to editors. (Resume Your Reading)
2. For the muster rolls and a brief history of the 111th Illinois Infantry, see J. N. Reece, comp.,
Report of the Adjutant General of the State of Illinois. Volume VI. Containing Reports for the Years 1861-66 (Springfield: Journal Company, 1900), pp. 123-48. (Resume)
The Battle of Atlanta was fought July 20-28, 1864. (Resume)
4. Gen. John Alexander Logan (1826-1886) commanded the 15th Corps at this time. The chain of command, prior to McPherson's death was as follows:



Military Division of the Mississippi Maj. Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman
Army of the Tennessee Maj. Gen. James Birdseye McPherson
15th Corps Maj. Gen. John Alexander Logan
2nd Division Brig. Gen. Morgan L. Smith
1st Brigade Brig. Gen. Giles A. Smith
111th Regiment Col. James S. Martin
Company A (Moore's Unit) Capt. Robert Martin

Jacob D. Cox, Atlanta, The Army in the Civil War, Vol. 9 (New York: Scribners, 1885), p. 247. (Resume)
5. The Battle of Dallas, Ga., was fought June 25 and 27, 1864. (
6. The officers referred to are Col. James S. Martin, Lt. Co. Joseph F. Black, Maj. William H. Mabry, and Gen. Morgan L. Smith. (
7. Joseph F. McGuire from Middleton, now Iuka, Ill. (
8. Alva S. Durrell of Wayne County, Ill. (
9. Gen. James Birdseye McPherson (1828-1864). (
10. In the 2nd Division of the 15th Army Corps, casualties reported were 63 dead, 200 wounded, and 419 missing, for a total of 682.
The War of the Rebellion: A Compilation of the Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1880-1891), Ser. I, Vol. 38, pt. 3, p. 29: hereinafter cited as Official Records. (Resume)
11. Although Gen. John Henry Winder was technically in charge of Andersonville, he had wider responsibilities--being in charge of all prisoners east of the Mississippi. Control of the prisoners at Andersonville was primarily the concern of Capt. Henry Wirz. Mark Mayo Boatner III, The Civil War Dictionary (New York: McKay, 1959), pp. 15, 940-42. (Resume)
12. In the summer of 1864 there were 32, 899 prisoners at Andersonville, Boatner, p. 15. (
13. Pvt. James H. Courtney, who died Oct. 25. (
14. This should be September. See n. 16.
15. The deadline was inside the prison a few feet from the wall. It denoted the point that prisoners might not pass without being fired upon. (
16. Removal of the prisoners from Andersonville was ordered on Sept. 5, 1864. By the end of the month the number of prisoners remaining, mostly the sick, had been reduced to 8,218.
Official Records,Ser. II, Vol. &, p. 773; Ambrose Spencer, A Narrative of Andersonville Drawn from the Evidence Elicited on the Trial of Henry Wirz, the Jailer; With the Argument of Col. N. P. Chipman, Judge Advocate (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1866), p. 271. (Resume)
17. The standard sources used to verify facts in this remembrance give no evidence that any William Garland was in Grant's unit. He could, however, have been an unofficial aide-de-camp. (
18. This should read four and one-half months, since Moore was a prisoner from July 22 until Dec. 7. (
19. Corp. Charles R. Newman of Salem, Marion County, Ill. (
20. Although there was a steamship
United States in service at this time, there is no evidence that it was the ship that transferred Moore to the North. (Resume)

Source: Journal of the Illinois State Historical Society

(printed by the authority of the State of Illinois)

Winter of 1972 - Vol. LXV, No. 4

Return to the Top of the Page
Return to the Illinois Trails
Index Page

©2005 - Illinois Trails