In Prison at Point Lookout
by George W. Jones, 24th Virginia Cavalry 

George W. Jones

On the 13^th day of December, 1863, at Charles City Courthouse, Va. A portion of General Sheridan’s cavalry and our command engaged in fierce combat, which resulted in the falling back (owing to their superior numbers) of Confederate cavalry and the capture of the larger portion of the troops. I was among the captured and made a prisoner.

 After the smoke of battle had lifted and preliminary arrangements made for a forced march, the troops were formed in line and the command moved off in the direction of Williamsburg. The horses captured in the fight were used in mounting two prisoners on one horse and the marching in haste to reach the Yankee lines. In my company, which had been captured, was an old Confederate Irish named McKenney who had an excellent fine animal which had been appropriated to the use of a major in command, and came rushing by at full speed, very much to the discomfiture of Mac, who with great big tears in his eyes said to me: “Well George, me boy, there goes Billy.” After going into camp at Burnt Ordinary, the next morning we took up our line of march for Williamsburg and we prisoners were corralled in old Fort Magruder, and from there went to Yorktown, from there to Fort Norfolk, and from there to Point Lookout. This place is a point of land where the Potomac River empties into the Chesapeake Bay, where it seemed that nature formed it especially for a prison camp. After a day and night passage in the hull of an old transport from Norfolk we landed. While I was but a lad and unused to the hardships and vicissitudes, I stood the trip better than older and bigger Confederates. Our entrance into prison made a weird impression on my youthful mind. The first obsolete scene presented our view was a pile of coffins for dead rebels. The next direful sign was “Prison Camp” in a large circle over the prison gate. The next embarrassing experience was the “boys from Gettysburg” fight. This being altogether new to me, it brought about a very serious question as to my future welfare; so I put my wits to work to ferret out my existence as there would be no more exchanging of prisoners of war under the old cartel, so I had to reconcile myself to the fate of living or dying in prison until the cruel was was over. 

The prison was laid off into streets, with a parapet wall fourteen foot high and a walk near the top for the guards, and there were about fifteen thousand of us “Johnnies” who had to scuffle for ourselves, and those who could not scuffle had to cave in. It was amusing to see the ingenuity of the prisoners. Every conceivable trick was resorted to in order to make buckle and tongue meet. It was “root, pig, or die” and what was the then general term with the prisoners was a possum-eyed time. 

The various occupations, the scheming, the tricking, the hustling for grub, the flanking and pointing to the goal for hardtack and pickled pork, and trading for rations, were the issues which required no oratory, no preaching, but chicanery and trickery. My strong forte was molasses taffy and corn mush with black strap syrup. Whenever I could collect enough of the material together I could fry flap jacks so thin you could read through them, and dilute the molasses so that it would run on a board. My price for a palatable dish was five hardtacks and a chew of tobacco. By pushing my trade I could soon collect enough hardtack and tobacco to last me a week, with careful economy. 

In one interesting instance an old soldier from Tennessee came straggling along with an old army blanket for his whole suit, probably a Gettysburg relic, reinforced with “greybacks”. He spied my outlay. His ravenous appetite allured him to my stand. He invested his last cracker and chew of tobacco and settled himself down for a delightful repast, and I shall never forget his disappointment when he had finished. “Well” said he, “I was an overseer before the war in Tennessee. I have patrolled it, I have log-rolled, horse-swapped, volunteered in the war, was in the battle of Gettysburg, been through all the war up to prison, been hungry, cold and done many things; but you have put the confoundest swindle on me that I have ever experienced in all my days from boyhood to the present time and I hope the good Lord may have mercy on you from now until this war is over.” 

Through the kindness of the commandant of the prison, Major Brady, an excellent, brave and good soldier, and Capt. Barnes, a hero and all around kind, benevolent comrade, prisoners were allowed the liberty of congregating on the shore of the Chesapeake outside of the prison camp for recreation and exercise between the hours of 9 and 2. The conglomerated mass of lousy, ragged and hungry rebels was a sight to behold, especially in the winter days when they could bask in the sun. Every type of humanity was exhibited in all the different phases of a prisoner’s life in this assembly. A variety of proceedings were carried on – the pious praying, the wicked fighting, the tradesman tricking, and the thieves stealing; all kinds of gaming, from trick cards, keno, lotto, to dice and dumbbells. 

I was adept in making “lasses taffy”, that was done by boiling molasses into a paste and pulling out rolls about six inches long and laying it on a cooling board. The guards on the parapet wall, if they could catch a chance, would be our best customers. On one occasion I was making a display of my “taffy” which caught the eye of a negro guard, who assuming a very proud and pompous attitude said: “How much for your taffy?” Realizing that I had a good customer, I told him to take the whole lot for a greenback dollar. Thrusting his fingers in the little leather pouch on his belt he threw me down the bill and bade me to move on lively before the captain of the guards saw me. That dollar was a fortune to me. I proceeded immediately to the sutler’s tent and laid in a good supply, from which I made myself and tentmates happy. 

Our camp as I have said, was laid off with streets and trenches to drain the camp. About 10 feet from the parapet wall was a trench designated as the “dead line”. No prisoner was allowed to go beyond. In my cracker-box house were seven men. One was an old soldier who had been in prison over twelve months at that time, and who had given up all hopes of ever being paroled, and had become disconsolate, ragged, dirty and shiftless, his clothes tattered and torn from long service without change. Fortunately he had a friend in the North who had learned of his imprisonment and sent him a box in which was a suit of clothes, two pair of socks and a few twists of homemade tobacco. Not having the energy to apply for himself, I volunteered to go and get it. So I exchanged clothes with him and proceeded to the office to get it. An amusing incident occurred. I had to assume his name. When the time came for me to sign his name I came within an ace of signing my own name. Had I done so I would have been severely punished. I will never forget how I was tantalized. The garb I presented myself in seemed to be the most interesting thing that the officers had ever seen. They ordered me to divest myself, after which they took a pitchfork and threw my clothing into a garbage tub, saying at the same time they “were not in the grayback business, or making homemade soap, or manufacturing paper.” 

The prisoners’ through the very great kindness of the commandants, were allowed to go outside the camp on details to cut wood, whitewash buildings and unload boats, and when a requisition was made for a certain number of men to go outside a thousand men would rush for the gate, all eager to get extra rations for their work. On one occasion I was in a detail of 100 to help unload a large boat loaded with rations for the prisoners in which were hardtack, pickled pork, sugar and coffee, beans, vegetables dried for soup, pickled beef, etc. Of course there were always guards to watch our maneuvers. The provisions had been carried from boat to the commissary, a distance of 300 or 400 yards, and the opportunity to flank was flattering. The prisoners took advantage of it by going into a cracker box or opening a barrel of sugar and coffee, and anything else they could do. On this occasion they had supplied themselves with more than extra rations, not suspecting the keen-eyed guards. Everything was working lovely, as we thought and every rebel had his breeches and pockets full like a frog eating shot, too heavy to move. All things were merry as a marriage bell, with bright anticipations of a feast when we went back to camp. But when the time came for march they formed us in a two-rank file and marched us within twenty paces of the gate. The column was halted with the command “Right face!” The officer of the day rode up and down the line, seeing that we took the position of a soldier. 

With drawn sword he gave the command to “shake rags”. Silence reigned supreme for a few minutes and then the captain gave the same command, the prisoners still remaining perfectly silent. Finally, with a broad smile on his face, he gave the order “Take off your trousers and disgorge”, which we proceeded to do according to the command, each man in rotation. That was done by turning our trousers upside down in order that what was in the pockets and legs would tumble out. 

Now just imagine the result. There was in one pile a mass of every article that was unloaded from the boat, making a heap as big as a hogshead, at which the boys looked very wistfully and with many regrets. So we marched back into camp, sadder but wiser specimens of human nature and disappointed ragamuffins. So it was with all the prisoners who had been suffering for over twelve months, almost transformed into a state of total depravity; nothing to cheer or console them. 

In the first establishment of the prison camp sixteen men were assigned to one tent and during my first winter in prison I was thrown in company with prisoners of every nationality, kindred and tongue, and while on a variety of discussions, mainly on how to get something to eat and how to make it conform to our appetites. Some would consume a whole day’s rations at one meal, and the more prudent would divide it into two or three meals. I have seen men eat anything they could lay their hands on. On one occasion when the tide on the bay was high it brought ashore an old seagull which had been dead a month or more. It was picked up by a hungry rebel and devoured with a gusto that would have made a modern epicure more than ashamed of himself. I, with others who were willing to get a meal, gave my pocket knife for a pie which had been seasoned with skimmings from the slop tubs at the cook house, mixed with anything else that could be gotten, and for which I sorrowfully repented, for it gave me a spell of sickness which came very near sending me to the “peach orchard” where many of the boys had gone. 

During the cold winter of ’64 our ration of wood was limited to three pieces of pine wood to a tent of sixteen men. While we had no feather beds to lie on, we had the frozen ground. We would, upon retiring, form a circle and do what we called “spooning” to keep warm. One morning I noticed a pale-faced soldier lying opposite me enjoying a splendid snooze and I noticed that his tattered pantaloons reached a few inches below his knees, leaving a bare and naked place. I just reached over from my couch and took hold of his legs, which were just as cold as an icicle, and he did not awake. So you see, he had become so hardened to cold and hunger that it was second nature. 

My companions in our little cracker-box house were more fortunate and all of us hustled in some ways to make ourselves comfortable. We got permission to build ourselves a place; therefore we separated from our chums in the tent. 

There were all kinds of rumors circulating in camp, one of which was true – that our ration of coffee would be cut off because the Confederate government had cut off coffee in the prison at Andersonville. This we thought a great hardship, but I presume it was done on account of the Confederacy not having the coffee. So we had to put our wits together to get some coffee from somewhere. I was on detail very soon afterward outside the camp whitewashing the hospital department and I noticed a large pile of coffee grounds that had been used for the sick. The hospital was just outside the main prison camp where there were a thousand sick prisoners and of course they were furnished with a good article of coffee. So the time came for me to act. I found an old coffee sack and made my way close to the wall, stopping close to the dead line and where a trench ran under the fence. I examined the trench to see if it was sufficiently large enough for me to crawl through. Then, taking advantage of the guard on his beat when his back was toward me, I ran across the dead line and through the hole without being seen, I filled my sack with coffee grounds and, making my arrangements to return, had to catch my opportunity when the guard was again going from me. So I made the venture and succeeded in evading the guard, returning to the camp the proudest rebel there – a venture a little risky. We had a camp kettle to every tent and with my stock of coffee grounds I would have a kettle full every morning. I would stand on the street in front of my tent and cry “Here’s your hot coffee! Cupful for a cracker!” And you could see the boys coming from every direction with a cup in one hand and a cracker in the other. So I made enough crackers to have a feast three times a day, besides having all I could use myself, so I grew fat and greasy. 

About this time orders were issued that no more details would be made for outside work. The cause, I learned afterwards, was that Early had made a detour into Maryland, just below Baltimore, and that his object was to make his way down the P{otomac and release the prisoners. Of course we could only hear the rumor and knew nothing of his plans, but, to confirm the report, I know that there seemed to be a little excitement with the guards. I noticed there was a double set on the parapet an strict orders in camp, a heavy patrol in the prison, and certainly silence maintained after “taps”, eight o’clock, with all lights out and no talking allowed in the tents. So we were momentarily expecting something, but knew not that the troops had been reinforced by a regiment of cavalry and a company of infantry on duty around the gate, extra guns on the fort, and we were informed that all the troops on the point were, as we used to say, “resting on their arms”. The old Minnesota was anchored a few hundred yards out in the Chesapeake with her sixty guns commanding the prison, she having been on furlough being disabled to some extent by the rebel ram Merrimac in Hampton Roads. After we began to realize the situation, and in the event of an attack by General Early we were cogitating in our minds what would be the result. Anything, however costly it might have been, any opportunity, and the whole camp would have made a desperate attempt to free themselves. 

After the excitement was over the boys went to work in the same old routine – trading, trucking, tricking, etc. All kinds of plans were devised for escape. There were prisoners who got together cracker boxes to make a small sailboat, and by some means evaded the guard and made their escape across Chesapeake Bay. I never knew how they managed to get out of camp – whether they tunneled under the fence or scaled the wall. However, after that our camp was regularly inspected and we were kept under the closest surveillance. 

We were overjoyed on one occasion after that by a visit from General Butler and Secretary Stanton, thinking the object of their coming was the result of an arrangement that might have been made between the Confederate government and the Union for an exchange of prisoners – but we were sorely disappointed. They drove through the camp in a closed carriage, accompanied by a troop of cavalry, traversing every division from the First to the Tenth and last division in which were Irish soldier prisoners, among them a portion of the famous “Louisiana Tigers” captured at Gettysburg and just on the eve of their departure, our distinguished visitors were given a yell raised by the “Tigers” that shook the whole point. After our anticipations of an exchange had fallen through and the excitement was over, we were again moving along in the old, ordinary routine, and, like ground squirrels, laying up every little article for a rainy day. 

I had changed my tactics. I had made a venture in the ring business, buying rings and other things that the boys made, selling them to the Yankees. We had to be very particular in approaching the guards, but always found them very kind, and they would pay me a good price for any little thing I sold them. By this means I had the pleasure of enjoying many square meals. 

My long stay in prison and the hardships educated me in a great many things especially how to manipulate little tricks to get extra rations. I had been in prison so long that I almost adopted the prison for home, but, as the old adage goes “the darkest hour is just before day”. I was strolling up the street one morning, near where a large bulletin board was used for registering names of those who had letters or boxes sent them, and my attention was called to the following lines in large letters at the top of the board:

“All prisoners who were captured on (a certain date) from December 1863 to July 1864 must report to Headquarters on (a certain date) to be paroled.”

After reading that notice I had forgotten where I had started and ran back to my tent to inform the boys of the good news. I was included in the dates, while some of my messmates were not, they having been captured later. So all interest in my trading, tricking and hungering dissolved like snow in the sunshine, and I began to pack my oilcloth for the next day, and promptly at the hour reported to parole headquarters, together with about 500 others who came within the call. I took sad leave of the boys and told them to grin and endure, and trade flank, and I turned over to them my trade and good will. It took a day or two to arrange our paroles, and we had to stay in camp awaiting our turn. While loitering around I made way to a large tent in the parole grounds. I peeped into a tent called the “dead house” and there lay twenty dead victims of scurvy and diarrhea. Poor fellows, they were on their last parole. 

This was in the latter part of February 1865, and after nearly two years of suffering and torment we were at last ordered to forward march in single file down to the wharf on the Potomac River where the happy sight of the New York truce boat, with her outstretched gangplank to welcome and bid us enter, greeted our tired eyes and worn out frames. We went aboard cheerfully, with a sigh of great relief and without the glittering bayonets to “move us lively”. After all were aboard the boat with its load of dirty and worn out paroled prisoners, we gave one old-fashion “rebel yell” and joined with one accord in “Dixie”.