Quad-City Times from Davenport, Iowa • 62

TRIES DEMOCRAT SUNDAY, MARCH 16, 1969 4D flaw T-k 3 i I il WL i fe 1 Anclersonville Of The IXorth? vO.V.l" HV B.Newson,. ,969 Confederate soldiers at Rock Island Prison Barracks line up for the "oath of allegiance" in 1864. These "turncoat" Rebels were placed in the so-called "calf pen" and fed full rations in preparation for sending them in Federal uniform to fight the Indians in the West. m. a oners called this "Col.

PartFlVC called this "Col. Neivsorn ft 'V A1 II Hill KAX vW -A. A Secret Society Traps Rats For Food Some Confederate prisoners Johnson's mule." As punishment for violating prison regulations, the Rebels were forced to sit straddle this wooden device for hours. bone," says Minnich, trying to poke fun, and cheer the man. "I ain't got no blessins' for no one," snarls the soldier.

I look around to see if a sentinel is near. I don't address the prisoner by name, for our numbers and names in the "Seven Knights" are kept secret. "You haven't been to the meetings recently," I say to the prisoner. "Naw, suh, I ain't. An' I been think-in' a heap and this mornin' when I saw them boys hold up their hands and take thu oath that's gonna put good meat in their bellies, I decided I ain't goin' to no more meetins'.

I'm 'on go "I'm goin' over. I'm 'on take that damn nasty oath and eat me some food. The old colonel's about starved me to death." I say, "We're all hungry, soldier. Our boys in the field are fighting without good food. Their clothes are ragged.

Their rifle-muskets are defective." THE GAUNT soldier makes a face, screws up his mouth. "Cap'n, you kaint talk logic to a starvin' man." Minnich interrupts. "Soldier, you swore to the secret oath of the 'Seven That oath binds you to remain loyal to our beloved South, 'even unto Minnich is mad. "Need I remind vou of thu whippin's the society had to give them spies in our midst Need I remind you. We are not gonna give up." "I ain't afeered of you," the gaunt soldier snaps.

"I done my damdest to keep thu oath I even stood yestiddy mornin' with a club by a rat hole all mornin' just waitin' for one of them little long-tailed rascals to stick his head up. Thu surface of this yard is honeycombed with them damn rats, but I didn't even get a nibble." "WELL GO BACK and look again today." says Minnich, "get givin' up off'en yore mind." "I'm tard," says the soldier. "You know what a rat tastes like deviled or stewed why. he tastes almost like squirrels." "How do you know, if'n you didn't catch one," Minnich says. "I know 'cause the boys in Barracks Twenty Seven give me a bite of one last eek it ain't bad ealin', 'specially if'n you ain't had no meat in a coon's age." Minnichs snaps, "Damn it, you wea By Tom sel-mouth you ain't no credit to the Confederacy, but I ain't gonna let you take that damn nasty oath, if'n I have to watch you every minute.

We ain't lettin' one more Rebel go over. He pauses. "You know the society's plan. We don't let no one go over after today. In addition, we start recruitin' back them that's gone over.

And when we get enough, we gonna send a petition to President Davis enlistin' all the backslid turncoats into the cavalry of the Confederacy. Maybe Gen'l. Jeb Stuart's got room for 'em." '7 Want Some GoodEatin" The gaunt soldier says, "I don't want no cavalry. I want me some good eatin' Without warning, Minnich hits the gaunt man. He falls into the dirt.

I stop Minnich. "Private, we're not barbarians. No matter what our differences we'll settle this." I look down at the soldier. "If the society can provide you with a quota of rat meat, will you forget taking the oath of allegiance?" I say. On the ground, the man frowns, and thinks a minute.

"Cap'n," he says, "I'd even eat a old diamond-backed rattlesnake raw, if 'n you could get it." Silence. The soldier gets up. I am thinking. Finally, "Pvt. Minnich," I say, "as commander of your division of the Seven Confederate Knights, I order you to detail men to find rats for this man to eat." For a minute, I think Minnich is going to turn on me.

But he is a good soldier. "Yes, suh," he says and walks off. Diplomacy has prevailed. One more Confederate is saved for the South. NIGHT.

IN the barracks my friend Pvt. S. W. Abbay and I are talking when we hear a man in the yard scream. "Don't shoot please don't shoot.

I'm blind." Abbay and I rush to the door. "Stay back," I shout to other men in our barracks who are startled by the shouts. "It must be Jarrett." someone shouts, "he went to the sink." Abbay peers through the cracked Island Prison Barracks and used much of the same historical data which Newsom has employed). Many of the characters whom Capt. Paige B.

Randolph encounters were real characters of the times and place of the Rock Island Prison Barracks. The character of Capt. Randolph is fictional. Newsom has created and developed Capt Randolph and is using him as a medium to carry us through the possible tribulations of an incarcerated Confederate officer detained at Rock Island Prison Barracks. We readers are getting a sad history of a truly sad event which happened in our back yard.

I enjoy Newsom's handling of language and his ability to create suspense. For instance. Capt. Randolph's fiancee lives in a small Georgia town which is safely located between Atlanta and Savannah. We as readers know that this later will be in the direct devastating path of General Sherman's "March to the Sea," but now we feel as safe and confident as Capt.

Randolph. of Nov. 25, 1863, after the fierce Battle of Missionary Ridge. I was placed first in a "holding pen" at Louisville, then brought; up here in January. IT IS NOW early June of a hot summer that is steaming the muddy Illinois cornfields.

The restless Mississippi River has gone down after It flooded in late April. Tempers Flare As Spring Arrives This prison island in the middle of the river between the towns of Moline and Rock Island and Davenport is like a boiling cauldron. Tempers flare between our loyal prisoners and the Yankee sentinels. There are escape attempts. And more than 700 of our brothers have sold out, and gone over to live in the "calf pen." I have one item of good news: it is a letter from poor, sweet Eleanor that Cpl.

Baird, my friend in the post adjutant's office, saved for me. Col. A. J. Johnson, the ruthless commander of the prison island, has ordered all my mail destroyed.

I have received no mail, nor have my letters to Eleanor been posted. The colonel is continuing to punish me for refusing his order to attest to "Yankee justice" in the shooting and killing of Pvt John P. McClanahan, back in frozen January. CPL. BAIRD, who is on parole oath and works for Lt.

A. F. Higgs, one of the few gentlemen among the prison keepers, slipped sweet Eleanor's letter. He is to give it to me. All other news is bad: I have been suffering from scurvy one of the devil sentinels shoots down a Confederate prisoner, who is "blind as a bat and the C.

7 K. society has to take action against one of our weak-kneed brothers. It is morning. The June sun Is already high, a fire-ball of glare in the sky. Pvt.

Minnich and I stand in the middle of the yard holding a 7 K. conference, (Kit in the open. Yankee sentinels see us, but this is the last place they would suspect a meeting. After roll call this morning there was a scene that sickened us. The Yankees lined another group of turncoat Rebels up in the grass against a barracks and gave them the oath of allegiance.

Our loyal boys jeered and cursed the turncoats. "It's enough to turn your stomach," says Minnich to me, as we walk towards the barracks. We see a poor devil of the South "a dried-up specimen" of a Confederate, who shuffles up to the doorway of the barracks. A Handful Of Bones On an ash pile in front of the barracks door, in the dirt, are a few finely-chopped pieces of marrow joint some one had thrown out. Bending down, the lean Confederate picks up a handful of the pithy pieces of marrow joint and begins to munch them trying to suck juice from the marrow.

He turns his gaunt, hollow eyes to Pvt. Minnich and me. "On the other side of that fence." he says, motioning towards the calf pen. they got good white bread and pounds of meat an' heah I stand a gnawin' on a bone." "BLESS GOD that you found a say, but Cpl. Baird walks away quickly, so the exchange will not be noticed.

I CANNOT WALK to the barracks fast enough. Inside, my hands tremble as I open the letter my eyes are clouded. I read: "Dearest Paige, "I pray that my words of love reach your eyes, for I do not know what torture you suffer. We have heard of those awful Yankee prisons at Fort Delaware and El-mira and Rock Island. "ROCK island.

The name itself is harsh to my ears. I cannot imagine a worse place for you. I would rather that you were still in the fighting than to know that you are. I flip the page. in prison with no hand over your destiny save that which might come from God, to permit you to escape the savages.

"I am lonely for your touch. I miss you. I miss your soft, blue eyes that held me in loving gaze, your arms that held me tightly. "I remember that beautiful afternoon of the picnic by the river before you went to war. I shall ever remember that April day of blossoms and love.

i I turn the page. My hand trembling. "As for us, the time of trial is near. The Yankees are more than 100 miles into Georgia. We hear reports each day that Sherman is advancing on Atlanta, and that Gen.

Joseph E. Johnston will not fight, but is retreating. "Oh, how we need a general who will fight. Some say President Davis is unhappy with Johnston and may replace him with Gen. John B.

Hood, who lost a leg at Gettysburg, but I don't know. There are so many rumors. "Gov. Joseph Brown has finally sent out the state militia to aid Johnston. The governor and the general assemblymen in the statehouse here speak almost as harshly against President Davis as they do against Mr.

Lincoln. It is a time of chaos. I turn the page. "YESTERDAY, I went riding and stopped on the 'immense hill' above Mil-ledgeville for a fine view of the town. Gov.

Brown has ordered fortifications along the Oconee River to stop the Yankees, if they take Atlanta and come here. "I saw the preparations for war and I longed for you. I am afraid of what may happen when Sherman comes to Baldwin County. Oh, we pray that Johnston will get his spine, and begin to fight. "I'm doing relief work at the hospital.

Other times. I play the piano, or stroll by the river thinking of you. "We have food, but little else. No fine clothes. No parties.

Everywhere there is sickness. Your father has been sick, but I think is he feeling better. I pray for him. too, as I pray for you. Do not worry, darling, I go out to Briarbois Hall several times a week to see him, and to comfort him for he misses your poor dead mother so much more now that grief is upon the land.

"Dearest, if you can, please write and tell me of your love for me and the tragedy that you must be going, through in far-away Illinois. With all my love till death Eleanor." I close the letter and feel helpless. Poor, sweet Fleanor. What will happen to her. if Sherman reaches Milledgeville? i NEXT WEEK: A "shy," little soldier boy escapes in a hoop skirt, and the "copperheads" protest prison doorway.

"Yep," he says, and before his one word statement is out, we hear the crack of a rifle. In the yard, Pvt. Jarrett screams in pain and then lamentations. We see a Yankee sentinel, one of the white bluecoats, standing down the alley between the barracks. I remember Jarrett as "a simple-minded good-natured fellow, liked by everyone." Jarrett never talked much.

But one time he told me he was suffering from a malady sometimes called "moon blindness." "At night, I'm blind as a bat," Jarrett said. On this night, he had gone to the sink, feeling his way from one barracks to another. I had failed to act the night I saw the sentry on the parapet shoot Pvt. Tom Callahan to death. Now, I move.

I rush to Jarrett, lying in the yard. Abbay follows me. We gather up the wounded man. The sentry is watching. We expect him to shoot at any minute, but we are permitted to return safely.

In the barracks, we put Jarrett on the floor. The bullet struck his arm and shoulder, apparently shattering the elbow. He is bleeding. "I couldn't see I couldn't see," Jarrett moans. The door bursts open.

The sentinel who shot Jarrett enters with another sentinel. "You two take that man to the hospital barracks," one sentinel says, motioning to me and Abbay. "If you damn Rebels try to walk around at night again, it'll be a bullet between the eyes. If'n you've got to go to the sink go right here." This morning, the men in my barracks talk of Jarrett's near brush with death, and swear new vengeance on the Yankees, but I am filled with joyous expectation. A Letter From Eleanor Cpl.

Baird, my friend in the post adjutant's office, is to slip me sweet Eleanor's letter. I meet the corporal in the yard. We talk awhile and as we part, Baird shakes my hand. Folded in his hand is the letter. "I thank you with all my I I think everyone in this immediate area should take it upon himself to read this scries.

Whereas I cannot wholeheartedly agree with the axiom: "History Repeats Itself," I do feel that there is a tremendous amount of human understanding to be gained from studies of the past. We in this area can closely align and identify with this story because of our proximity to the actual locale of the events. We have an interesting avenue of approach to this history as we study the times, the trials, and the tribulations of this incarcerated sojourner in man's battle against life and man's battle against man. In these days of continuous crisis and trauma it is enjoyable to be able to escape into a past time and realize that life has had its low ebbs throughout the history of man. Joseph F.

Fceney, Mnline, President, Quad-City Civil War Roundtable EDITOR'S OTE: Here is another in the continuing series of stories on life at the Rock Island Prison Barracks, where 12,000 Confederate soldiers were kept during the Civil War. It is written through the eyes of a Confederate captain, a fictional character. "We got weak-kneed sycophants and spies among us, cap'n, that's what we got." That's the way Pvt. J. W.

Minnich put it the day the "Seven Confederate Knights" secret society was formed among loyal prisoners in the hell hole of Rock Island Prison Barracks. "We got the briber and them that's being bribed," the young, tall private from Louisiana said. "The bribers are the Yankee prison keepers are givin' 'full rations' to our pore, gaunt boys who are putting hunger above honor to our brave South." "You're talking about the Confederates in the 'calf I said to Pvt. Minnich. "Yes, suh, 1 am at that.

But I'm also talkin' about the spies among us that tote news to ole Cunnel Johnson and his bluecoats. They're tellin' everything for a full gut of rations." MINNICH SAID, "We gotta organize. We gotta stop the spyin' and we gotta stop the turncoats from takin' Mr. Lincoln's damn nasty oath and swearin' into the federal army." The federal army has opened a "recruiting office" in Rock Island Prison Barracks. Holding out offers of food and money, the bluecoats tempt our boys to join the federal army on the promise that they will not be sent Smith to fight their comrades.

Fatten Up To Fight Indians "They're fattenin' them up for the slaughter just like you fatten calves in a pen," said Pvt. Minnich. "They gone send them turncoats west to fight the Indians and to guard the borders." Minnich pulled at his ball and chain and drew "But they might have to do a little figlitin' up Nawth." he chuckled. "I heard that Hon. Jacob Thompson, our Confederate commissioner in Canada, is recruiting a secret army to come down and cause some hell in Nawthern cities." ON THAT MAY day.

I became a division commander in the secret society. The society is known as 7 We have grips, signs, a password and a badge. A star made out of shell, with seven points, the badge has the motto: "Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori!" (It is sweet and glorious to die for one's country). "My god, suh, our brave boys in the field stand at Armageddon and battle in the Wilderness of Virginia against Grant and in Georgia against Sherman yet these weak-kneed, yellow brothers go over to the Yankee side here in Rock Island Prison," Minnich had said. Minnich's words come back to me this day in June, 1864.

Indeed. Armageddon may be happening right now in Georgia, at my home where poor, sweet Eleanor, my fiancee, and all my people are threatened by Gen. Sherman's ruthless invaders. I am Capt. Paige B.

Randolph from Baldwin County. I entered the war in '61 and fought in Virginia in Gen. Lee's Army under Gen James Longstreet, before I rushed to Chattanooga, with Longstreet only to be captured the night Praise From Quad-City Historian I wish to share my thoughts concerning the series of articles written by Thomas Newsom, "Andcrsonville of 'wjp'B'a the North?" currently Xi appearing in the Sunday ff 1 Times-Democrat. I approach this task fi in two ways, as a stu- reaaer seening enjoy- ment through reading. What I have to say is I strictly opinion, my opin ion.

Newsom has written a "historical novel." He has taken the given I i MJ Fernoy history of an era and has created a fascinating story using a fictitious character who is projected through life via the channel of historic happening. As Mr. Newsom mentioned in his prologue, the major events covered in his story are historically accurate. (I have made a small study of the history of Rock i.