"The Long Way Home" - Second Installment

There was a powerful temptation to stop at the Camp Chase Cemetery that lay south of the prison to “visit” those men who he had fought beside, been locked up with and finally watched die of various diseases. They lay there beneath Yankee soil with but only the rough boards in the cemetery to mark their passing. There, 2260 hand-painted oak signs with name, rank, regiment and date of death stood at each earthen mound. John could count 11 of his fellow 38th Alabama men that he knew of. He’d seen some of them die. John avowed that he would make it home for them as well as himself and his family. He owed them that much and that would be a motivating focus of his walk.


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Camp Chase barracks where John lived as a prisoner for 10 months.

There was no attachment to his weathered board-and-batten gray elongated barracks building even though it was a shelter for him for ten months of his 19 years. He could never call that prison home! He might have scraped up a little attachment to the old cast iron pot-bellied stove that he cooked his meals on and enjoyed the warmth of, when fuel was available, but not enough to want to re-enter that hell-hole.

As Barracks Sergeant it was his responsibility to see that the barracks single black pot-bellied stove was fully extinguished when “lights out” was trumpeted at 8 p.m. There were instances of guards shooting into a barracks, and a Confederate being killed after having seen a flicker of light and the smoke of a fire, so even on the coldest nights the stove was put out. John did not want any of his messmates or himself to experience such a horror. He never understood why the Yanks insisted on fires out if there was fuel except to be cruel. There had been plenty unwarranted cruelty.

He looked around for maybe a familiar companion to hasten and help his travels along. Most of the men were southward bound, but not all were allowed to leave at once. Over 2000 had been released in May so a system of sorts had been worked out in the “doesn’t-make-any-sense” army way. The North was foreign to John. The people, their speech, the houses, the climate and certainly the army all were far different from what he was accustomed to, and he wanted to go home.

Landmark seen on John's trek southward.

He was familiar with some of the areas that lay in that southern direction. He’d been sent through Louisville and Nashville by rail on his way to prison, but he only saw it from the cracks of a cattle car. Then, he was very familiar with the area from Tullahoma, Tennessee, down through Chattanooga to Atlanta, having walked or been chased all that way by Yanks while with the Army of Tennessee. He’d spent the winter in Crow Valley north of Dalton two winters ago so he knew that area. If he could just survive to cross the Ohio River and to set foot on familiar friendly territory!

The Cumberland River

(Continued in the right column.)

Hoping for a rabbit to roast.

If a Southern soldier had learned anything and you’d better believe if he was still alive in 65, he had learned how to forage and live off the land. After the prisoners having to hunt down and eat all the rats in Camp Chase, he was not squeamish about the food. He’d cut wood or pick corn or chop cotton whatever it took. A farm boy had many useful skills whereby he could earn a meal. It was sure a problem not having funds of any sort to purchase supplies. Over 3350 prisoners would be loosed from Camp Chase in June so he’d have plenty of company and competition in any task that might earn a bite to eat or shelter from summer rains. For a time it seemed wise to “follow the crowd,” but he was worried that he would be in a situation of over saturation. The area south would probably look something like a swarm of biblical locust had come by and stripped everything clean. The May crowd had probably pretty well cleaned it out as far as provisions went.

Not much food to be found here.

He’d scrounged his raggedy bedroll and part of an old tent that would have to suffice for protection from weather or groundcover. He had, of course, taken his barracks roll book. The ladies of the Columbus Christian Aide Society or CCAS blessed each veteran and passed him a much welcomed, rough cloth haversack of sorts containing religious tracts, a New Testament and survival supplies. There was a small homemade housewife made from calico material with needle and thread, a dozen Lucifer sulfur matches, a small corked bottle of honey, a tin cup, a small quantity of dry beans, a sweet potato and a quart of ground corn meal. Some of the men immediately threw the tracts away, but John realized that they would provide much needed kindling for his cook fire if not for his soul so he gathered the discarded paper tracts as he walked.

John had been raised and creek baptized as a Baptist back in Camp Creek in Packer’s Bend and had became very religious in his beliefs during the great revival that winter of 63 in Crow Valley, Georgia. The regimental Chaplin had a way of explaining the Bible and salvation that “took” with the men. He felt that his strong belief in God would carry him through to see God’s plan for his life. John felt that God must have a plan for him, as he had sustained him this far through the terrible trials of war.

The ladies sang some recognizable hymns but thankfully and intelligently stayed away from one they hated The Battle Hymn of the Republic. Neither did they venture toward singing Dixie. He did somewhat doubt the true spirit of some of these Ohioans who were starving him to death a few days ago and would have shot him dead if they’d had a rifle. He’d dodged many a shot from a Yankee rifle save that last one east of Atlanta back last July. John’s family had never owned a slave, and he would not have put his life in danger for a practice such as this any more than he believed an Ohio farm lad would have died to free a man he did not and would never know. For the life of him he couldn’t understand why they wanted to kill every white Southerner and him along with them. Lots of hate there. He’d like to sit and discuss it unemotionally with one of them someday as though that were possible.

Go to the Third Installment of this serial.