Horrors of Camp Morton. [from the Memphis Commercial.]The picture of suffering and hunger not Overdrawn—Rats and cats were Toothsome food, and dog meat could not be Bought—Despair and Death.
The article entitled ‘Cold Cheer in Camp Morton,’ by Dr. John A. Wyeth, of New York city, and published in the Century Magazine, April, 1891, called forth severe criticism from many writers prominent in the North, and this induced Dr. Wyeth to follow up the subject. He thereupon issued a circular-letter to ex-Confederate soldiers requesting such of them as were confined in Camp Morton to furnish him their personal experiences and observations as to the treatment they received. Dr. Thomas E. Spotswood, of Fairford, Ala., who is a grandson of the revolutionary general, Alexander Spotswood, and also a descendant of the Custis family, has written the following letter to Dr. Wyeth, which the Commercial publishes by special permission:  In response to your request, published in the Southern papers, I will endeavor to give additional incidents of life at Camp Morton. But before I begin, allow me to say that your pen picture, ‘Cold Cheer in Camp Morton,’ published in the Century, is in nowise overdrawn and scarcely up to the reality. I was captured at the battle of Resaca, Ga., on May 15, 1864, and was hurried to prison, via Chattanooga jail and Nashville penitentiary, with some forty others captured at the same place. My experience at these points was about the same as yours. In some instances great kindness was shown me. One cavalryman as he passed by me said: ‘Poor little Johnnie (I was seventeen years old), here's a coat; you'll need it where you're going’; and another pitched me a Bible, saying: ‘Read this and be a good boy.’ But as we got further away from the front our troubles began. At Nashville an Irishman wanted to killa Reb, and when some one suggested he could find a few where we came from he lost his temper entirely, and cursed the whole South generally, and our little squad particularly. We remained one night in the penitentiary, where the hard rock floors in the halls of the prison were not conducive to sleep; but thanks to the kind United States soldier who gave me the overcoat, I was better off than the others, and managed to catch a few hours' sleep. The trip the rest of the way was without incident, except that our captors convinced us that we were not going to prison, but only taking a trip at Uncle Sam's expense to Richmond, via Louisville, where we would be detained a few days until an exchange could be arranged. I must confess we were fully persuaded; so much so, that when one or two Texans were missing between Nashville and Louisville, we said how silly they were to try to escape, and possibly be recaptured or shot, when in a few weeks we would be in Richmond.
Vain hope.My father, who was surgeon in charge of the medical bureau of the Confederate navy, was in that city, and I had no doubt that in a short while I would see him, and have the pleasure of an introduction to President Davis and his cabinet. Foolish boy! It was many weary months ere I saw the loved ones in the Southern Capital, and then only a few weeks before the end. After we left Nashville our guard gave his gun to one of his prisoners and went to sleep, and all could have made their escape had they chosen.  We arrived at Indianapolis at daylight in the morning of the 22d of May, 1864. Our ration of bread (one small loaf) came at 11 o'clock, and a small piece of meat at 12 o'clock. We usually ate it as soon as received, and then drank as much water as we could hold, and tried to imagine we had had a full meal. Another reason for eating it at once was to save it from being stolen, as the only way to keep it until evening was to put it under one's hat and sit on the hat; this plan being inconvenient we made a light lunch of the whole ration and spent the balance of the day telling of the fine dinners we would have when we reached home and the cruel war was over. I remember seeing a man kill an old black cat and cook it in a tin can picked up near the hospital kitchen. I was offered a share in the feast, but declined, as I drew the line at rats and cats, though I offered ten cents for a small piece of dog, and was unable to buy it, as the possessor said he had none to spare. During the first three months of our incarceration in Camp Morton, twenty-five per cent. of our men had died of the various prison diseases. Many would be picked up in a faint, or collapse from weakness and bowel disease, which they had no strength to combat from their long fast.
A traitor in Camp.I will not attempt to tell of the escapes and attempt to escape made during the summer, but will simply say that neither ditches nor guards would have prevented our gaining freedom, but for the traitors among us, who for an extra ration would give the officers information that frequently led to recapture, punishment, and sometimes death. Often the dungeon and extra starvation were resorted to in these cases until a promise was extorted not to renew the attempt to escape, The monotony of the summer months would be broken by the arrival of more poor unfortunates, and from them we would learn of battles fought and won by the South—if we had not already been apprised of the event by salutes fired and rockets sent up by our captors—all battles fought being celebrated as Union victories, whether lost or gained. Soon after our arrival we made the acquaintance of one Sergeant Baker, who, we learned, had the reputation of having shot a prisoner, and who seemed to us to be looking out for a chance to try his hand  again. Soon another poor fellow was added to his list, and shortly after he himself was missing, and the report reached us that he was dying—then that he was dead. A worthy companion of Sergeant Baker, John Pfeifer, a fine looking young man, was put in charge. The first distardly act of his that I saw was in the early fall of ‘64, when, with an axe-handle, he beat and knocked down six men for some trifling disobediance of orders. Three of them with arms broken and two with heads badly damaged went to the hospital for treatment.
A freezing bath.During the winter, when the thermometer was below zero, I saw this fiend strip a man and give him a bath in a tub of water, using a common broom to scrub him with, and this fiendish deed was repeated the second time. I heard that both men died, though I do not know it of my own knowledge. I saw the baths given. I saw this man shoot a prisoner under my bunk for being up after bed-time. The poor fellow was one of the improvident kind; had sold his blanket and coat and was trying to keep warm over a few coals in the stove, when Pfeifer came suddenly to the door of the barracks; the prisoner ran under the lower bunk of my bed, and, failing to respond promptly to the order to come out, was fired on, the ball entering his heel and coming out near the knee. This bullet, no doubt, saved his life, as he was sent to the hospital, where he received kind treatment. Without blankets he could not have survived the winter of ‘64 and ‘65. This brings me to that dreadful month of January, 1865, when we suffered most from the terrible cold. We were unable to remain outside but a few moments, as our clothing and shoes were thin and in rags, so were forced to trot round in circles on the mud floors of our pens, made soft by the snow brought in on the feet of the men. These trotting circles of men would last all day, new men taking the place of those dropping out from exhaustion. It was during this terrible weather we would be forced to remain in line at roll-call for two hours at a time, because some sergeant had miscounted his men, or some poor fellow would be found dead in his bunk and was overlooked. Many men were frozen in this way and were carried to the hospital, where but few recovered, though when once in the hands of the kind doctors and Confederate nurses they were sure of good attention and warm clothing.