A green, slimy, sluggish stream, bringing with it all the filth of the
sewers of Andersonville, a village three miles distant, flows directly
across the enclosure from east to west. Formerly, the only water fit to
drink came from a spring beyond the eastern wall, which flowing under it,
into the enclosure, emptied itself into the other stream, a few feet
within the dead line.
It did not suffice to satisfy the thirst of the thousands who must drink
or die, and the little corner where its waters could be reached was always
crowded, men pressing upon each other till often one or another would be
pushed against the dead line, shot by the guard, and the body left lying
till the next morning; even if it had fallen into the water beyond the
line, polluting the scant supply left for the living. But the cry of these
perishing ones had gone up into the ears of the merciful Father of us all,
and of late a spring of clear water bubbles up in their midst.
But powder and shot, famine, exposure (for the prisoners have no shelter,
except as they burrow in the earth), and malaria from that sluggish,
filthy stream, and the marshy ground on either side of it, are doing a
fearful work: every morning a wagon drawn by four mules is driven in, and
the corpses--scattered here and there to the number of from eighty-five to
a hundred--gathered up, tossed into it like sticks of wood, taken away and
thrown promiscuously into a hole dug for the purpose, and earth shoveled
over them.
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