Dr. Camden's Ordeal

May 16, 1863:

A Family in Prison

An Eyewitness Account by Dr. Thomas Bland Camden

from Civil War Times Illustrated

BRIGADIER GENERAL Benjamin Roberts, the Federal cavalry leader opposed to Jones and Imboden during their raid [CWTI, May 1964], impressed his superiors as being timid, easily stampeded, and generally ineffective. They transferred him out of western Virginia. Before he departed, Roberts took a sort of vengeance, for his own failure against Confederate armed forces, against the civilian Southern sympathizers in his district. One of those who, with his family, suffered from this action, was Thomas Bland Camden, M.D., of Weston, a town 25 miles south of Clarksburg. The following portion of Dr. Camden's unpublished memoirs, edited by William E. Parrish, Professor of History at Westminster College, Fulton, Missouri, tells of the calamity that befell the Camdens and their friends after the Confederates withdrew.

THE SOUTHERN forces remained quietly for a few days, arresting or molesting no one, and departed at their leisure. Again that ominous quiet settled on the town, a shadow of the storm that was soon to break upon us. We had not long to wait. Like a clap of thunder, the returning Federals came. I was just getting on my horse, with one foot in the stirrup, to go on a sick call, when I heard a yelling, like a band of Indians, and firing of pistols, and clash of sabers. I looked down the street and saw a troop of cavalry coming in full charge, with sabers drawn and firing right and left with pistols and yelling. My horse was a wild and spirited one, and I knew that he would bolt, if I mounted, and I would be a target for these braves and likely killed. I hurriedly brought him through my front gate, and back into the smoke house, where he remained as quiet as a mouse. I kept close until the clash of the mimic battle had somewhat subsided, viewing the charge from the window. The dash of the horses and firing could still be heard around town, as they pretended to be hunting for Southern soldiers, who they knew were miles and days away.

Gen. [Benjamin S.] Roberts and staff soon rode into town, a conquering hero! He took Dr. W. G. Bland's residence, where Mrs. Bland was alone, for his headquarters. He at once sent across the lines all who had relatives in the South, and Southern sympathizers to Camp Chase, Ohio. The good Union element must be separated from their Southern friends, neighbors, and even relatives. Yet the Federal authorities must have realized that the men, women, and children they were going to imprison had not, and could not, have influenced the Confederate forces in making the raid. On May 16 I received the following order:

Headquarters Indept. Brigade, Mid. Dept. Provost Marshal's Office, May 16, 1863

Sir:--I have the honor to notify you that you will be sent to Camp Chase May l9th, 1863. The charges against you are Treason against the Government of the United States. By order of Brig. Genl. B. S. Roberts. L. Markbrit, A. D. C. Pro. Marshal.

To T. B . Camden & Family:

The grown members of your family are included in this order and will be sent to Camp Chase.

This order was intended to include my two sisters, Amanda and Tillie, and John [a brother], and to exclude our children at first, but subsequently they were included, when I pled with Gen'l Roberts that the order might be modified on account of our sick one, a year-old child, Richie. He replied, "It would do him good to go"-so very considerate was he.

I HURRIED my sisters and John up to M. W. Harrison's (our relative) and they were overlooked, and escaped imprisonment. My wife and children, Jessie aged nearly seven, and Harry, not five, and Richard, aged one year, and myself were hastily gotten ready to go in two days. Soon after this order was received, two Dutch soldiers, who could not speak English, were placed in our doors with muskets, and the inevitable bayonets crossed, and we realized that we were prisoners indeed. We were notified that we had to leave our home and everything in it, in less than three days, to go to prison, in another state, not knowing that we would ever see our home or friends again.

Our youngest son Richard was quite sick with cholera infantum, and had to be cared for in my wife's arms. General Roberts had said it would do him good to go. I saw his surgeon, from whom, as a brother physician, I expected some consideration. But he replied, "A Rebel has no right to the air he breathes." Disheartened, I retired in disgust. Some of our lady friends who managed to pass the guard aided my wife in the quick preparations for leaving. I obtained permission to go out to make what collections and arrangements I could. I sold, for $148.00 in Confederate money, my nice horse that I had hidden in the smoke house, collected what I could for doctor bills, and drew what money I had in the bank. I took a draft on New York for $600; and ripped the lining of a velvet vest I wore, and sewed them in. I wore both boots and vest while I was in prison and away, throwing them around carelessly. I also had some gold and silver, weighing two or three pounds. My wife made a bag to tie around her waist, and she wore this weight all the time she was away, as there was no other safe place for it. Though we were not told where we might land, we knew the coin would be acceptable anywhere.

ON THE MORNING of the 19th an ambulance drove up for my wife and children. Large government road wagons were sent for the male prisoners, among whom were myself, A. A. Lewis, Father O'Conner, a Catholic priest, Jos. Darlinton, Irving ("Toke") Bailey, Rev. Clawson, Matthew W. Harrison, and John Morrow, who was so ill he had to go in an ambulance (he died at Camp Chase).

All were booked for Camp Chase as prisoners of war, men, women, and children, all charged with treason. Some 80 men were sent across the lines, many being separated from their wives and children. The train of ambulances and road wagons moved off amid tears and lamentations of the children and parents and friends of those who were left behind. It reminded us of the children of Israel going into captivity.

The roads during the war will ever be remembered for their deep mud holes and ruts and roughness, and they were at their worst from constant use and recent rains. In the ambulances the ladies and children were knocked from side to side and their heads bumped so that the children kept up a constant wail. The government wagons were worse and we had a lively time holding on. If the road had not been headed toward Camp Chase it might have been amusing to see these gymnastic exercises. 

THEY HALTED US at Lost Creek for rest and lunch. Some of the prisoners had brought food, and there was nothing else to be had. It was the most weird and solemn of "picnics," with guards and muskets on duty to watch. We were soon loaded in again and reached Clarksburg near night. The men were put in the Old Lurty House, a prison. My wife and children were permitted, by request of Caleb Boggess, a relative, to stay all night with them, and report next morning. I had one of my terrible sick headaches, brought on by the excitement, worry, and fasting, and could not eat that night. No blankets were provided and we slept on the bare floor, but fortunately for me, Father O'Conner's church friends brought him a blanket, and he very generously shared it with me. Next morning some Dutch soldiers came to the door where the guards were and threw in square chunks of uncooked army bacon. I don't know that any ate it. I did not. Fortunately for me again, Father O'Conner s friends brought him eggs, bread, and coffee, which he divided between us. I shall ever remember his kindness. We had often been called to attend the sick on Sand Fork, he for spiritual comfort, I for medical aid, and we had always been good friends. Now he was one in need.

Just before we formed in line to march to the train William Bragg, a Federal soldier, came to the door and handed me a small package, saying, "This is vaccine. You will be on the train with a smallpox case today, so vaccinate your family and friends," which I did. The case turned out to be one of measles, but they did not know it. I never forgot Bragg's kindness. Nine years afterwards, when I was elected Superintendent of the West Virginia Hospital for the Insane, I gave him the night watchman position, and he discharged his duties faithfully for years. Perhaps he never knew that he had been repaid for his little act of kindness.

WE WERE put on the train for Grafton, where we parted from our friends, who were sent across the lines. Then we were headed for Wheeling, arriving there early in the morning, and marched to the Atheneum Prison. My wife and children and other ladies were worn out after the night's ride on the train, for we had no sleepers. The car soot and dirt was thick on their faces. The officials took our description, height, age, color of eyes, hair, etc. I shall never forget the mortification and indignity my wife showed when they told her to step on the measuring machine to take her height. Tears ran down her soiled cheeks, washing away the soot, leaving streaks down her face like tattoo lines. They did not measure the children. I presume our ladies were the first female prisoners ever in the Atheneum, and as there were no female attendants to attend to the ladies' and children's needs, a guard had to perform that duty.

We found Judge G. W. Thompson of Wheeling, Mrs. J. N. Camden's [a sister-in-law] father, a prisoner there. When I started to step over a white line on the floor, he said, "Don't do that." I asked why. He said, "That is the dead line, and if you pass it, the guard will fire." Later I noticed a similar dead line at Camp Chase, some distance from the high fence. I did not pass [it] either. The judge gave us a can of peaches, saying, "You'll need them." I carried them to Camp Chase, and my wife and children enjoyed them in their prison a few days after we got there.

There was a large, well-built young fellow in prison, named Ball, from Ball's Bluff, Va., who was wearing a ball and chain to his leg. He expressed himself freely about the war and was bold and defiant. I did not learn why he wore his decorations. I heard afterward he escaped by jumping through a car window, when they were moving him to another prison.

IN THE AFTERNOON we were ordered to get ready to move to Camp Chase. The men were formed in line, each with his bundle, and we marched through the streets of Wheeling up to the suspension bridge and across the island to Bridgeport, Ohio, to take the train for Columbus. I remember how daintily A. A. Lewis walked, and how Uncle Joe Darlinton would grumble and say, "Dod blast 'em, Stonewall will pay them for this." Mat Harrison had a long stride and was a good walker. Rev. Clawson was older and took it slowly, until urged up. "Toke" Bailey carried his bundle with easy grace, but none of us enjoyed the tramp and publicity, as no doubt many onlookers thought we were convicts going to prison, and we did not present a prepossessing appearance. Father O'Conner had been released through Bishop Whalen's influence soon after he got to the Atheneum. The ladies and children and John Morrow, who was still quite ill, were sent over in ambulances.

The children were hungry, and I bought bologna sausage, the worst thing I could have done, as it made them very thirsty and the inhuman guards on the train would give them no water. I heard the children crying for a drink, but I was not permitted to be with them, and was in another coach. I started in to them, but the man with the gun said "No." I managed to buy some lemonade from the car boy and sent it in to them. Going through Ohio, we were very naturally objects of curiosity, especially to women and children, and I heard them ask at the station, "Well, what did these women do?" "Climbing telegraph poles and cutting the wires" was the answer. WE ARRIVED at Columbus near midnight. The women and children were marched through the streets, my wife carrying Richie, some of the ladies leading Jessie and Harry. Where they were housed that night they never knew, but they were much alarmed at having to march on foot through a strange city at midnight. The men were put in some kind of barracks, where they slept on the floor.

Next morning we were formed in line and took up the march for Camp Chase, four miles along a dusty road. It was hot and we became very thirsty. Wells and pumps were all along the road and we naturally stopped to drink, but the guards would not permit us to take a single drop, and would say, "Hurry up, hurry up!" with their bayonets dangerously near behind, as they ordered "Close up, close up." Uncle Joe Darlinton would whisper, "Never mind, Stonewall will pay 'em for this such inhuman treatment keenly.

We at last arrived at Camp Chase, where a large gate was opened and we were turned in like sheep (or goats) and our journey ended. The prison was a lot of an acre or two, enclosed by a 17-foot fence, with a parapet or walk near the top for the armed guards to walk their beat. There I saw another dead line to prevent anyone coming near the fence. There were rows of shanties for the prisoners to eat and sleep in. There were near 700 prisoners in the Bull Pen, as it was called. The shanties were provided with shelves or bunks, one above the other, to sleep in. I fortunately got next to a lower one, and a good mattress that Maj. Printiss of Louisville had brought when he was a prisoner. With some of his soldiers he had dug out under the fence and escaped. My wife and children and the other ladies and children, and John Morrow, who was still very ill, were brought out in ambulances from Columbus. The ladies and children were put in an enclosure-fenced prison similar to ours, about half a mile from ours. The only way I got to see them was when they called for volunteers to clean up the "women's prison." I was one of the first to volunteer and shoulder my broom and fall in line. I must confess to shirking and stacking my broom while there, and spending the time with my family. I saw them on two occasions, when not in the broom brigade, once when Richard was ill with croup, and once when Charley Darlinton accidentally threw lime in Harry's eyes, blinding him for a time, and I was sent for, to see him. When the ladies entered prison, they were given tin plates and cups to eat and drink out of. My wife has her plates yet, as souvenirs s. Capt. Sankey, who had charge of the ladies' prison, changed the tin later for white ware. They were furnished with corn shuck beds, with the end of the cob left in. Rats were in abundance, and of course the ladies had to jump and scream. The guards on the parapet were kind to Harry and Charley and threw them bullets; they had a pound or so when they left. Richard was too young to enjoy them, but he tells of his remarkable prison experience now, chiefly from a good imagination, as he was only a year old.

PRISON LIFE became very irksome and monotonous as day by day we wandered about the inclosures. Charley Harrison and others would crack a dry joke now and then. One day he said, "Boys, I came near being shot today." Of course we were much interested. "How?" we asked. "Well," said Charley, "I was just walking around not suspecting any danger, when I saw a fellow with his eye cocked on me, and if it had gone off, you see where I would have been?" Rev. Clawson listened with one eye closed and mouth wide open, and as he was so matter-of-fact, he did not take it in for some time.

Rev. Clawson preached now and then for us. He was called the "Wild Preacher" at home. He and his family were sent across the lines from Camp Chase, and I don't know their later history. When he left for the South, I bought from him a white cow running loose in Maxwell's field at home, "sight unseen." I gave him $45 in Confederate money, some I got from Maj. Bailey for my horse. I found the white cow after I got home, and that was all I saved from my horse.

We cooked our meals in turn; some enjoyed cooking more than I did, although I had often bragged at home of my art, to my wife. I could, however, make good strong black coffee, which was served in tin cups, with brown sugar and no milk. We thought it just the thing, and it was for us. I always shall remember the fried toast bread Toke Bailey made by frying slices of loaf bread until brown in the grease left from frying fat bacon. Rats were abundant and very large and burrowed in the ground and were good scavengers. 'Twas said they were good eating, but we did not investigate. We bought some things from the Quartermaster at the gate, when we got tired of the everyday "flitch" fare, and enjoyed anything to break the monotonous everyday fare. A few of us made rings out of gutta percha buttons, to pass the time. I could make fair ones. Some made them out of bone and some fire-eating southerners said they made theirs out of Yankee bones, but I doubted it. A prisoner by the name of Kuhl, from Steer Creek, Braxton County, who was suspected of being implicated in the murder of a Federal soldier, was there with ball and chain to his leg, which he could slip off and on as he pleased, as the guard came and went. He was adept at ring making and inlaying with silver. He made me one with T. B. C. in silver letters, inlaid, which I have yet.

THE HARDEST and most detestable thing I had to encounter were "graybacks," a large body louse that thrived and bred in war times on soldiers and prisoners. I had noticed prisoners off by themselves in secluded places, with their shirts pulled over in front, examining very carefully the seams, and then going through a dexterous motion with the thumbs. I soon learned they were on a hunt for graybacks that would forage and then hide in the seams of the clothing. The first one I saw was hanging to Toke Bailey's ear, a big one, that made a good pendant. He was holding on with his teeth and legs, and as he could not recover himself, but hung on, I studied him. He was gray with a dark streak down his spine. They told me only smashing, or boiling water or fire would kill them, and as the usual Confederate and other prisoners had but one shirt, smashing was the usual mode of death. It never entered my mind that I would form an eating acquaintance with them, but one day I got "a bite," and oh! horrors, it was one. I shall never forget my feelings, when I thought of having to pasture these things on me. I thought of them day and night, I do not know why I did so, but I carved a likeness of one out of bone and made a stick pin of it, which I have yet. Perhaps the incentive was something like the children of Israel when they raised a brazen image to look upon, when they were bitten by fiery pests, and I had a grim consolation in having one that could not bite. I think General Sherman had been attacked and was scratching when he exclaimed, "War is hell."

I can see now my friend, A. A. Lewis, sitting in his bunk, scanning his wardrobe. He was adept at catching fleas. It is told that he was fishing in Webster County and they gave him a bag of flaxseed for a pillow and by the moonlight he took the seed as they sifted out, for fleas, and had a goodly number on the window sill next morning. But these gray pests were too sly for him and I think they had much to do in bringing about his physical and mental condition, which lasted for months after he was released. Someone said fleas and bedbugs were a luxury compared to graybacks.

Poor John Morrow wanted me to attend him at the hospital as I had at home, but the authorities would not let me. I visited him daily and saw that he was going down. The hospital was an up-and-down board shanty, like our quarters, with no conveniences and no regular nurses, only prisoners, who were assigned to look after the sick. There was no special diet for the sick. I visited him one morning, and said, "How did you rest last night?" He replied, in his half laughing way, "They rode me all night and through the briars too." I said, "Oh, that was a bad dream. Who rode you?" "The witches, just look at my legs. See how the briars scratched them." He showed me his legs, all scratched and peppered from vermin, lice, fleas, and bedbugs; he could not fight them of. My heart went out to him and in consultation with our friends we thought it best to telegraph his wife, and she came and got permission to take him out. She took him to Columbus, where he died.

Old man Day, from Buckhannon, was in the hospital, and asked me to take his fine gold watch and send it to his family if I ever got out, as it would certainly be stolen. I did not care to take the responsibility as I did not know where I would land, and refused. In a day or so, he said, "It's gone, sure enough." He died soon after.

WHEN ANYONE was taken out of the prison, his name was called at the gate by an orderly. I waited day after day listening for mine, and on the 17th of June I heard my name called. I was marched to headquarters where I found my wife and children, and were told that our release was ordered, when we took the oath. The commandant read them to us; mine had the penalty of death attached and "conditioned to remain in the State of Ohio during the war, unless the Executive of West Va. gave him permission to return." My wife's oath was the same, except the death penalty, and she was not paroled to the State of Ohio. I demurred, as I had been captured and sworn by General Jenkins [during a Confederate raid on Weston in 1861], "not to take up arms against the Confederate States." He replied, "All right, I will send you back into prison." I said, "No, I will swear to anything first."

We did not get out of prison any too soon, for I was taking camp fever, and I am sure if I had ever gone to the prison barn hospital, I would never have gotten out alive, as few did who entered there. Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Darlinton were released when we were, and as Mr. Darlinton had relatives at Zanesville, Ohio, we went there with them. I was sick there for nearly a month. Richie broke out with measles on the train that day, and it was fortunate for my wife and him that they were out of prison. A. A. Lewis was released in a few days and came to us, and was at Zanesville some time. Prison life, the confinement, and food and vermin had affected him physically and mentally.

WHEN WE GOT to Zanesville, we did not know how we would be received if they knew we were just out of prison, so we told Jessie and Harry not to tell where we were from. A young clerk in a drygoods store boarded at the same house, and he was fond of Jessie, and tried to quiz her, but she evaded and at last said, in desperation, "Oh, from some old bad place.

After I got well enough, we concluded to go to Bridgeport, opposite Wheeling, to see what was best to do. Mr. and Mrs. Darlinton and son Charley went with us. We hired a team there and as my wife was not paroled to Ohio, she went to Wheeling to see Gov. Boreman. She returned with P. M. Hale of Westoll, the member of the legislature from Lewis County. He said, "Jump in, jump in." I said I was not permitted to cross the Ohio River and was barred from West Va. He said, "That's all right, I have authority." We went over and saw Gov. Boreman. He gave us a lecture about how we should conduct ourselves and gave me a pass to Weston, with the provision in it that I should give bond in $1,000 with good security, that I would be good.

We got home and found that Mrs. Dunlop, Mrs. Darlinton's sister, had kept our home in good condition, and felt happy that we were home again, although my wife's health was broken by the imprisonment, and the care of the children and the worry and work. She had an attack of jaundice and did not become strong for two years, due to the physical and mental strain of her terrible experience.

We were well received by every one, and all parties, friends, and acquaintances, and the persons who were instrumental in sending us to prison, all greeted us warmly. We had learned that several petitions had been signed by all parties and classes for our release and sent to the War Department and to Gov. Boreman, and this fact was very gratifying to us, and tended to soften the wounds and scars that had been caused by the cruel treatment we had undergone, and showed that the unnatural passions and hatred and malice had been replaced by a more natural feeling, and nearly all of those who were active in sending us to prison, showed by their actions that they regretted what they had done.

Editor's note: Shortly after his return to Weston, Dr. Camden was requested to take the position of post surgeon there by the Federal forces stationed in the town. He accepted, as "it would give me position, security, and protection with the officials and be superior to the rabid Union element, who had sent us away ."

Civil War Times Illustrated, November 1964

pages 16-22

THE ABINGDON VIRGINIAN, June 5, 1863, describing the actions of Gen. Roberts (U.S.)