CAMP DOUGLAS, ILLINOIS
 
(A Civil War Prison)

  Arriving late in the evening, 

  In chains, their bones, dead tired. 

  As the horror of the last few weeks, 

  Echoed every shot that was fired.

 

  The muddy water of the river, 

  Lapped gently against the boat. 

  As men lay on the slick, wet deck, 

  In pain; no cover or coat.  

 

  A mist was rising from the river, 

  Then a shout, to fall in, line up. 

  Struggling feet found the gang plank, 

  As the shallow moon was just coming up.  

 

  Then the shuffle of bare legs and feet, 

  Stood proud; still showing their pride, 

  Though wounded of spirit and body, 

  They were able to cast them aside.  

 

  Standing tall for what they believed in, 

  One held up a mangled old flag. 

  It had been through all the battles, 

  They couldn't see, it was now just a rag.  

 

  Looming in the shadows, 

  The trees still bare of leaves. 

  The moon was pale, due to the mist, 

  Tree stumps became enemies.  

 

  The day was finally over, 

  Seems it lasted a hundred years. 

  For these few, the war was over, 

  Yet, a new battle was ever near.  

 

  A great battle of wit and will,.  

  To keep body and spirit alive 

  Inside these crowded prison walls, 

  Thousands would not survive.  

 

  They traded one for another, 

  A battle now, to stay alive. 

  The cold, the hunger, the illnesses, 

  However would they survive?  

 

  Summer moved on so quickly, 

  As leaves began to change. 

  The days became much shorter, 

  The weather acted strange.  

 

  Why, it snowed before November! 

  T'was so different from Tennessee. 

  The men began to wonder,  

  Is there no way for us to flee?  

 

  Alas! That was impossible, 

  They soon came to realize. 

  Their bodies growing weaker, 

  And shrinking daily in size.  

 

  "Oh, If I could just get back home! 

  They'd kill the fatted calf. 

  It ain't nothing like it is up here." 

  He said, as he tore his corn pone in half.  

 

  "And I'd have shoes made of leather, 

  And britches of the finest wool, 

  A shirt of homespun linen, 

  And my belly would be full."  

 

  He then laid down on his blanket, 

  A glow came to his eyes. 

  And in his last recollections of home, 

  His body let go and he dies.  

 

  So sad is this war story, 

  Of kin against own kin. 

  For those who died in horror, 

  Only then, did the war end.  

 

  The ones who lived to tell of it, 

  Lived with the war all their lives. 

  How could they erase the memories, 

  Of how they managed to survive?  

 

   It's often said, "War is Hell," 

  But prison life is worse. 

  And with that final breath of life, 

  Is written war's last verse. 

   Jay Cee ~ ~ ©    

  February 20, 2003

 

   This was written for the grandfather, I never knew,   but who lived to tell of the war and of this prison.

Jay Cee

 

  

 

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Let Us Pray Our For Troops In Foreign Lands

The Civil War in Morgan County 2003

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