Prison Camps Of The Civil War

Andersonville was merely the worst of a bad lot; North and South alike, they were more lethal than shot and shell

On the tenth day of November, 1865, a pale, black-whiskered little man named Henry Wirz, a used-up captain in the used-up army of the late Confederate States of America, walked through a door in the Old Capitol Prison at Washington, climbed thirteen wooden steps, and stood under the heavy crossbeam of a scaffold, a greased noose about his neck. On the platform with him—with him, but separated from him by the immense gap which sets apart those who are going to live from those who are about to die—there was a starchy major in the Federal Army.