Confederate Soldiers
of
Company D, 6th Texas Infantry
Buried at
Camp Butler National Cemetery
Springfield, Illinois

Wreaths Across America
December 2010 - 2014

Sponsored By
E. S. Rugeley Chapter 542
United Daughters of the Confederacy

They Never Left Camp Butler

A portion of the Confederate Section at Camp Butler with no wreaths.
Taken on Monday, December 13, 2010 by Jean Sharp who braved
13 degree weather to take the pictures for this page.
 

They Never Left Camp Butler
By Sue Hardy
J. B. Gordon # 339, UDC, Huntsville, Texas
 

I want to tell the story of Camp Butler.

You understand I saw it for myself.

No one paid attention to me

I could have been a knot on a shelf.

I had full run of the camp area

So I saw all there was to see.

There was cruelty for sure and certain

But that was not the worst enemy.

So many of these prisoners were just boys,

Probably not even shaving yet

But they had picked up that rifle to go to war

And getting caught, they paid the debt.

When they came in by rail car by hundreds

They were already a pitiful sight,

Ragged pants, torn shirts, no hats,

No shoes and no coats for the nights.

They began this adventure unwisely

Thinking war was just a game.

After the first battle with the death and blood,

Not a single man ever saw life the same.

Illinois is not a warm place to be

Especially as winter came on.

With only a thin blanket to wear

At night no one slept alone.

The boys from the Texas 6^th

Were surely not use to this cold.

Add to that the rain and the snow,

This could make the strongest man fold.

There were so many there was no housing.

They were put in tents in the field.

The winds and the rain would play havoc

Such misery made one which he’d been killed.

I watched as the boredom ate away

Any purpose they had in their lives.

And without a reason to fight to live,

One doesn’t.  He just quits and dies.

The greatest servant of death was disease

With pneumonia leading the rest.

But typhoid, small pox, and infection

Certainly tried to give it their best.

Five thousand or more came through here.

Five hundred eighty-eight remained behind.

Forever to lie in “foreign” soil

No longer bound by the “tie that binds”.

The “Flower of the South” lay broken.

An entire generation destroyed by war;

While all over the states were places like this

Where graves lined the earth like scars.

They had come to the defense of the Southland.

They had given all they could give.

They knew now what war was

That one must kill in order to live.

When those who survived walked away

Leaving this place as they silently grieved.

A part of themselves they left in that soil,

Comrades who  would never leave.

So, who am I who had such freedom?

Who saw so much that should be told?

Who am I that tried to bring comfort?

With a song so gentle yet bold?

I ride the wind in the early morn.

When they lay one down, I sing a dirge.

 I so wish I could restore hope in their hearts

But after all, I am only a bird.