A few months later, Atwater returned to Andersonville with Civil War nurse Clara Barton. The death register he retained enabled them to properly mark the graves. Today, long straight lines of stone tombstones with soldiers' names etched into them stand as silent witnesses to their work. Due to Atwater's efforts, only a small number are marked "Unknown."
The word Andersonville was dreaded by captured soldiers as it grew into the largest Confederate POW camp. Of the 45,000 Union troops held captive, almost a third died of disease, starvation, and exposure.
The prisoners were packed behind walls hewn from tree trunks into a 16-acre compound; crammed in so tightly that their population exceeded that of the entire surrounding county today. A stream misnamed Sweetwater Creek flowing through the property was supposed to supply all drinking and sanitation needs. However, its location downstream from the Confederate guards' camp made it a foul source of water and led to much of the misery.
The former internal boundaries of the prison, called the "deadline," are marked off with white wooden stakes so a visitor can visualize the camp limits. Parts of the original stockade have been rebuilt to complete the effect. A self-guided walking tour along the perimeter reveals the relatively small size of the camp for so many people. On a stifling summer day it's not difficult to imagine the effects of the scorching Georgia sun on the exposed prisoners.
After the war, in the first example of a war-crimes trial, camp commandant Henry Wirz was prosecuted for his role and hanged. In a sign of the often confusing legacy of the Civil War, a monument to him was erected in the village of Andersonville by the United Daughters of the Confederacy, where it still stands.
Besides focusing on its Civil War legacy, the Andersonville National Historic Site contains the National Prisoner of War Museum, the only national park that serves as a memorial to all American prisoners of war.
In it, the story of life at Andersonville is told along with those of POWs from all of America's conflicts. The entrance to the museum shuffles visitors into a blackened room; loud noises, gunshots, and shouting in indecipherable languages simulate the confusing moment of capture for a soldier.
Display cases present artifacts created by POWs in captivity, including homemade crystal radios to surreptitiously receive news. Videos of families left behind effectively convey the uncertainties of knowing a loved one is in a POW camp. These are interspersed with the memories of former POWs who tell of missing Christmas or escorting their daughter down the aisle at her wedding.
Further displays branch out to other detainees, including U-2 pilot Francis Gary Powers and the Americans held hostage in Iran in the late 1970s.
After the Civil War ended, Dorence Atwater initially tried to make his list available to the families of the deceased. The military claimed it as government property and when he attempted to publicize it on his own, he sank into murky legal and political waters. He was court-martialed and sentenced to hard labor. At Clara Barton's urging he was pardoned by President Andrew Johnson and, at the ripe age of 23, given a diplomatic posting to the Seychelles.
Atwater eventually settled in Tahiti, where he married a local princess and became a successful businessman. The original of his death register, which he fought the government so hard to hold onto, was destroyed at his home in San Francisco in the 1906 earthquake.
But his legacy lives on in the form of 13,000 stone markers on hallowed ground in Georgia.
IF YOU GO
Andersonville National Historic Site, 496 Cemetery Rd., Andersonville, Ga. 31711.
Park grounds open 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. National Prisoner of War Museum open 9 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. year-round. Both closed Thanksgiving Day, Christmas, and New Year's Day.
229-924-0343 or www.nps.gov/ande/.
Michael Milne sold everything and has been a global nomad for two years. You can follow his journey at www.ChangesInLongitude.com.