Prison Camps Of The Civil War  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. To this major Captain Wirz turned, extended
his hand, and offered his pardon for the thing which the Federal
major, detailed to take charge of a hanging squad, was about to
do.  “I know what orders are, Major,” said Captain Wirz. “I am
being hung for obeying them.”  The two men shook hands and drew
apart. The drop was sprung, Captain Wirz dangled briefly at the
end of a rope, died, and the thing was over. And across the
northern part of the