Category: Family History

That September day one hundred twenty-five years ago, Doctor Bezalell Bell Andrews arrived to make a special delivery. The next morning the Knapps welcomed another baby boy into the family. Dr. Andrews handed the baby boy to his mother and said, “Bee Bell. That’s his name, named after me. When he gets bigger, I’ll give him my silver watch.” The baby’s father wanted to name him Jack, but his mother said, “The doctor has already named him. He’s Bee Bell!” The Knapp family moved from Nebraska before little Bee was old enough to carry the promised watch, but he did carry the name with him all of his life. That in itself was a tremendous gift and extraordinary honor.

Bezalell Bell Andrews, commonly known as B. Bell Andrews, was no ordinary man. His patients and community knew him as a respected physician and surgeon. He practiced medicine, which included homeopathy, in Stella, Nebraska for a number of years. His wife was also a doctor. But there was more to Dr. B. Bell Andrews. More than thirty years before the delivery of a baby boy on that 29^th day of September, 1896, Bezalell Bell Andrews was a prisoner of war. 

While serving with Co L 17^th Illinois Cavalry, Andrews was captured at Jonesville, Virginia on January 3, 1864, and sent to Belle Isle, Richmond, Virginia. In February, the prisoners on Belle Isle were moved to Andersonville, Georgia. It is said, “The men who left Belle Isle were dirty, poorly clothed, and almost all of them weighed less than 100 pounds.”

Upon arrival at Andersonville, Andrews (aka Lale) was taken into a building where his chum, John McElroy (aka Mc), saw him. That may well have been the salvation of both of the teenage boys who were thrown into manhood in one fell swoop. McElroy, who became a journalist and author, later wrote of their experiences at Andersonville as well as the other camps to which they were moved before being released.

McElroy told of his initial arrival at Andersonville, “Five hundred weary men moved along slowly through double lines of guards. Five hundred men marched silently towards the gates that were to shut out life and hope from most of them forever. A quarter of a mile from the railroad we came to a massive palisade of great squared logs standing upright in the ground. The fires blazed up and showed us a section of these, and two massive wooden gates, with heavy iron hinges and bolts. They swung open as we stood there and we passed through into the space beyond.  We were in Andersonville.”

The two friends stayed together and managed to gather a few items including a couple of tin pans, a few pieces of lumber to construct a shelter, a few onions and collards from a garden on the side of the road, and a few garments stripped from the dead. They shared a coat and a blanket, huddling together for warmth.

One of their prized possessions was a crudely made chess set. Here is McElvoy’s account, “My chum, Andrews, and I constructed a set of chessmen with an infinite deal of trouble. We found a soft, white root in the swamp which answered our purpose. A boy near us had a tolerably sharp pocket-knife, for the use of which a couple of hours each day, we gave a few spoonfuls of meal. The knife was the only one among a large number of prisoners, as the Rebel guards had an affection for that style of cutlery, which led them to search incoming prisoners, very closely. The fortunate owner of this derived quite a little income of meal by shrewdly loaning it to his knifeless comrades. The shapes that we made for pieces and pawns were necessarily very rude, but they were sufficiently distinct for identification. We blackened one set with pitch pine soot, found a piece of plank that would answer for a board and purchased it from its possessor for part of a ration of meal, and so were fitted out with what served until our release to distract our attention from much of the surrounding misery.”

Whenever they were moved, they would gather up their crudely carved primitive chess pieces and board and wrap it up in a holey blanket as if it was the grandest and only possession in the world, pushing their way to the forefront. They wanted to be the first load of prisoners to be moved, hoping with the hope of a futile promise of being exchanged for Southern prisoners. They were human pawns in their own game of chess, using their honed wits and strategy to survive.

It is said that “War is Hell.” In this hell, teenage boys were forged into men. Here, a name was made, but Bezalell Bell Andrews was more than a mere name, it spoke of character, endurance, and determination.

Not only does history touch each of us in some way, but it is in our history that names are made and character is fashioned. The little boy named Bee Bell, born that fall day in September 1896, became my grandfather. He carried his name well, for he too was a man of honorable character with a heart of compassion.

https://avalon.law.yale.edu/19th_century/ander.asp
You can read a portion of John McElvoy’s interesting account of the survival of these two friends and the conditions they survived.

On the way to take my son to school one day, we were talking about learning a new language. I told him it was easier to learn a language at a young age. He was quiet for a minute then said, “I guess it’s harder for older people to learn a new language because their brain is already full.” 

Though Daddy’s brain contained lots of data, he was still a master at remembering people. When he met someone, he somehow made a connection with them. Later he not only knew the person’s name, but he also knew about the family, where they were from, who they were related to, and various other bits of information. 

As Daddy aged, he remarked that he just couldn’t remember like he used to. Even with his short-term memory loss, as he called it, his memory was better than almost anyone I knew. It distressed him whenever he forgot someone’s name. Usually later that day or the next, he would randomly call out the person’s name and was very pleased with himself. He had no problem remembering stories from his childhood. His tales included dates, names of people and places, and history. He was always coming up with songs from school days or from his time in the war. Somehow, he sifted through all the files of information in his head and pulled out the right one.

One day when he was discouraged because of a memory lapse, he asked why he could remember things from years ago but not from earlier that day. I told him his brain was getting full. His old memories connected to the roots of time were deeply embedded. He had drawn them from his memory bank for so many years, they were always fresh. The latest happenings of his life lay in a shallow layer on the top of his database. Kind of like dust on a table, or a thin layer of snow on a sunny day, they were easily melted and wiped away. 

I loved hearing his old tales over and over again. It seemed each time, he found another nugget to add to his story. By retelling events of his childhood, he kept his mind active. He spoke bits and pieces of several other languages and would often answer a question in one of those languages. My great aunt took a language course in her later years and Daddy kept his German books handy so he could refresh those things he had learned. But his greatest language was one we should all try to learn at any age – it was the language of love and acceptance for others.

My mother was almost deaf, in fact, according to the charts, she was legally deaf. Sometimes it was very difficult to communicate with her. I’m afraid to say that many times she was ignored. She often felt alienated because she missed so much of the conversation. Her lack of hearing really hit me when the grandkids were small. I told her one day, “I’m so sorry that you can’t hear that sweet little voice.” How sad to not hear those little sounds we all take for granted – a chirping bird, a child’s soft song, or a little voice saying, “I love you.”

She and Daddy had their own way to talk to one another. They made up their own method of sign language. Someone came up with the idea for us to take a sign language class. Daddy, Mama, my daughter, husband, and I signed up. We went to the Technical School and took the course for American Sign Language. 

After we completed the course, we tried to put the language into action. I will admit that I didn’t use it as much as I should have, so most of that has left me now. Mama and Daddy used it, but Daddy’s sign language was much like his writing – sloppy. They managed though Daddy added his own quirky signs for various things.

Fifteen years ago, Mama and Daddy were in a serious car accident, one that claimed the life of my mother. Mama was flown to a hospital that had a trauma unit. After she was situated, I went in to visit her. They had her arms strapped down but she could move her hands. I noticed her making some kind of motion with her hands. Immediately I called for my daughter to come in. She was faster at reading sign than me. Mama was saying, “I hurt.” She signed letters and words so we were able to at least have some idea of how to help her. The nurse came in and I explained the reason she was moving her arms was not because she was a bad patient, but because it was her only way to communicate. I also told the nurse that she was hard of hearing. If they wanted her cooperation, they should all speak loudly, clearly, and in front of her face where she could watch their mouths move. Then, she would be compliant. I asked if there was anyone available on the nursing staff who knew sign language. There was none. A friend of the family who knew sign language fluently came to our aid and was able to help translate messages. We felt that at least gave Mama a bit of comfort during those last moments.

After her death, Daddy insisted I write letters to some of the universities with well know nursing programs, one being the University of Georgia. In the letters, I relayed to them to situation Mama and the family faced, suggesting that basic sign language be part of their curriculum. It would be easy enough to have a chart of basic signs posted in the rooms so patients could voice their needs. Of all sections of the hospitals, the trauma units and ICUs have patients that cannot speak because of tubes and other obstructions. If you’ve ever been in a foreign country where you are the only one speaking your language, it can be a bit frightening. What if you were deaf and there was no one to communicate with you, especially if you had an urgent need? I never received a response from any of my letters, but hopefully, someone took it to heart and maybe, just somewhere, there is a nurse who learned the language of sign.