‘Every fifteen or twenty minutes we could see the smoke and hear the explosions of “Foster's messengers,” —two hundredpound shells. They told us of the untiring perseverance of our forces on Morris Island. So correct was their aim, so well did the gunners know our whereabouts, that shells burst all around, in front, and often fell, screeching, overhead, without injury to us. When the distant rumbling of the Swamp, Angel was heard, and the cry, “Here it comes,” resounded through the prison-house, there was a general stir: sleepers sprang to their feet; conversation was hushed; and all started to see where the messengers would fall. . . . The sight at night was truly beautiful. We traced through the sky a slight stream of fire similar to the tail of a comet, followed its course, until “whiz! whiz!” came the little pieces like grape-shot.’
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