their colonel, are entitled to their parole.’
And I called up the colonel, a gentleman named Saunders
, I think, and put him in communication with the officer of the guard.
The upshot of the affair was, that my guard produced pen and paper and made me state the case to General Meade
, I think it was directed to him, at least, and forwarded by a mounted orderly, and in a few hours, we all standing in the meantime in line in the rain, there came an order for eighty-four of us to be sent back to Appomattox Courthouse, and to report to General Bartlett
, a Federal officer of distinction, and a gentleman.
He, after the war, settled in Richmond
, and made many friends during the few years of his life in the South
I think he finally died of wounds received in action.
We were conducted under guard, through the dark and rain, several miles back in the direction of the Courthouse
, and reached General Bartlett
's command about 9 o'clock P. M.
He sent for Colonel Saunders
and myself to be brought into his tent, and, after some kind talk, gave direction for us to be carried to the picket lines and released, instructing us to report to General F——, of Texas
, who would parole us. According to the terms of the surrender, the Confederate
generals were required to parole the men of their respective commands on paroles which had been printed by the Federal
authorities, and which bore the impress of that fact.
We were accordingly taken to the picket lines, which seemed to be somewhere in or about the small village, in a kind of blacksmith shop, where we were halted.
Our conductor gave the countersign, and the pickets passed us, our guards released us, and directed us, with a ‘good-bye, Johnnie,’ down the road in the direction of our lines, in the dark and in the rain, about 10 or 11 o'clock P. M., with about as much idea of where our lines were, or where General F——was, as any other stranger, in a strange country in the dark, with nobody to enquire of, could be expected to have.
Whatever became of Colonel Saunders
and his men, I know not— I never saw them again.
Our little party struck out ‘down the road,’ but soon left it, to try and find shelter and somewhere to halt until daylight.
We soon came to a small two-story house, with a light in a window, and going up knocked at the door, and asked to be permitted to enter and remain all night, if only in the hall.
Some man came to the door, but refused to open it, and, saying that the house was already full of wounded, told us that we could not get in and to move on (a man who said to you ‘move on’ just about that