After weary months in
Washington, during which time I was shown many kindnesses and attentions from Southern sympathizers, I was carried to Fort Delaware prison.
After a lapse of some time I was drawn in with the lot of six hundred officers to be carried to ‘
Morris Island,’ to be placed under the fire of our own guns at
Charleston.
We were crowded into the dark hole of the vessel, only equalled by the ‘Black Hole of
Calcutta,’ and packed on shelves like goods in a store, without any light or air, except that driven down a shaft by wind-sails.
On our arrival at our destination we were put in a ‘stockade pen,’ between ‘
Fort Wagner and Fort Gregg,’ and guarded by a negro regiment.
For forty-five days we sat upon the sands and witnessed the burning fuses from bombs larger than nail kegs continuously fired night and day by our men at the forts.
If they overshot the one or undershot the other they'd hit us. But that God that marks even the sparrow's fall, protected us. On the eve
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of our leaving for ‘
Hilton Head,’ the negroes on guard fired into some of us. I saw three fall either killed or wounded; they were hurriedly moved out. I never learned their fate.
On our arrival in ‘Port Royal Harbor,’ we cast anchor eight miles out from shore.
Three of our number got the cabin maid to steal them life preservers from the cabins and quietly slided overboard where sharks were as thick as minnows.
Two were exausted from thirst and lack of food and were captured on Pinkney Island, the third reached
Charleston.
The six hundred officers were now divided—three hundred were confined in
Fort Pulaski and three hundred at
Hilton Head,
