Let us now return to the little band of prisoners in that woody ravine. As soon as the surrender had been consummated the men threw away their guns, many of them with the cartridges, into a rivulet near the intrenchments, and some cut up their equipments, determined to afford as little aid and comfort to the rebels as possible. Our newly-made acquaintances exhibited a most remarkable penchant for cutlery and other conveniences Yankees are always supposed to have in their possession. One of the rebel skirmishers had hardly lowered his gun from an aim, when he walked up to one of our men and said: “Have you got a knife to sell?” “No;” and somewhat abashed, he went off to try his luck in a more promising field. We were now ordered to fall in, and a part were marched up the road to General Lee’s headquarters, where the rebels took away our knapsacks, rubber blankets, shelter-tents, and canteens, and registered our names. Quite a crowd of butternuts assembled to view the “Yanks” and prosecute their schemes of trade.
While we were near headquarters, a General of high rank rode up, unattended by his staff, and was received
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 among his soldiers with a style of cheering or yelling peculiar to themselves. The rebel chief seemed lost in deep thought, scarcely noticing the squad of prisoners or the cheers of his men. The signs of care were strongly marked upon his iron countenance. Clad in simple garb, with no prominent badge of distinction, calm and determined in demeanor, stood before us the commander of the Army of Northern Virginia, the military pillar of the rebellion. The General hurriedly retired into his quarters, and our attention was attracted by a motley array of rebel soldiery marching up the road. Could we have forgotten the stern realities of our situation, we might well have regarded the display as a military burlesque. On a closer inspection, we found the butternut phalanx to be composed of tall, lank specimens of “poor white trash,” with hats slouched in the most approved style, and knapsacks of every conceivable variety. The officers were, many of them, equipped with swords of a most ancient description, which had already filled a term of service in the olden time. Here is a man with a very good blanket, and we soon see the letters U.S. displayed under the folds, while on another back is strapped an old piece of carpet. A more dirty, seedy, ill-favored, border-ruffian, ignorant set of men we had never met before, and this is just the material for an efficient army, marshalled in defence of treason and slavery.
The preparations were now completed, and under a strong guard we started off for Spottsylvania Court-House. The roads were full of Confederate wounded, moving to the rear. Our route crossed a section of the battle-field, but all was now quiet; only splintered trees and lines of breastworks told of the fierce conflicts of the last few days. At dusk we entered the now historic
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 town of Spottsylvania, and passed the night within the inclosure of the Court-House. A portion of the regiment remained in the vicinity of the battle ground, and did not reach the village until the following afternoon. On the morning of May fourth we resumed our march for Guinea’s Station, a small hamlet on the Richmond and Fredericksburg railroad, important as a dépôt of supplies for Lee’s army. Here seemed to be the general rendezvous of prisoners, and fifteen hundred had already been assembled previous to our arrival. Near the station was the house where Stonewall Jackson lay wounded and afterward died, an event which clothed the whole Confederacy in mourning. Our stay at Guinea’s Station was prolonged until Thursday, May seventh—three days of misery, hardly paralleled in any of the experiences of the whole nine months’ campaign. Tuesday dawned upon us intensely hot. The broiling rays of the sun seemed to concentrate upon the large open lot occupied by the union prisoners, unrelieved even by a solitary tree. Later in the day a terrific thunder shower burst upon us, passing at length into a settled storm, bitterly raw and cold, continuing all night and the next day at short intervals. The rain poured in torrents, flowing in streams across the lot. A ludicrous sight, indeed, were the nearly two thousand shelterless men, emphatically squatter sovereigns, scattered about over the field in speechless resignation, drenched through and through in the pelting storm.
Thus far we had subsisted on the scanty remains of Uncle Sam’s rations. “What a fall was there!” when we descended from Joe Hooker’s generous hospitality to the frugal fare doled out to us by the rebel commissary. A brief residence at one of Jeff.’s hotels is an infallible
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 remedy for all who are disposed to grumble at army food. The order is given, “Fall in for rations!” We had almost concluded that this order would never again greet our ears until we should once more stand under the flag of the union. Immediately our thoughts recurred to camp near Falmouth, and in imagination floated visions of beef, pork, hard-tack, fresh bread—in fact, Uncle Sam’s army ration loomed up in bolder relief than ever before. In silent suspense we advance and receive—three pints of flour apiece. The inquiry arose, What shall we do with it? Our extremely limited culinary facilities soon settled that question. There was but one alternative, and the men immediately built little fires and were busily engaged in cooking up a bill of fare for the march to Richmond, said bill of fare consisting simply of flour and water mixed together and dried before the fire. A New-England farmer would regard it as a personal insult if one should offer such stuff to his hogs. Even a swill-carrier would indignantly protest.
Many suggestive sights fed our curiosity. Processions of trains were constantly coming and going from the station, transporting supplies for Lee’s army. Shabby army wagons—regular Noah’s arks mounted on wheels—horses and mules reduced to mere skin and bone—every thing foreshadowed the ruin of the Confederacy. Thursday morning, May seventh, we began the march for Richmond, escorted by the Twelfth South Carolina. The roads were in an awful condition, in consequence of recent rains. On the route we passed through Bowling Green, a few miles east of the railroad, and by evening reached Milford Station. Just beyond the village we were obliged to wade the Mattapony river, and halted for the night in a forest near by. After a toilsome
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 march, we bivouacked, on Friday evening, a short distance beyond Hanover Station. At this place each man received five medium-sized crackers and an ounce of bacon. Our guards were very incommunicative, but occasionally sung out, “Git in yer groups of fours dar!” or ventured an “I reckon,” or a “right smart.”
May ninth seemed to concentrate and intensify all previous discomforts. The day was exceedingly hot, and our route lay through a succession of vile swamps, skirting the Pamunkey and Chickahominy rivers, and extending to within four or five miles of Richmond. Here the ground is somewhat higher, and pleasant villas nestle among the trees, now just assuming the verdure of spring. As we passed one of these residences, the proprietor—an old gentleman—and the women turned out en masse to view the procession. No doubt we did present a rather sorry plight; at any rate, these high-bred F. F. V.’s laughed exultingly, and were loud and profuse in their remarks, complimentary to Yankees in general and us in particular. “Oh! well, you have got to Richmond now!” screeched out one of them with all the impotent ire she could muster. “Next time we are coming with guns,” was the reply. “Yes, yes,” chimed in the old man, “we saw a lot of you fellows last summer over there,” pointing with his cane in the direction of McClellan’s achievements in the Chickahominy swamps. Thus a running fire of words was kept up all along the line.
We could now see in the distance the spires of the rebel capital. Just outside the city, lines of earthworks, with here and there a frowning cannon, commanded the road. Our flattering reception thus far in the villages along the route from Guinea’s Station led us to expect even greater demonstrations from the Richmond populace.
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 As we entered the city, it seemed as if all Richmond had turned out to view the Yankee parade. The streets in the suburbs were full of people—men, women, and children, whites, negroes, mulattoes—all in one confused crowd, and swayed for the most part with clamorous exultation; while “her beauty and her chivalry,” arm in arm, gloated over the scene with a kind of fiendish delight. One old woman, raising her arms in blank astonishment, screamed out: “Why, all Hooker’s army is coming!” We thought to ourselves, she is about right; Hooker’s army will be here one of these days, and with guns too. “What have you come down here for?” demanded one, whose very countenance flashed vengeance. “Oh! we are only Hooker’s advance guard, come down to act as pall-bearers at Stonewall Jackson’s funeral,” some one quietly replied. In his rage he answered: “If you were not a prisoner, I’d shoot you down.” “You’ve got to Richmond in a way you didn’t expect.” “See these Yanks; there’s hardly an honest face among ’em all.” “What a hang-dog look!” These, and many other expressions, of all degrees of refinement, were launched at us. It really seemed as if the chivalry had studied for this very occasion some vocabulary of Billingsgate, and practiced it beforehand, so as to get it off in the most approved style of grimace and tone. Although Richmond was the Sodom and Gomorrah of treason, and the concentrated essence of rebel villainy and venom, we were not left entirely to this dark view of the picture. While we stood in the street, just before entering Jeff.’s hotel, a German woman, in the kindness and, I believe, loyalty of her heart, came hurriedly out from a neighboring house with a large loaf of cake, and divided it up among the eager men. She then went
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 back, but soon returned, laden with a lot of bread, which she distributed in like manner. Several other instances of similar character occurred, like flashes of golden sunlight in a dark and lowering sky.
Wearied by the day’s march and its exciting scenes, and exhausted through want of food, most of the men were now ushered into a tobacco factory belonging to Crew and Pemberton, and situated on Carey street, opposite the infamous Libby prison, of which it is a counterpart. More than a thousand men were stowed away in Crew and Pemberton’s factory, an average of nearly three hundred in each story. Two hundred and eighty-nine, including the larger part of the Twenty-seventh, occupied the upper loft, and when all reclined upon the floor almost every square foot was covered. Many were so thoroughly exhausted as to be unable to drag themselves up-stairs without assistance from their comrades. Also, Belle Island welcomed a small number to its sands and wild onions. Forty or fifty of the men were assigned to Libby prison, where were already quartered the commissioned officers of the Twenty-seventh. The latter had arrived in Richmond a day or two previous, after a journey in crowded cars from Guinea’s Station. The people residing in the vicinity of the route seemed in a perfect ferment of vindictive excitement, and gathered here and there in boisterous groups to gaze at the unusual pageant. The Virginia women were especially spiteful, in word and demeanor. Some of them, perched in conspicuous places, waved little Confederate flags, as if to attract the more attention, and shouted out, “That’s what’s the matter!” “Come on, you cursed rascals!” “Have you got Old Abe with you?” “Ain’t you a sweet-looking party?” The usual miscellaneous assemblage
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 greeted them as they alighted in Broad street, and seemed very eager to remind them of their advent in the rebel capital. “Well, you’ve got here, have you?” “How do you like the place?” “You’re a sweet-looking crowd of thieves, aren’t you?” Thus they were escorted to Libby, and handed over to the tender mercies of Captain Turner and his assistants, who searched the prisoners, and appropriated all contraband articles.
The day following the arrival of the mai............