The second day after leaving Andersonville our train struggled across the swamps into Savannah, and rolled slowly down the live oak shaded streets into the center of the City.  It seemed like another Deserted Village, so vacant and noiseless the streets, and the buildings everywhere so overgrown with luxuriant vegetation:  The limbs of the shade trees crashed along and broke, upon the tops of our cars, as if no train had passed that way for years.  Through the interstices between the trees and clumps of foliage could be seen the gleaming white marble of the monuments erected to Greene and Pulaski, looking like giant tombstones in a City of the Dead.  The unbroken stillness—­so different from what we expected on entering the metropolis of Georgia, and a City that was an important port in Revolutionary days—­became absolutely oppressive.  We could not understand it, but our thoughts were more intent upon the coming transfer to our flag than upon any speculation as to the cause of the remarkable somnolence of Savannah.

Finally some little boys straggled out to where our car was standing, and we opened up a conversation with them: 

“Say, boys, are our vessels down in the harbor yet?”

The reply came in that piercing treble shriek in which a boy of ten or twelve makes even his most confidential communications: 

“I don’t know.”

“Well,” (with our confidence in exchange somewhat dashed,) “they intend to exchange us here, don’t they?”

Another falsetto scream, “I don’t know.”

“Well,” (with something of a quaver in the questioner’s voice,) “what are they going to do, with us, any way?”

“O,” (the treble shriek became almost demoniac) “they are fixing up a place over by the old jail for you.”

What a sinking of hearts was there then!  Andrews and I would not give up hope so speedily as some others did, and resolved to believe, for awhile at least, that we were going to be exchanged.

Ordered out of the cars, we were marched along the street.  A crowd of small boys, full of the curiosity of the animal, gathered around us as we marched.  Suddenly a door in a rather nice house opened; an angry-faced woman appeared on the steps and shouted out: 

“Boys!  Boys!  What are you doin’ there!  Come up on the steps immejitely!  Come away from them n-a-s-t-y things!”

I will admit that we were not prepossessing in appearance; nor were we as cleanly as young gentlemen should habitually be; in fact, I may as well confess that I would not now, if I could help it, allow a tramp, as dilapidated in raiment, as unwashed, unshorn, uncombed, and populous with insects as we were, to come within several rods of me.  Nevertheless, it was not pleasant to hear so accurate a description of our personal appearance sent forth on the wings of the wind by a shrill-voiced Rebel female.

A short march brought us to the place “they were fixing for us by the old jail.”  It was another pen, with high walls of thick pine plank, which told us only too plainly how vain were our expectations of exchange.