We laughed and sang as we rolled along toward Savannah—­going back much faster than the came.  We re-told old stories, and repeated old jokes, that had become wearisome months and months ago, but were now freshened up and given their olden pith by the joyousness of the occasion.  We revived and talked over old schemes gotten up in the earlier days of prison life, of what “we would do when we got out,” but almost forgotten since, in the general uncertainty of ever getting out.  We exchanged addresses, and promised faithfully to write to each other and tell how we found everything at home.

So the afternoon and night passed.  We were too excited to sleep, and passed the hours watching the scenery, recalling the objects we had passed on the way to Blackshear, and guessing how near we were to Savannah.

Though we were running along within fifteen or twenty miles of the coast, with all our guards asleep in the caboose, no one thought of escape.  We could step off the cars and walk over to the seashore as easily as a man steps out of his door and walks to a neighboring town, but why should we?  Were we not going directly to our vessels in the harbor of Savannah, and was it not better to do this, than to take the chances of escaping, and encounter the difficulties of reaching our blockaders!  We thought so, and we staid on the cars.

A cold, gray Winter morning was just breaking as we reached Savannah.  Our train ran down in the City, and then whistled sharply and ran back a mile or so; it repeated this maneuver two or three times, the evident design being to keep us on the cars until the people were ready to receive us.  Finally our engine ran with all the speed she was capable of, and as the train dashed into the street we found ourselves between two heavy lines of guards with bayonets fixed.

The whole sickening reality was made apparent by one glance at the guard line.  Our parole was a mockery, its only object being to get us to Savannah as easily as possible, and to prevent benefit from our recapture to any of Sherman’s Raiders, who might make a dash for the railroad while we were in transit.  There had been no intention of exchanging us.  There was no exchange going on at Savannah.

After all, I do not think we felt the disappointment as keenly as the first time we were brought to Savannah.  Imprisonment had stupefied us; we were duller and more hopeless.

Ordered down out of the cars, we were formed in line in the street.

Said a Rebel officer: 

“Now, any of you fellahs that ah too sick to go to Chahlston, step fohwahd one pace.”

We looked at each other an instant, and then the whole line stepped forward.  We all felt too sick to go to Charleston, or to do anything else in the world.

CHAPTER LXVI.

Specimen conversation with an average native Georgian—­we learn that Sherman is Heading for Savannah—­the reserves get A little settling down.