“Yaas—­sonnies,” said Charlie Burroughs, of the Third Michigan, in that nasal Yankee drawl, that he always assumed, when he wanted to say anything very cutting; “you—­trundle—­bed—­soldiers—­who’ve never—­seen —­a—­real—&s
hy;wild—­Yankee—­don’t—­know—­how—­different—­they—­are—­from —­the kind—­that—­are—­starved—­down—­to tameness.  They’re—­jest—­as —­different—­as—­a—­lion in—­a—­menagerie—­is—­from—­his—­brother—­in —­the woods—­who—­has—­a—­nigger—­every day—­for-dinner.  You—­fellows —­will—­go—­into—­a&
mdash;­circus—­tent—­and—­throw—­tobacco—­quids in—­the —­face—­of—­
the—­lion—­in—­the—­cage—­when—­you—­haven’t—­spunk enough —­to—­look—­a woodchuck—­in—­the—­eye—­if—­you—­met—­him—­alone.  It’s —­lots—­o’—­fun—­to you—­to—­shoot—­down—­a—­sick—­and—­starving-man —­in—­the—­Stockade, but—­when—­you—­see—­a—­Yank with—­a—­gun—­in—­his —­hand—­your—­livers get—­so—­white—­that—­chalk—­would—­make—­a—­black —­mark—­on—­’em.”

A little later, a paper, which some one had gotten hold of, in some mysterious manner, was secretly passed to me.  I read it as I could find opportunity, and communicated its contents to the rest of the boys.  The most important of these was a flaming proclamation by Governor Joe Brown, setting forth that General Sherman was now traversing the State, committing all sorts of depredations; that he had prepared the way for his own destruction, and the Governor called upon all good citizens to rise en masse, and assist in crushing the audacious invader.  Bridges must be burned before and behind him, roads obstructed, and every inch of soil resolutely disputed.

We enjoyed this.  It showed that the Rebels were terribly alarmed, and we began to feel some of that confidence that “Sherman will come out all right,” which so marvelously animated all under his command.

CHAPTER LXVII.

Off to Charleston—­passing through the rice swamps—­two extremes of society—­entry into Charleston—­leisurely warfare—­shelling the city at regular intervals—­we camp in A mass of ruins—­departure for Florence.

The train started in a few minutes after the close of the conversation with the old Georgian, and we soon came to and crossed the Savannah River into South Carolina.  The river was wide and apparently deep; the tide was setting back in a swift, muddy current; the crazy old bridge creaked and shook, and the grinding axles shrieked in the dry journals, as we pulled across.  It looked very much at times as if we were to all crash down into the turbid flood—­and we did not care very much if we did, if we were not going to be exchanged.