For a minute we were speechless with astonishment.  Then came a surge of excitement.  What should we do?  What could we do?  Obviously nothing.  Eleven hundred, sick, enfeebled prisoners could not even overpower their guards, let alone make such a diversion in the rear of a line-of-battle as would assist our folks to gain a victory.  But while we debated the engine whistled sharply—­a frightened shriek it sounded to us—­and began pushing our train rapidly backward over the rough and wretched track.  Back, back we went, as fast as rosin and pine knots could force the engine to move us.  The cars swayed continually back and forth, momentarily threatening to fly the crazy roadway, and roll over the embankment or into one of the adjacent swamps.  We would have hailed such a catastrophe, as it would have probably killed more of the guards than of us, and the confusion would have given many of the survivors opportunity to escape.  But no such accident happened, and towards midnight we reached the bridge across the Great Pedee River, where our train was stopped by a squad of Rebel cavalrymen, who brought the intelligence that as Kilpatrick was expected into Florence every hour, it would not do to take us there.

We were ordered off the cars, and laid down on the banks of the Great Pedee, our guards and the cavalry forming a line around us, and taking precautions to defend the bridge against Kilpatrick, should he find out our whereabouts and come after us.

“Well, Mc,” said Andrews, as we adjusted our old overcoat and blanket on the ground for a bed; “I guess we needn’t care whether school keeps or not.  Our fellows have evidently got both ends of the road, and are coming towards us from each way.  There’s no road—­not even a wagon road —­for the Johnnies to run us off on, and I guess all we’ve got to do is to stand still and see the salvation of the Lord.  Bad as these hounds are, I don’t believe they will shoot us down rather than let our folks retake us.  At least they won’t since old Winder’s dead.  If he was alive, he’d order our throats cut—­one by one—­with the guards’ pocket knives, rather than give us up.  I’m only afraid we’ll be allowed to starve before our folks reach us.”

I concurred in this view.

CHAPTER LXXVIII.

Return to Florence and A short sojourn there—­off towards Wilmington again—­cruising A rebel officer’s lunch—­signs of approaching our lines —­terror of our rascally guards—­entrance into god’s country at last.