“Well,” said Andrews, as the procession moved away, “I want to know where this thing’s going to stop.  I am trying hard to get used to wearing a shirt without any lice in it, and to sitting down on a chair, and to sleeping in a clean bed, but when it comes to having my meals sent to my room, I’m afraid I’ll degenerate into a pampered child of luxury.  They are really piling it on too strong.  Let us see, Mc.; how long’s it been since we were sitting on the sand there in Florence, boiling our pint of meal in that old can?”

“It seems many years, Lale,” I said; “but for heaven’s sake let us try to forget it as soon as possible.  We will always remember too much of it.”

And we did try hard to make the miserable recollections fade out of our minds.  When we were stripped on the balcony we threw away every visible token that could remind us of the hateful experience we had passed through.  We did not retain a scrap of paper or a relic to recall the unhappy past.  We loathed everything connected with it.

The days that followed were very happy ones.  The Paymaster came around and paid us each two months’ pay and twenty-five cents a day “ration money” for every day we had been in prison.  This gave Andrews and I about one hundred and sixty-five dollars apiece—­an abundance of spending money.  Uncle Sam was very kind and considerate to his soldier nephews, and the Hospital authorities neglected nothing that would add to our comfort.  The superbly-kept grounds of the Naval Academy were renewing the freshness of their loveliness under the tender wooing of the advancing Spring, and every step one sauntered through them was a new delight.  A magnificent band gave us sweet music morning and evening.  Every dispatch from the South told of the victorious progress of our arms, and the rapid approach of the close of the struggle.  All we had to do was to enjoy the goods the gods were showering upon us, and we did so with appreciative, thankful hearts.  After awhile all able to travel were given furloughs of thirty days to visit their homes, with instructions to report at the expiration of their leaves of absence to the camps of rendezvous nearest their homes, and we separated, nearly every man going in a different direction.

CHAPTER LXXXI.

Captain Wirz the only one of the prison-keepers punished—­his arrest, trial and execution.

Of all those more or less concerned in the barbarities practiced upon our prisoners, but one—­Captain Henry Wirz—­was punished.  The Turners, at Richmond; Lieutenant Boisseux, of Belle Isle; Major Gee, of Salisbury; Colonel Iverson and Lieutenant Barrett, of Florence; and the many brutal miscreants about Andersonville, escaped scot free.  What became of them no one knows; they were never heard of after the close of the war.  They had sense enough to retire into obscurity, and stay there, and this saved their lives, for each one of them had made deadly enemies among those whom they had maltreated, who, had they known where they were, would have walked every step of the way thither to kill them.