One of the buglers of the artillery was a superb musician—­evidently some old “regular” whom the Confederacy had seduced into its service, and his instrument was so sweet toned that we imagined that it was made of silver.  The calls he played were nearly the same as we used in the cavalry, and for the first few days we became bitterly homesick every time he sent ringing out the old familiar signals, that to us were so closely associated with what now seemed the bright and happy days when we were in the field with our battalion.  If we were only back in the valleys of Tennessee with what alacrity we would respond to that “assembly;” no Orderly’s patience would be worn out in getting laggards and lazy ones to “fall in for roll-call;” how eagerly we would attend to “stable duty;” how gladly mount our faithful horses and ride away to “water,” and what bareback races ride, going and coming.  We would be even glad to hear “guard” and “drill” sounded; and there would be music in the disconsolate “surgeon’s call:” 

     “Come-get-your-q-n-i-n-i-n-e; come, get your quinine; It’ll make you
     sad:  It’ll make you sick.  Come, come.”

O, if we were only back, what admirable soldiers we would be!  One morning, about three or four o’clock, we were awakened by the ground shaking and a series of heavy, dull thumps sounding oft seaward.  Our silver-voiced bugler seemed to be awakened, too.  He set the echoes ringing with a vigorously played “reveille;” a minute later came an equally earnest “assembly,” and when “boots and saddles” followed, we knew that all was not well in Denmark; the thumping and shaking now had a significance.  It meant heavy Yankee guns somewhere near.  We heard the gunners hitching up; the bugle signal “forward,” the wheels roll off, and for a half hour afterwards we caught the receding sound of the bugle commanding “right turn,” “left turn,” etc., as the batteries marched away.  Of course, we became considerably wrought up over the matter, as we fancied that, knowing we were in Savannah, our vessels were trying to pass up to the City and take it.  The thumping and shaking continued until late in the afternoon.

We subsequently learned that some of our blockaders, finding time banging heavy upon their hands, had essayed a little diversion by knocking Forts Jackson and Bledsoe—­two small forts defending the passage of the Savannah—­about their defenders’ ears.  After capturing the forts our folks desisted and came no farther.

Quite a number of the old Raider crowd had come with us from Andersonville.  Among these was the shyster, Peter Bradley.  They kept up their old tactics of hanging around the gates, and currying favor with the Rebels in every possible way, in hopes to get paroles outside or other favors.  The great mass of the prisoners were so bitter against the Rebels as to feel that they would rather die than ask or accept a favor from their hands, and they had little else