The next day we all had to leave Macon.  Whether we were able or not, the order was imperative.  Great was my joy when I learned that we were on the way to Savannah and not to Andersonville.  We traveled over the same road, so well described in one of your articles on Andersonville, and arrived in Savannah sometime in the afternoon of the 21st day of November, 1864.  Our squad was placed in some barracks and confined there until the next day.  I was sick at the time, so sick in fact, that I could hardly hold my head up.  Soon after, we were taken to the Florida depot, as they told us, to be shipped to some prison in those dismal swamps.  I came near fainting when this was told to us, for I was confident that I could not survive another siege of prison life, if it was anything to compare to-what I had already suffered.  When we arrived at the depot, it was raining.  The officer in charge of us wanted to know what train to put us on, for there were two, if not three, trains waiting orders to start.  He was told to march us on to a certain flat car, near by, but before giving the order he demanded a receipt for us, which the train officer refused.  We were accordingly taken back to our quarters, which proved to be a most fortunate circumstance.

On the 23d day of November, to our great relief, we were called upon to sign a parole preparatory to being sent down the river on the flat-boat to our exchange ships, then lying in the harbor.  When I say we, I mean those of us that had recently come from Macon, and a few others, who had also been fortunate in reaching Savannah in small squads.  The other poor fellows, who had already been loaded on the trains, were taken away to Florida, and many of them never lived to return.  On the 24th those of us who had been paroled were taken on board our ships, and were once more safely housed under that great, glorious and beautiful Star Spangled Banner.  Long may she wave.

CHAPTER LXIII.

Dreary weather—­the cold rains distress all and kill hundreds—­exchange of ten thousand sick—­Captain Bowes Turns A pretty, but not very honest, penny.

As November wore away long-continued, chill, searching rains desolated our days and nights.  The great, cold drops pelted down slowly, dismally, and incessantly.  Each seemed to beat through our emaciated frames against the very marrow of our bones, and to be battering its way remorselessly into the citadel of life, like the cruel drops that fell from the basin of the inquisitors upon the firmly-fastened head of their victim, until his reason fled, and the death-agony cramped his heart to stillness.

The lagging, leaden hours were inexpressibly dreary.  Compared with many others, we were quite comfortable, as our hut protected us from the actual beating of the rain upon our bodies; but we were much more miserable than under the sweltering heat of Andersonville, as we lay almost naked upon our bed of pine leaves, shivering in the raw, rasping air, and looked out over acres of wretches lying dumbly on the sodden sand, receiving the benumbing drench of the sullen skies without a groan or a motion.