were marched about thirty miles to Tunnel Hill, where
we received our first rations from the enemy. On this march, the only
food we obtained was from a field of green sorghum. Here we were placed
in box cars and taken to Atlanta. On arriving at this place, we were
first marched to an open field outside of the city, near a fountain of
water, and surrounded by a guard. Kind-hearted people came out of the
city, bringing bread with them, which they threw to us across the guard
line. Immediately a second line was established, distant several rods
outside of the first, to prevent them from giving us food.

From this place we were marched to the old slave-pen, and every man, as
he entered the narrow gate, was compelled to give up his overcoat and
blanket. I remonstrated with the officers for stripping the soldiers of
their necessary clothing, as an act in violation of civilized warfare
and inhuman. The men who were executing this infamous duty, did not deny
these charges, but excused themselves on the ground that they were
simply obeying an order of General Bragg from the front. That night I
saw seventeen hundred Union soldiers lie down upon the ground, without
an overcoat or blanket to protect them from the cold earth, or shield
them from the heavy Southern dew.

The next morning we were ordered to take the cars, and proceed on our
way to Richmond. These men arose from the ground, cold and wet with dew,
and under my command organized and formed in column by companies, and
marched to the depot through one of the main streets of Atlanta, singing
in full chorus the Star Spangled Banner. Crowds gathered around us as
we entered the cars. A guard with muskets accompanied the train.

I will here relate an incident which occurred on our way. We overtook a
train of open cars, filled with Confederate wounded from the
battle-field. The two trains stopped for some time alongside and in
close proximity. It was a spectacle to see the men of the two armies
intently observe each other. On the one side was the calm, pale face of
the wounded; on the other, the earnest, deep sympathy of the captive. No
unkind look or word passed between them. Of the seventeen hundred
prisoners, there was not one who would not have given his coat, or
reached for his last cent, to help his wounded brother.

On the last day of September, after traveling more than eight hundred
miles from the battle-field of Chickamauga, we arrived at Richmond, and
the officers