he older inmates to collect about the gates of the "Bull-pen" when
"Fresh fish," as every lot of prisoners just arrived were termed, were
brought in, and inspect them. We, consequently, met a large crowd of
unfortunate rebels, when we entered, in which were not a few
acquaintances, and some of our own immediate comrades. The first man I
saw, or, at least, the first one to whom my attention was attracted, was
First Lieutenant Charles Donegan, of the Second Kentucky. He had been a
private in the heroic Fourth Alabama, and, when his term of service had
expired in that regiment, he "joined Morgan," becoming a private in
Company A, of the "old squadron." When the Second Kentucky was
organized, he was made a non-commissioned officer, and was shortly
afterward promoted to First Lieutenant for gallantry, excellent conduct,
and strict attention to duty. In the prison he met with his old comrades
of the Army of Northern Virginia, and was prompt to welcome all of the
"Morgan men" who "happened in," and to initiate them in the art of
making life in a prison endurable. A few months before, I had visited
his father, one of the most hospitable men in Huntsville, famed for that
virtue, and he charged me with a message to "Charlie," which I delivered
in the barracks at Johnson's Island. Lieutenant Donegan remained in
prison more than twenty months--one of those men whose patient heroism
will never be justly appreciated.

It is only by citing personal instances of this kind, that the history
of the Southern soldiery can be written so that it will be understood.

The Gettysburg prisoners had arrived, only a few days before, and from
them we heard the first intelligible account of the great battle. Not a
whit was the courage and fire of these gallant representatives of the
army of heroes abated. They seemed to have perfect faith in the
invincibility of their comrades, and they looked for the millenium to
arrive, much sooner, than for serious discomfiture to befall "Uncle
Robert."

Johnson's Island was the most agreeable prison I ever saw--which is much
as if a man were to allude to the pleasantest dose of castor oil he ever
swallowed. However, there is little doubt but that it _would_ have been
pleasant (for a short time), if it had not been a prison. The climate in
the summer is delightful, and the prospect highly gratifying--except to
a man who would like to escape and can not swim. The winters, there, are
said to have been very severe