In such a drenching rain fires were
impossible, and there was nothing for them to do but tramp all night long
in the wind and rain, to keep from perishing. Yet above the howling
tempest and amid the drenching rain, could be heard the cheering chorus,
"Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, the Boys are Marching."

Water was running down the slope in torrents, forming miniature rivers as
the storm progressed, cutting deep furrows in the soft clay soil, and
covering the whole camp with water and mud nearly ankle deep. Few who
passed that night of the 6th of October, 1864, in the prisoners' camp at
Columbia, will ever forget it while they live.

The next day we were asked to again give our parole, in which case we
would be placed in a beautiful grove about three miles out, where we would
have all the facilities for cleanliness and comfort that we could desire.
We rather thought we would first see this haven of bliss, and then decide
for ourselves about the bargain.

We hung our wet blankets up to dry in the sun which had come out once more
to cheer us, and made ourselves as comfortable as possible during the day,
not knowing where we were to go next. About four o'clock, teams were
brought up to the fence along the road, and we were ordered to load on our
traps and get ready to move into camp. Not having much baggage, we were
soon ready and the line was formed, and we were again on the march. We had
not gone more than half a mile, when we passed the building where was
manufactured the Confederate money with which to carry on this great
_rebellion_.

The windows were illuminated with the bright faces of about a hundred
young ladies, who were employed in this great printing house, and some of
the boys failed to keep step as they cast furtive glances in the direction
of the upper story windows, some even going so far as to give a salute
that was made a good deal like throwing a kiss, while a few cheeky
fellows, who seemed to have forgotten their manners during their long
imprisonment, actually had the audacity to sing out: "Say, sis, chuck me
down a roll of _Confed_. Got any new issue to spare? Give us a bundle; you
can make more." But what surprised me most, the girls seemed to enjoy all
this chaffing, and some of them actually attempted to get up a flirtation
with the detested Yankee prisoners, waving handkerchiefs, throwing kisses,
and making such remarks as: "Ain't he handsome? Oh! look at that fat
fellow; ain't he a daisy," &c., keeping