retreat, we apparently in the middle of it; Sheridan's guns still booming in our rear—such was the scene as we two or three hundred prisoners were driven on. Our mingled emotions can be better imagined than described. The bitter regret that we had not been slain; the consciousness that we had done our whole duty in facing unflinchingly the storm of shot and shell, never retreating an inch; the evident respect and even courtesy with which I was personally treated; the inspiring certainty that our army was victorious, the unspeakable mortification of being ourselves prisoners of war!—we sorely needed all our philosophy and all our religion to sustain us.

Marching moodily along I was aroused from a sort of reverie by an experience far too common in those days. I had been sick the night before, and had worn my overcoat into battle. My horse was shot. The blood was spurting from him. As he seemed likely to fall, I leaped down. We were in the midst of a rapid advance and I had not time to throw off my overcoat. I was now carrying it swung over my arm. It was growing dark. A mounted soldier, whom I took to be an officer, rode up to my side and seized hold of the coat. He said, "I want that overcoat." I replied, "You can't have it." "I must have it." "You shan't have it." He tugged and I tugged, and as I was on foot and sober I nearly dragged him from his horse before he let go. During the tussle I repeatedly shouted, "Captain of the Guard—Help! Help!" The provost captain instantly came riding to the spot. "What's the matter?" he asked. "That rascal has tried to rob me of my overcoat," I answered, pointing to the villain who was beginning to slink away. The captain appeared to recognize him, said not a word to him, but whispered to me a moment later, "You are entitled to keep your overcoat."

We had had little breakfast and no dinner nor supper, but we suffered more from thirst than hunger. Can we ever forget it? Will the long flight never end? On through Kerrstown without halting we march, with promise of rest and water at Newtown; no rest nor water there. On from Newtown with assurance of water at Middletown. Five minutes at Middletown, and a little muddy water that seems to aggravate our thirst. Farther on we cross a bridge under which the water is dashing as if in mockery, and the cry "Water! water!" rises from a hundred lips, the guard joining, for they are suffering like ourselves. Some comfort in that! Past midnight we reach Strasburg and are halted around an old wooden pump. It is broken! No water there. Still on and on at a snail-pace, up and over the almost interminable stretch of Fisher's Hill. At three o'clock in the morning we arrive at a place known by the classical name of Tom's Brook about twenty-five miles from Winchester. Never was nectar more delicious than the water of this stream, nor downy pillow more welcome than the sod on its banks. Without blankets or covering we sank in each other's arms for mutual warmth on the dew-drenched grass; and blistered feet and aching limbs and hunger and thirst and suffocating despair are all forgotten!

Morning came unnoticed, except by those whom the keen cold permitted to sleep no longer. Towards noon we rose, washed without soap or towel, were made to form line, had our names taken, and received as rations a pint of flour per man, with a little salt, nothing else. How to cook or prepare the flour? We learned of the rebel guards a process not laid down in the cook-books. Mixing with water they made a stiff paste or dough. This they put around the end of a stick about the size and half the length of a walking cane. The end thus thickly coated they hold over a little fire till the smoke and flame have sufficiently hardened it. Then pull out your stick and you have a thick chunk or cylinder of bread, not quite so tough as a gun-barrel, but substantial!

I contrived to keep a little memorandum book. In it I noted down that there were three hundred and eleven of us prisoners; two lieutenant-colonels, two majors, four captains, nine lieutenants, and two hundred and ninety-four enlisted men. These were in the march from Winchester. A few may have been added to our number at Tom's Brook.

I have stated how it happened that none of those near me were robbed when captured. Those at a distance were not so fortunate; for, if circumstances permitted, the Confederates, being themselves sadly in want, often improved the opportunity to grab every article of value. At Tom's Brook I noted in my diary the following:

It was a common practice to snatch from a Union prisoner his cap, and clap on in lieu of it a worn-out slouched hat; pull off his boots, and substitute a pair of clumsy old shoes. The plundering was so thoroughly done that it was poetically termed "going through" a captive!

As I was the senior officer among the prisoners, and we seemed likely to remain a long time there, I went to the Confederate commander and besought him to allow our three hundred prisoners to occupy a barn near by. He refused. I then asked that we be allowed to build wigwams for shelter, as there was abundant material at hand. This too was not permitted. I also begged in vain that a surgeon should be got to dress the wounds of some of the prisoners.

The second morning after our arrival, the sleeping men were aroused by the loud voice of Lieutenant Sargent of the 14th New Hampshire Regiment exclaiming: "If you give me any more of your lip, I'll annihilate you! I've but one arm" (his right arm was disabled by a shot), "but even with one arm I'll annihilate you on the spot, if you give me any more of your lip!" This was exceedingly gratifying, for it proved that at least two of us were not yet "annihilated!"

During our sojourn at Tom's Brook the Confederates labored hard to induce us to exchange our greenbacks for their paper currency. Our own was sadly depreciated, one dollar of silver or gold being equal to two of greenbacks; but one in United States paper was equal in purchasing power to eight of theirs. They argued that our money would certainly be forcibly taken from us by rapacious guards farther south, and kindly offered us four for one. Sergeant Reed of the Provost Guard was quite a character. Like Gratiano in The Merchant of Venice, he talked loud and long, speaking "an infinite deal of nothing." He had a mania for watches. He told me he now had twenty-seven which he had obtained from Yankee prisoners, always paying them in good Confederate money. He set his heart upon a little silver watch of mine, which he said he wished to buy and present to one of his lady admirers. I asked:

"Why do they admire you?"

"Because of my bravery," he replied; "none but the brave deserve the fair."

"If you are so brave, why are you back here? Why are you not at the front?"

"Colonel, I've been in the forefront of the hottest battles. I've been fearfully wounded. I'll be hanged if I haven't been one of the bravest of the brave. Twice, Colonel, I was shot all into inch pieces; and so now I'm put on light duty!"

On Thursday, the third day after our arrival, two "india-rubber