THE IMMORTAL SIX HUNDRED
humanly and brutally treated. Our condition one can imagine; it cannot be described. Six hundred prisoners of war, three hundred guards, the boat's crew—all on board of a small gulf steamer built to accommodate not more than half our number. After the last prisoner was packed below decks the steamer pulled out into the channel of the Delaware River on the Jersey side. Here we laid until midnight tide, when we steamed away for Fortress Monroe, fully convinced that we were to be exchanged, landed in Dixie to meet our loved ones and comrades. Believing this, we suffered the discomforts of the prison-ship without murmur. The hold—or hole—of the "Crescent City," in which we were packed, was below the ship's water line, imperfectly ventilated, poorly lighted, and vile in odor of tar and grease. Our guard,—110th Home Guards of Ohio, hundred-day men who had never seen any field service,—were perfectly devoid of feeling, especially so for Confederate soldiers, and
73
