THE IMMORTAL SIX HUNDRED
would be over before we ever set foot in Dixie. On the afternoon of the 7th day of September we were landed on Morris Island. The day was hot, but we were once more in God's sunshine and out of the pest hole of the prison ship. Two old dismantled schooner hulks, the "Jno. A. Genet" and the "Transit," were utilized as our prison, and the 54th Mass. (nigger) Regt., Col. E. N. Hallowell commanding, our guard. And now in truth began our torture. Every man seemed crushed. Not much talking was done by the prisoners, yet we all hoped that fate, in a relenting moment, would help us and drive away black despair.
After the first night on these old hulks, filled as they were with rats and vermin, that old courage that made the Confederate soldier a hero came back to us, and we determined to face the fate in store for us without flinching or whining. God had made us men; we could die like men, if need be, for the
88
