THE IMMORTAL SIX HUNDRED
When the order came to move out of the stockade pen we thanked God exchange had come at last. We would soon be free men, back in Dixie, away from Hallowell, Foster, and their brutal niggers. But, alas, disappointment awaited us; hope was to be ousted from our hearts by despair, and fate had in store for us a harder ordeal. As we marched down the beach to once more board the old schooner hulks our hearts were glad, but before the sun set we knew exchange was not for us. Before leaving Morris Island all blankets marked U. S. were taken from those who had them. This was done by order, we were told, of General Foster. After being packed on the old schooner hulks the 127th New York Volunteers took charge of us. White troops, at last! This was at least a betterment of our condition. After a short delay at the Morris Island wharf, a gunboat took us in tow for Fort Pulaski, on Cock-Spur Island, at the mouth of the Savannah River.
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