THE IMMORTAL SIX HUNDRED
keep vigil; the wild sea birds sing requiems to their rest, far away from their loved dead the hearts of many mothers mourn their boys, many a poor wife her husband, many a noble and sweet woman her soldier lover, who had left her and marched away to battle for the land he loved with her prayer—"God keep you and bless you, my darling"—ringing in his ear, who found an unmarked but honored grave under the sands of Morris Island, Hilton Head, and in the swamps about Fort Pulaski; and these graves point heavenward, monuments to the vindictive and wanton cruelty of Stanton and Foster to the six hundred Confederate officers, victims of their hate.
Col. P. P. Brown, I repeat, was a humane man. His soul revolted at the cruelty inflicted upon us by order of his superior officer, General' Foster. Colonel Brown, we were informed by his officers, had asked General Foster, time and time again, to send him and his regiment to
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