Arrived at Augusta,
Ga., at daylight, one of the nicest towns of its size in the South; the home of
Alexander H. Stephens, long celebrated as one of the ablest Southern men, now
the Vice President of this so-colled Confederacy. Business appeared dull.
Trains from Savannah had troops to reinforce Johnston beyond Atlanta. After an
hour we run out of town and changed trains. We have had no rations since the
20th, resort to various means to obtain bread. Brass buttons, pocket books,
knives, any Yankee trinket are in good demand; bread is scarce, prices enormous
when we find it. They like Yankee notions emblazoned in brass and gutta percha,
but they are too supercilious to adopt Northern principles. I succeeded in
trading a silk necktie and an ink stand for a loaf of bread. These fellows are
the queerest traffickers I ever saw. The Esquimaux and native Indians have no
greater hankering for a ten-penny nail than these people have for brass
ornaments. A good jack knife counted in their cash, is worth about $25; a
wooden inkstand $3 to $15; brass buttons from $3 to $10 per dozen. The country
around Augusta looks nice; it is on the Savannah River; population about 8,300.
In the afternoon we drew rations for a day; moved on at 3 o'clock.
On, on, on we go down to the Rebel jail;
I reckon this is rather rough a riding on a rail.
Oh, here are boys from many a hearth,
Dear to many a breast,
Many a mothers heart is dearth,
Many a wife with woe is press'd;
And many a kin and many a friend
Will long to know their fate;
[But] many a precious life will end
Within that prison gate;
And many a day ere we can see
That dear old home again,
And rest beneath that banner free
That traitors now disdain.
Many a long, long weary day,
Many a dismal night,
Our hope and strength may waste away
By hunger, pain and blight;
And many a vow may be forgot,
But we shall not forget
The glorious truths for which we fought.
The cause that triumphs yet.
But we hear their vauntings everywhere;
They never can prove true;
And yet what devils ever dare
These Rebels dare to do;
And matters look a little rough,
Things look a little blue,
You bet it is a little tough,
Going down to Rebel jail;
'Tis not so very pleasant, though,
This riding on a rail!
SOURCE: John Worrell
Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville
and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 54-5
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