Getting used to freedom—­delights of A land where there is enough of
everything—­first glimpse of the old flag—­Wilmington and its history
—­lieutenant Cushing—­first acquaintance with the colored troops—­leaving
for home—­destruction of the “Thorn” By A torpedo—­the Mock MONITOR’S
achievement.

After a sound sleep, Andrews and I awoke to the enjoyment of our first day of freedom and existence in God’s country.  The sun had already risen, bright and warm, consonant with the happiness of the new life now opening up for us.

But to nearly a score of our party his beams brought no awakening gladness.  They fell upon stony, staring eyes, from out of which the light of life had now faded, as the light of hope had done long ago.  The dead lay there upon the rude beds of fallen leaves, scraped together by thoughtful comrades the night before, their clenched teeth showing through parted lips, faces fleshless and pinched, long, unkempt and ragged hair and whiskers just stirred by the lazy breeze, the rotting feet and limbs drawn up, and skinny hands clenched in the last agonies.

Their fate seemed harder than that of any who had died before them.  It was doubtful if many of them knew that they were at last inside of our own lines.

Again the kind-hearted boys of the brigade crowded around us with proffers of service.  Of an Ohio boy who directed his kind tenders to Andrews and me, we procured a chunk of coarse rosin soap about as big as a pack of cards, and a towel.  Never was there as great a quantity of solid comfort got out of that much soap as we obtained.  It was the first that we had since that which I stole in Wirz’s headquarters, in June —­nine months before.  We felt that the dirt which had accumulated upon us since then would subject us to assessment as real estate if we were in the North.

Hurrying off to a little creek we began our ablutions, and it was not long until Andrews declared that there was a perceptible sand-bar forming in the stream, from what we washed off.  Dirt deposits of the Pliocene era rolled off feet and legs.  Eocene incrustations let loose reluctantly from neck and ears; the hair was a mass of tangled locks matted with nine months’ accumulation of pitch pine tar, rosin soot, and South Carolina sand, that we did not think we had better start in upon it until we either had the shock cut off, or had a whole ocean and a vat of soap to wash it out with.

After scrubbing until we were exhausted we got off the first few outer layers—­the post tertiary formation, a geologist would term it—­and the smell of many breakfasts cooking, coming down over the hill, set our stomachs in a mutiny against any longer fasting.