The Forty-Eighth New Yorkers who came in were a set of chaps so odd in every way as to be a source of never-failing interest.  The name of their regiment was ‘L’Enfants Perdu’ (the Lost Children), which we anglicized into “The Lost Ducks.”  It was believed that every nation in Europe was represented in their ranks, and it used to be said jocularly, that no two of them spoke the same language.  As near as I could find out they were all or nearly all South Europeans, Italians, Spaniards; Portuguese, Levantines, with a predominance of the French element.  They wore a little cap with an upturned brim, and a strap resting on the chin, a coat with funny little tales about two inches long, and a brass chain across the breast; and for pantaloons they had a sort of a petticoat reaching to the knees, and sewed together down the middle.  They were just as singular otherwise as in their looks, speech and uniform.  On one occasion the whole mob of us went over in a mass to their squad to see them cook and eat a large water snake, which two of them had succeeded in capturing in the swamps, and carried off to their mess, jabbering in high glee over their treasure trove.  Any of us were ready to eat a piece of dog, cat, horse or mule, if we could get it, but, it was generally agreed, as Dawson, of my company expressed it, that “Nobody but one of them darned queer Lost Ducks would eat a varmint like a water snake.”

Major Albert Bogle, of the Eighth United States, (colored) had fallen into the hands of the rebels by reason of a severe wound in the leg, which left him helpless upon the field at Oolustee.  The Rebels treated him with studied indignity.  They utterly refused to recognize him as an officer, or even as a man.  Instead of being sent to Macon or Columbia, where the other officers were, he was sent to Andersonville, the same as an enlisted man.  No care was given his wound, no surgeon would examine it or dress it.  He was thrown into a stock car, without a bed or blanket, and hauled over the rough, jolting road to Andersonville.  Once a Rebel officer rode up and fired several shots at him, as he lay helpless on the car floor.  Fortunately the Rebel’s marksmanship was as bad as his intentions, and none of the shots took effect.  He was placed in a squad near me, and compelled to get up and hobble into line when the rest were mustered for roll-call.  No opportunity to insult, “the nigger officer,” was neglected, and the N’Yaarkers vied with the Rebels in heaping abuse upon him.  He was a fine, intelligent young man, and bore it all with dignified self-possession, until after a lapse of some weeks the Rebels changed their policy and took him from the prison to send to where the other officers were.