“Read the parole to us.”

The Rebel was handed a blank parole by a companion, and he read over the printed condition at the top, which was that those signing agreed not to bear arms against the Confederates in the field, or in garrison, not to man any works, assist in any expedition, do any sort of guard duty, serve in any military constabulary, or perform any kind of military service until properly exchanged.

For a minute this was satisfactory; then their ingrained distrust of any thing a Rebel said or did returned, and they shouted: 

“No, no; let some of us read it; let Ilinoy’ read it—­”

The Rebel looked around in a puzzled manner.

“Who the h—­l is ‘Illinoy!’ Where is he?” said he.

I saluted and said: 

“That’s a nickname they give me.”

“Very well,” said he, “get up on this stump and read this parole to these d—–­d fools that won’t believe me.”

I mounted the stump, took the blank from his hand and read it over slowly, giving as much emphasis as possible to the all-important clause at the end—­“until properly exchanged.”  I then said: 

“Boys, this seems all right to me,” and they answered, with almost one voice: 

“Yes, that’s all right.  We’ll sign that.”

I was never so proud of the American soldier-boy as at that moment.  They all felt that signing that paper was to give them freedom and life.  They knew too well from sad experience what the alternative was.  Many felt that unless released another week would see them in their graves.  All knew that every day’s stay in Rebel hands greatly lessened their chances of life.  Yet in all that thousand there was not one voice in favor of yielding a tittle of honor to save life.  They would secure their freedom honorably, or die faithfully.  Remember that this was a miscellaneous crowd of boys, gathered from all sections of the country, and from many of whom no exalted conceptions of duty and honor were expected.  I wish some one would point out to me, on the brightest pages of knightly record, some deed of fealty and truth that equals the simple fidelity of these unknown heros.  I do not think that one of them felt that he was doing anything especially meritorious.  He only obeyed the natural promptings of his loyal heart.

The business of signing the paroles was then begun in earnest.  We were separated into squads according to the first letters of our names, all those whose name began with A being placed in one squad, those beginning with B, in another, and so on.  Blank paroles for each letter were spread out on boxes and planks at different places, and the signing went on under the superintendence of a Rebel Sergeant and one of the prisoners.  The squad of M’s selected me to superintend the signing for us, and I stood by to direct the boys, and sign for the very few who could not write.  After this was done we fell into ranks again, called the roll of the signers, and carefully compared the number of men with the number of signatures so that nobody should pass unparoled.  The oath was then administered to us, and two day’s rations of corn meal and fresh beef were issued.