When Marcy Gray awoke the next morning he made the mental resolution that from that time forward, no matter what happened or how homesick he might be, he would follow Bowen’s advice and example to the letter, eat and sleep all he could and keep up a brave heart, so as to be in readiness to improve the first opportunity for escape that presented itself. Fortunately some things occurred that made it comparatively easy for him to hold to his resolve for a few days at least. After some more smoked bean soup and half-baked corn bread had been served for breakfast (and this time Marcy did just what Bowen said he would, and pushed and crowded with the rest in order to get a clean pan to eat from), the grated door that led into the hall was thrown open and the commander of the prison appeared on the threshold with Captain Fletcher at his side. The latter held in his hand the book in which Marcy had seen his name and descriptive list entered the day before. A hush of expectancy fell upon the prisoners, who surged toward the door in a body. Something out of the ordinary was about to happen, and they were impatient to know what it was.

“Get back there!” shouted Captain Wilkins. “You seem to be in a mighty hurry to leave these good quarters, but some of you will wish yourselves back here before many days have passed over your heads.”

These words had a depressing effect upon some of the prisoners, but they were very cheering to Marcy Gray and his friend Bowen. The captain made it plain that they were to be sent off in some direction, and anything was better than being shut up in that gloomy jail.

“As fast as your names are called pick up your plunder and go down into the yard and fall in for a march of seventy-five miles,” continued the captain. “That will be your first taste of a soldier’s life.”

“Seventy-five miles,” repeated Marcy. “We must be going to Raleigh, and from there it is about a hundred miles by rail to Salisbury. By gracious, Bowen, if they send us there I’ll not be much over two hundred miles from home.”

“I hope they’ll not separate us,” was the reply. “That’s what I am afraid of now.”

Captain Fletcher called off the names as they were written in his book, and the prisoners one after another disappeared down the stairs. Some responded with a cheerful “here,” and walked as briskly as though they were going home instead of into the army, while others answered in scarcely audible tones and moved with slow and reluctant steps. When Bowen’s name was called he lingered long enough to give Marcy’s hand a friendly squeeze, and when he passed through the door out of sight he seemed to have taken all the boy’s courage with him; but when his own name was called a few minutes later, Marcy was himself again. He went into the jail yard and fell into the line that was being formed there under command of an officer he had not seen before. On the opposite side of the yard was a company of soldiers, veterans on the face of them, who were standing at “parade rest,” and Marcy straightway concluded that they were the men who were to guard the prisoners during the march. Marcy hoped they would continue to act in that capacity as long as an escort was needed. He wasn’t afraid of veterans, but he did not want any Home Guards put over him.

“What have you got in your grip?” inquired the officer, as Marcy fell into his place in line.

“Clothing, sir,” answered the boy, holding out the valise as if he thought the officer wished to inspect it.

“I am willing to take your word for it,” said the latter, who no doubt knew that Captain Wilkins had given the valise a thorough examination. “I was going to suggest that you had better wrap its contents in your blanket and leave the grip behind. It will only be in your way, and you don’t want too much luggage on the march.”

Marcy thought the suggestion a good one, and with the officer’s permission he fell out long enough to act upon it. By the time he took his place in line again the prisoners who were to be sent away were all assembled in the yard, and the commander and Captain Fletcher had come out of the jail. The few unfortunates who remained behind were suspected of being deserters, and they were to be detained until their record could be investigated. Captain Fletcher handed his book to the strange officer, who proceeded to call the roll a second time, for he had to receipt for the men committed to his care as if they had been so many bags of corn. When this had been done the prisoners were marched through the gate into one of Williamston’s principal streets, the guards with loaded muskets on their shoulders fell in on both sides of them, and their weary journey, which was to end at a point more than three hundred miles away, was fairly begun.

They were nearly three weeks on the road, and during that time not an incident happened that was worthy of record. Marcy afterward said that all he could remember was that he was hungry all the time, and too tired and sleepy to think of escape, even if it had been safe to attempt it. Their veteran guards, who accompanied them no farther than Raleigh, told them that from that point they would travel by rail, and so they did as far as the rails went; but miles of the road-bed had to be traversed on foot because the road itself had been torn up by raiding parties of Union cavalry, who, after heating the rails red-hot, had wrapped them around trees or twisted them into such fantastic shapes that nothing but a rolling-mill could have straightened them out again.

At Raleigh a company of militia took charge of the conscripts (that was what everyone called them and what they called themselves now), and then their sufferings began. Their new guards were absolutely without feeling. The commanding officer either could not or would not keep them supplied with food, nor would he permit them to leave the ranks long enough to get a drink of water. Marcy, who found it hard to keep up under such circumstances, wanted to try what power there might be in one of his gold pieces, but Bowen would not listen to it.

“Not for the world would I have these ruffians know that you have good money in your pocket,” said he earnestly. “They would make some excuse to shoot you in order to get it. Hold fast to every dollar of it, for you will see the time when you will need it worse than you think you do now.”

It was not until they arrived within a few miles of their destination that Marcy and his companions learned where they were going, and what they were expected to do when they got there. Some of the militia who were doing guard duty at the Millen prison pen had been ordered to Savannah, and the conscripts were to take their places; but beyond the fact that Millen was situated somewhere in the eastern part of Georgia, a few miles south of Waynesborough, their ignorant guards could not tell them a thing about it.

“It must be pretty close to the coast, and that’s the way we’ll go when we get ready to make a break,” said Marcy.

“And what would we do if we succeeded in reaching the coast?” demanded Bowen. “It would be the worst move we could make, for it would take us right into danger. There are no Union war ships stationed off the Georgia coast, and even if there were, how could we get out to them? No, sir. We’ll go the other way and strike for the Mississippi.”

“And cross three States?” exclaimed Marcy, astounded at the proposition. “Why, it must be four or five hundred miles in a straight line.”

“No matter if it’s a thousand,” said Bowen obstinately. “We’ll be safe if we go that way, and we’ll be captured and shot if we go the other. If we can only pass Macon I’ll be among friends.”

“And if we can strike the Mississippi about Baton Rouge I would be among friends,” said Marcy. “But across three States that are no doubt infested with Home Guards and bloodhounds! Bowen, you’re crazy.”

“Not so crazy as you will show yourself to be if you try to reach the coast,” was the reply. “But we haven’t started yet, and you will have plenty of time to think it over and decide if you will go with me or strike out by yourself.”

This conversation had a disheartening effect upon Marcy, who knew that if his clear-headed companion left him to take care of himself, his chances for seeing home and friends again were very slim indeed. While he was thinking about it, and trying to grasp the full meaning of the words “across three States infested with Home Guards and bloodhounds,” the train stopped at Millen Junction and the conscripts were ordered to disembark. As fast as they left the cars they were drawn up in line near the depot, which was afterward burned by Sherman’s cavalry, and the roll was called. After that they were formally turned over to the commander of the prison, who was there to receive them, and marched out to the stockade. Marcy had just time to note that it was a gloomy looking place and that a deep silence brooded over it, before he was marched into the fort, whose cannon commanded the prison at all points. There they were divided into messes and assigned to quarters, with the understanding that they were to go on duty the next morning at guard-mount. The barracks were crowded when Marcy first went into them, but some of the militia were ordered to Savannah that afternoon, and when they were gone he and Bowen were able to find a bunk. They had managed to be put into the same mess, and that was something to be thankful for.

So far the conscripts had nothing to complain of. Their supper was abundant and passably well cooked, and it was delightful to know that they could get a drink of water when they wanted it, without asking permission of some petty tyrant who was quite as likely to refuse as he was to grant the request. But Marcy looked forward with some misgivings to guard-mount the next morning. The idea of putting raw recruits through that complicated ceremony was a novel one to him, and although he had no fears for himself, he was afraid that the awkwardness of some of his companions would bring upon them the wrath of the adjutant; that is, if the latter was at all strict, and liked to see things done in military form. Before he went to his bunk, however, he found that he had little to fear on that score. A sergeant came into the barracks with a paper in his hand, and began warning the recruits for guard duty the next day, ordering them to fall in line in front of him as fast as their names were called. Marcy’s was one of the first on the list, and when it was read off he stepped promptly to his place, dressed to the right, and came to a front. The sergeant, who knew a well-drilled man when he saw him, was surprised. He looked curiously at Marcy for a moment, and then went on calling off the names of the guard.

“I’ll bet I made a mistake in showing off that way,” thought Marcy. “As soon as this company is organized they will take me out of the ranks and make me a corporal or something, and that would be a misfortune, for I shouldn’t have half the chance to talk to Bowen that I’ve got now.”

There were forty recruits warned for duty, and when they were all standing before him the sergeant said that when they heard the bugle sound the adjutant’s call at nine o’clock in the morning, they would be expected to assemble on the parade ground, and when they got there they would be armed and told what to do. Then, having performed his duty, the sergeant faced them to the right and broke ranks, at the same time looking hard at Marcy and jerking his head over his shoulder toward the door. Marcy followed him when he left the barracks, and when they were out of hearing of everybody the sergeant said:

“Where have you been drilled?”

“At the Barrington Military Academy. I was there almost four years. But don’t say anything about it, will you?”

“You’re sure you’re not a deserter?” continued the sergeant.

“No!” gasped Marcy. “I am a refugee. I haven’t even been conscripted. I was arrested in my mother’s presence and shoved into Williamston jail; and if I were a deserter, don’t you suppose Captain Wilkins would have known it? What put that into your head?”

“Oh, I saw you had been drilled somewhere, and I didn’t know but it was in the army. If that was the case you would be in a bad row of stumps among these Home Guards. If one of them could prove that you are a deserter he would get a thirty days’ furlough.”

“And what would be done with me?”

“I am sure I don’t know, but nobody would ever see you again after General Winder got his hands on you.”

“Who is General Winder?” inquired Marcy.

“He is the officer who has charge of all the Southern prisons, and it is owing to him that the Yanks are starving and dying by scores right here in this stockade,” said the sergeant bitterly.

“Starving and dying by scores!” ejaculated Marcy, who had never heard of such a thing before.

“That’s what I said. There were twenty-three bodies brought through that gate yesterday, and eighteen this morning.”

“Why, that’s brutal! it’s downright heathenish!” exclaimed Marcy.

“Well, we can’t give them what we haven’t got, can we?” demanded the sergeant. “Winder could send us grub if he wanted to——”

“I know he could,” interrupted Marcy. “There’s plenty of it along the road between here and Raleigh. I saw it.”

“But as long as he doesn’t see fit to forward it we can’t issue it to the prisoners,” added the sergeant. “You don’t want some Home Guard to report to him that you are a deserter, do you?”

“I should say not,” exclaimed Marcy. “If that’s the sort of a brute he is, I would stand no show at all with him. But no one can prove that I have ever been in the army before.”

“They might put you to some trouble to prove that you haven’t, and my object in bringing you out here was to warn you that you’d better not throw on any military airs while you stay in this camp.”

“I am very grateful to you,” replied Marcy, who did not expect to find a sympathizing friend in a rebel non-commissioned officer. “You are not a Home Guard?”

“Not much. I was one of the first men in our county to volunteer, but I couldn’t stand hard campaigning, and so I asked to be put on light duty, and I had influence enough to carry my point. But I would have stayed in the army till I died if I had dreamed that I would be sent to help guard a slaughterhouse; for that is just what this stockade is. The commander is nothing but a Home Guard, but he hates conscripts as bad as he does Yankees, and you want to watch out and do nothing to incur his displeasure.”

“I don’t know how to thank you——” began Marcy.

“That’s all right. I knew as soon as I looked at you that you are as much out of place here as I am, and I don’t want to see you get into trouble. Of course you won’t repeat what I have said to you.”

“Not by a long shot. You have done me too great a favor.”

The two separated, and Marcy went into the barracks and sought his bunk, feeling as if he were in some way to blame for the sufferings of the Union soldiers who were confined within the stockade. That they should be allowed to perish for want of food, when there was an abundance of it scattered along the line of the railroad within easy reach of the prison, seemed so terrible to Marcy that he could not dismiss it from his mind so that he could go to sleep. He did not then know that the Confederate commissary was the worst managed branch of the army, and that General Bragg’s men had been on short rations while in Corinth there was a pile of hard tack as long and high as the railroad depot that was going to waste. Our starving boys in Libby prison could look through the grated windows upon the fertile fields of Manchester, “waving with grain and alive with flocks and herds,” and General Lee wrote that there were supplies enough in the country, and if the proper means were taken to procure them there would not be so many desertions from his army. Every Union soldier who died for want of food in Southern prison pens was deliberately murdered, and the Richmond papers declared that General Winder was to blame for it. If the latter had not been summoned by death to answer before a higher tribunal, there is no doubt but that he would have been hanged by sentence of court martial as Captain Wirz was.

Marcy Gray scarcely closed his eyes in slumber that night, and when he did, his sleep was disturbed by horrible dreams in which starving prisoners and unfeeling Confederate officers bore prominent parts. He arose from his bunk as weary and dispirited as he was when he got into it, breakfasted on a cup of sweet potato coffee and a small piece of corn bread, and when the adjutant’s call sounded was one of the first to appear on the parade ground; but he did not take as much pains to fall in like a soldier as he did the day before. On the contrary he seemed to be the greenest one among the conscripts, for when he was commanded to “dress up a little on the right centre” he did not move until the adjutant shook his sword at him and asked if he were hard of hearing.

In only one particular did this guard-mount resemble those in which Marcy had often taken part at the Barrington Academy. The guard, which was composed of an equal number of Home Guards and conscripts, was divided into two platoons with an officer of the guard in command of each, and an officer of the day in command of the whole, and there all attempts to follow the tactics ceased except when the adjutant saluted the new officer of the day and reported, “Sir, the guard is formed.” There was no band to sound off and no marching in review. Instead of that the officer of the day said to one of his lieutenants, “Go ahead, Billy, and fill up the boxes,” and in obedience to the order, the same sergeant who had warned the conscripts for duty the night before placed himself at the head of the first platoon, to which Marcy belonged, and marched them to the commander’s headquarters, where they were supplied with old-fashioned muskets and cartridge-boxes.

“Give me that gun!” shouted the sergeant, who was out of all patience when he saw that some of the conscripts held their pieces at trail arms, and that others placed them on their shoulders as they might have done if they had been going to hunt squirrels in the woods. “Now watch me. This is shoulder arms. Put your guns that way, all of you, and keep them there.”

So saying he marched the platoon away to relieve the sentries on post. Marcy was No. 6, and this brought him to a station about the middle of the eastern side of the stockade. When his number was called he followed the sergeant up a ladder and into a box from which a grizzly Home Guard had been keeping watch during the morning hours. The latter, instead of bringing his musket to arms port, as he ought to have done when passing his orders, dropped the butt of it to the floor and rested his chin on his hands, which he clasped over the muzzle.

“There aint nothing much to do but jest loaf here and keep an eye on them abolitionists,” said he, jerking his head toward the stockade. “Do you see that dead-line down there? Well, if you see one of ’em trying to get over or under it shoot him down; and don’t stop to ask him no questions, neither. I’d like mighty well to get a chance to do it, kase I want thirty days home. I reckon that’s all, aint it, sard?”

The sergeant said he reckoned it was, and when the two went down the ladder Marcy stepped to the side of his box and took his first view of the inside of a Southern prison pen. He had seen a picture of Camp Douglas in an illustrated paper which Captain Burrows gave him one day when he was in Plymouth, and had taken note that the Confederate prisoners there confined were provided with comfortable quarters, into which they could retreat in stormy weather, and where they could find shade when the sun grew too hot for them; but there was nothing of the kind inside this stockade. There was no shelter from sun or rain except such as the prisoners had been able to provide for themselves. There were multitudes of little tents made of blankets, which were hardly high enough for a man to crawl into, and scattered among them were mounds of earth that looked so much like graves that Marcy was startled when he saw a ragged, emaciated apparition, which had once been an able-bodied Union soldier, slowly emerge from one of them and throw himself down upon the ground as if he didn’t care whether he ever got up again or not. The stockade was crowded with just such pitiful objects, who dragged their skeleton forms wearily over the sun-baked earth or lay as motionless as dead men under the shelter of their little tents. It was a spectacle to which no language could do justice, and Marcy turned from it sick at heart to make an examination of the stockade itself. It was built of pine logs set upright in the ground and scored on each side so that they would stand closely together, and they were held in place by heavy planks which were spiked across them on the outside near the top. Built upon little platforms, located at regular intervals around the top of the stockade, were sentry boxes like the one Marcy now occupied, to which access was gained by ladders leading from the ground outside. On the inside of the stockade, about fifteen feet from it and running parallel to it all the way around, was a railing three feet high made by nailing strips of boards to posts that had been firmly set in the ground. It was an innocent looking thing, but it had sent into eternity more than one brave man who had incautiously approached it. It was the dead-line.

“But it will never be the death of anybody while I am on post,” thought Marcy, wondering how any man could want a furlough bad enough to shoot a fellow being down in cold blood. “I never could look my mother or Jack in the face if I should do a deed like that, and I’d never have a good night’s rest. Heaven will never smile upon a cause upheld by men who are as cruel as these rebels are. They ought to be whipped.”

Long before the time arrived for him to be relieved Marcy became so affected by the sight of the misery and suffering he had no power to alleviate that he wanted to drop his musket and take to his heels; and he would have welcomed a cyclone or an earthquake, or any other convulsion of nature, that would have shut it out from his view forever. On several occasions some of the thirsty wretches approached within a few feet of the dead-line, with battered, smoke-begrimed cups or pieces of bent tin in their hands, to drink from the sluggish stream that flowed through the pen—for the water was clearer there than it was anywhere else—and then it was that the fiendish nature of the sentry in the next box on the right showed itself. As often as a prisoner drew near to the stream with a dish in his hand, this man would cock his musket, bring it to a ready, and crane his long neck eagerly forward, as if he hoped that the soldier might forget himself and approach close enough to the fatal line to give him an excuse for shooting. Once or twice Marcy was on the point of warning the boys in blue to keep farther away, but he remembered in time that he had been told to ask no questions, and that was the same as an order forbidding him to speak to the prisoners. To his great joy the sentry who was so anxious to have a furlough did not earn it that day. At length Marcy saw the relief approaching, and then he took the first long, easy breath he had drawn for four miserable hours. He passed his orders in as few words as possible and hurried down the ladder, feeling as if he had just been released from prison himself. He marched around the stockade with the relief, and was surprised to see how extensive it was. It was not crowded like Andersonville, nor were the sanitary conditions quite so bad; but they were bad enough, and the mortality was just as great in proportion to the number of prisoners confined in it. When they reached the barracks the platoon to which he belonged was drilled for half an hour at stacking arms, and it was not until the movement was accomplished to his satisfaction that the officer of the guard allowed them to break ranks and go to dinner.

“You look as though you had had a spell of sickness,” were the first words his friend Bowen said to him, when the two found opportunity to exchange a few words in private. “What’s the matter?”

“Wait until you have stood in one of those boxes for four hours, and see if you don’t feel as bad as I look,” answered Marcy. “It’s awful, and I don’t see how I can go there again. Why, Charley, the sentry who stood next to me fairly ached to shoot one of those poor fellows. I never saw a quail hunter more eager to get a shot than he was.”

“Did the prisoner come near the dead-line?”

“There must have been fifty or more of them who came to the bayou to get a drink; but they were not within ten feet of the dead-line.”

“And what did you do?”

“I? I didn’t do anything.”

“Well, the next time that thing happens, I would make a little demonstration, if I were in your place,” said Bowen. “You can act as if you were going to shoot, but of course you needn’t unless you have to.”

“Do you want me to understand that I will be reported if I don’t?”

“That’s what I mean. I have had a talk with some of these Home Guards this morning, and have found out what sort of chaps they are. If you are too easy with the prisoners you’ll get them down on you, and then they’ll tell on you whether you do anything wrong or not. And you want to keep out of the clutches of the captain, for he’s a heathen.”

Marcy afterward had occasion to remember this warning.