Soon after daylight we reached the little village of Greencastle, Pennsylvania, where the citizens came out to look at the “Rebel” prisoners. They hurrahed for their own men and cursed at us. Even the women joined in the game. Several of them brought their children to the roadside and told them to shake their fists at the “d—d Rebels.” Still there were some kind people in Greencastle. Three or four ladies came to us, and, without pretending to have any liking for Confederates, showed their charitable disposition by giving us some bread and a cup of cold water. My horse was taken from me at Greencastle and ridden off by a dirty-looking cavalryman. Then the Confederates, numbering a hundred or more, were packed into the cars, and sent by the railway to Chambersburg.

Duxberry had the good luck to be away from camp the night that we marched from Crampton’s Gap, and was not taken. Leech had been asleep in one of the wagons, and did not wake up until we had all been gathered in.

Chambersburg is a pretty little town, and I had the satisfaction of seeing it a year later under pleasanter auspices. On arriving there the first time, the Confederates were put in the open yard of the jail which we pretty well filled. Our presence there suggested a new and interesting game to the small boys of Chambersburg. It was a plain calculation that a stone which should fall within the area of the yard would be very apt to hit one of the prisoners. The boys, therefore, amused themselves by pitching stones over from the outside, enjoying in this way the luxury of scaring the “Rebels,” and hurting them too, without any risk to themselves. It was sport to the boys, but it came near being death to some of our men. But here, as at Greencastle, there were some charitable souls. Mr. A. K. McClure, who is now the editor of the Philadelphia Times, came to the jail with a committee of citizens, and gave us an abundance of coffee and bread and meat. That night we lay on the rough stones in the jail yard, and in the morning we were put on the train for Harrisburg. We did not go into the town, but were taken at once to Camp Curtin, in the suburbs, where we were to remain until our final destination should be determined on.

By this time I had no baggage. It had been promised that my valise, which was in one of the wagons, should be given to me, but it was appropriated, I suppose, by one of our captors. At all events, I saw nothing of it, and could get no information about it.

At Camp Curtin we were tolerably comfortable. There were only two officers in our party besides myself, and as my uniform was comparatively bright and fresh I attracted more attention than my rank warranted. The United States officers at the camp were exceedingly attentive, and talked with me in the frankest manner about the position of affairs and the prospects of their army. They gave me a blanket which I needed sorely, and bestowed upon me what was equally desirable, a new tooth-brush. The evening after my arrival, the Commandant of the camp asked me whether I would not like to go into town, saying that one of the officers was anxious to take me in with him. I told him I had no other dress than my uniform, and if I had I would not wear it, and I did not suppose that any of the officers would care to go into Harrisburg with a Confederate officer in uniform. The Commandant said that this was what was proposed, although he did not think it very prudent. The Commandant gave me the necessary pass, and Captain —— and I went into the town.

First we went into the principal hotel and took supper. The persons hanging about the hotel looked at me rather sulkily, but I was too hungry to pay much attention to them. After supper we walked out to the front of the hotel, where my companion slapped me on the shoulder, and said in a loud voice: “Here is a real live Rebel officer! The first man that says a word to him I will knock his d—d head off!” This was not a very pacific speech to make to a crowd of fanatical Pennsylvanians, who had just heard that the battle of Sharpsburg had begun. Nothing came of it at the moment, and my companion now insisted that we should visit the principal music hall. As we entered, the whole company of singers was on the stage shouting lustily: “The Union and McClellan forever! Three cheers for the Buck-tail Brigade,” the audience joining in the chorus with patriotic energy. My companion marched me down the middle of the hall to the very front seat, and there was a murmur of astonishment and disapprobation. But my companion did not mind it, and I could not help it, so we remained there about half an hour and then passed out, with no other damage than being scowled at by the audience. By this time my companion was decidedly exhilarated; and the next time that he invited an attack, by saying that he would inflict condign punishment on any one who molested me, an indignant patriot knocked my hat off. I knocked down the man who did it, and half a dozen men pitched into me at once. There was a general scrimmage. Knives were drawn, a shot was fired, and I knew nothing more until I found myself in a large room surrounded by a group of soldiers. In the row, it seemed, my companion had been treated rather badly, and I had been choked and knocked until I was insensible, and, indeed, was only saved from death by a woman, who seized the arm of my foremost assailant and prevented him from stabbing me to the heart. Just as I had learned the particulars, the door opened and an officer came in whom I recognized as the Commandant of Camp Curtin. He said very quietly: “I thought you would be very apt to bring up at the guard-house about this time, so I came in to look after you.” He then accompanied me back to camp. I did not wish to trouble the Commandant to escort me to my quarters, but he told me that his guards were quite young, rather stupid, and very malicious, and quite apt to shoot at a stray prisoner without giving him a chance to halt and explain. I objected no further. The whole night’s work was a very unpleasant one for me, but I had no way of escaping from the difficulty when I once reached the city. Captain —— had been drinking hard, which I had not suspected until it was too late. If I had left him and gone off alone I should have been in worse case than by remaining in his company.

The next morning the Harrisburg paper had a glowing account of an attempt I had made to escape from camp, and said that, when recaptured, I had nearly succeeded in laying a mine to blow up the great bridge across the Susquehannah. The newspapers, too, were very severe in their condemnation of the Union officers who had been seen in the city in company with a “Rebel officer in full uniform.”

Early the next day we were ordered to be ready to take the cars for Philadelphia, on the way to Fort Delaware. Just before leaving camp, I was told that there were some ladies at the gate who desired to see me. I went down and found two handsomely dressed women in an open carriage. One of them asked me whether I did not recognize her. I told her that I did not, and she said: “You ought to do so, for I was passing by when you got into that difficulty in town, and was the means of saving your life.” I thanked her very warmly, but told her that there were too many demands on my attention at the time of the fight to permit me to have seen her. The ladies bade me very heartily good-bye, and I left my unknown friends.

It was not a long run to Philadelphia, and in the cars was a civilian who accosted me courteously, and asked me many questions about the Confederacy and the Southern people, the character of the army and the estimation in which the different Generals were held. All such questions I answered as well as I could without divulging anything that might be of injury to our side, and taking care to depict everything in the highest possible colors. It was night when the train reached the Quaker City, and I suppose that ten thousand persons were awaiting the arrival of the train. There were no lamps in the cars, and the persons in the crowd outside clambered up at the windows, even lighting matches and holding lanterns to our heads that they might see us the better, as though we were wild beasts in a cage. One man thrust his hand in through the sash, grasped my hand firmly and whispered: “Cheer up, it will all come out right.” At last, it was my turn to leave the cars, and, as usual, my scarlet cap attracted more attention than was agreeable. Some said I was a drummer-boy, others declared I was a Colonel, while one big fellow shouted out that he knew that I was a spy who had deserted from the Union Army, and had been recaptured. There was instantly a shout: “Hang him to the lamp-post,” and for a few minutes I was in worse plight at Philadelphia than I had been in at Stevensburg. The guard, however, succeeded in driving the crowd back, and I reached in safety the steamer which was to take us to Fort Delaware.