DELIVERANCE.

[3]At a point on the Cape Fear river, about ten miles from Wilmington, N. C., a trainload of old Andersonville prisoners who had been confined also at Florence, S. C., and Salisbury, N. C., were delivered to General Terry. They had just been paroled at Goldsboro, and were received by him about the middle of March, 1865. His headquarters was at a point on the Cape Fear river and recently taken from the enemy. It was now held by the Third New Hampshire, Sixteenth New York heavy artillery, and by a division of colored troops.The freight cars halted in a pine forest about a mile from this position, which commanded a pontoon bridge. A squad of cavalry received the ex-prisoners, unfurling the Stars and Stripes in greeting. Many of the boys in blue wept, when they saw our plight. The released men tried to hurrah, but were too weak to raise much of a shout. Three ambulances were loaded with as many of the sick as could be taken on the first trip.

At the farther end of the pontoon bridge the road led through a deep cut in the bank up to the open space of the camp where guns pointed over the river towards the forest through which the freight train had come from Goldsboro with the paroled men. Spanning this cut was an arch constructed of evergreen boughs and faced with the white cloth square of shelter tent, upon which was spelled in letters made of evergreen sprigs, “THE SIXTEENTH NEW YORK WELCOMES YOU HOME.”

The march of a mile from the railroad to the pontoon bridge greatly exhausted the paroled prisoners. At first the excitement of once more gazing upon the flag they loved, and being received by the advanced squadron, stimulated them to walk with some show of vigor.

But soon their eyes shone with the unwonted brightness of fatigue in contrast with their pinched and grimy faces. Many sank by the wayside, to be picked up by the ambulance when the same could return for them.

The stronger ones worked up into the head of the column which crossed the pontoon bridge and the advance files of men undertook to walk up through the cut in the bank at the bridge end. But their feet sank in the sand and they were too weak to go further.

Meanwhile a company of colored soldiers were drawn up through the cut in two ranks facing. Between these lines and under the arch our ambulance passed; the horses tugging with might and main up the steep grade and through the deep sand. The white officers and the black soldiers stood at “Present Arms.” The eyes of the soldiers opened and their teeth gleamed with an aspect of astonishment, as they for the first time beheld seasoned graduates from a course of experiences in war-prisons. The living wrecks in the ambulances were still more pale and ghastly than were the stronger ones following slowly on foot, and as the latter emerged from the woods on to the floating bridge, the onlooking crowd of our men off duty began to be stirred with a great excitement.

As the ambulances lined up before headquarters, General Terry approached. With him were the brigade surgeon and a representative of the United States Christian Commission. The General looked upon us with tear-dimmed eyes; and turning to the surgeon gave his pocket flask, saying, “Doctor, for God’s sake, help these poor fellows.”This ambulance stopped on the crest of the hill, when the Christian Commission man stepped to its side and said to the writer, “My boy, you will get out here.” Seeing I was too weak to rise from the seat, he said, “Just lie across my shoulder.” This I did and he carried me into a near-by country church building which sheltered the sick until they could be conveyed by boat to Wilmington.

Meanwhile the straggling column of paroled prisoners had crossed the bridge. An officer undertook to form them into ranks so as to march in form under the arch and between the lines which stood at “Present arms.” Their feet sank in the soft sand of the cut, and after taking a few steps they were utterly exhausted. The officer in charge thus addressed the two lines: “Shoulder arms!” “Order arms!” “Stack arms!” “Break ranks and carry these men up the hill!” With a mighty cheer the athletic colored soldiers sprang forward and each picked up an emaciated, wilted prisoner, carried him up the hill, and tenderly placed him on the ground. In due time, the sick were taken by boat to the Wright House Hospital, Wilmington, and the stronger ones were placed in a camp waiting transportation by steamer to the north.

In the winter of 1875-76, the partially regained health of the writer collapsed, and he was advised to consult his former regimental surgeon, Dr. Wells B. Fox. The Doctor said, “You may live a good while, and you may not. Prepare to leave your family in as good shape as possible. If you have unsettled accounts fix them up.”

Pursuant to this advice, and needing the benefit of a climate warmer than a Michigan winter, he went to Washington to close up some army matters. Here he was received very kindly by Surgeon General Barnes, and by him ordered to have a thorough examination by experts of the medical department. The diagnosis was more favorable than was deemed possible, and its correctness has been verified by the subsequent years.

On the journey from Cheboygan to Washington, a stop was made at Greenville. With his host, a call was made on the Rev. James L. Patton, pastor of the Congregational Church of that place. As the evening passed, conversation turned to army happenings. After reciting some experiences in the service of the United States Christian Commission, with an aroused manner, Dr. Patton said, “I must tell you of an occasion that I shall never forget. I was in the Christian Commission service outside Wilmington, North Carolina, near the close of the war, with General Terry, when he received the first installment of old Andersonville prisoners as they were sent into our lines. Terry was all broken up over their condition.” “Could the prisoners walk?” asked the writer. “Yes,” he replied; “some of them could, but many had to be brought in on ambulances.” He was asked, “Where did you put those who were sick?” “We laid them on the floor of a little church that was close by,” Dr. Patton replied. Extending his hand the writer said, “Dr. Patton, thank you.” “Why, why,” he replied hesitatingly, “you need not thank me for the story; it is true and you are welcome to it.” “Yes,” was the response, “I have no doubt the story is true. I do not thank you for it, but for helping me out of the ambulance at that time.” Need it be said that these two men found themselves comrades, indeed?