In this cheerless place our party, six in number, and nine Tennesseeans, were confined during the months of December and January!
The first day of our imprisonment here, our spirits sank lower than they had ever done before. All our bright hopes were dashed to the ground, and there seemed every reason to believe that we were doomed to this dreary abode for the remaining term of the war, even if we escaped sharing with our murdered friends the horrors of a Southern scaffold. It was too disheartening for philosophy, and that day was one of the blackest gloom. We seldom spoke, and when we did, it was to denounce our folly, in suffering ourselves to be deluded to Richmond by the lies they had told, and not seizing some of the many opportunities our journey afforded for making our escape. But it was no use lamenting; and all we could do was to register a solemn vow never to be deceived by them again. When night came, we knelt in prayer to God, and if I ever prayed with fervor, it was in this hour of disappointment and dread. I tried to roll all my cares upon the Lord, and partly succeeded, rising from my knees comforted, and assured that whatever might be the issue, we had one Friend who was nigh to save, and had often made his children rejoice, in worse situations than ours. The next morning I awoke again cheerful, and felt nerved for any fate that might befall me.
Here the routine of prison life did not differ materially from that at Atlanta. We had to go down to the court (the building was square, and built with an open court in the center) to wash in the morning, and were immediately taken back to our stall, and locked up. But the principal difference was our want of fire. This made it our greatest difficulty to keep warm, and effectually destroyed all those pleasant fireside chats that had done so much to make our condition endurable in the Atlanta barracks.
As the darkness and coldness of night drew on, we were compelled to pace the floor, trying to keep warm; and when sleep became a necessity, we would all pile down in a huddle, as pigs sometimes do, and spread over us the thin protection of our two bits of carpet. Thus we would lie until too cold to remain longer, and then arise and resume our walk. We had always plenty of light, except when the awkwardness of the gas managers left the whole city in darkness, which was frequently the case.