“Where are you going?” I asked somewhat sternly.
He hesitated and stammered out, “to Greenville, sir.”
“Do you live in Greenville?” I asked.
“No, sir,” said he, “I live in—in Columbia,” hesitatingly.
“You are a Yankee officer, I believe!” said I.
“Well, sir,” said he, “there is no use in denying it, I am.”
“So am I, old boy,” exclaimed I, grasping his hand, “put it there.”
If ever two fellows were pleased to find a friend when they had both expected to find an enemy, we two were, just then. The hearty hand shaking that followed showed that we were mutually pleased to find, that, instead of running onto an armed reb, we had run across an old comrade. We had been in prison together in Macon, Savannah, Charleston and Columbia, and still were strangers to each other. This officer proved to be Captain H. H. Alban, 21st Ohio Vols., who was taken prisoner at Chicamauga. He had two dressed chickens, and a quantity of corn bread, that he had just bought in Greenwood of a negro.
He gave me a good sized piece of corn bread, which I thought the sweetest morsel I had ever tasted, for I had not eaten anything all day, and was half starved.
I bought one of the chickens for ten dollars, Captain Alban excusing himself for taking the money, by saying that he had just paid the last dollar he possessed for those two chickens and corn bread, and when they were gone he would be obliged to forage or starve.