On the twentieth of February, we were again ordered to “pack up,” and this time for home. I cannot describe the wild tumult of joy with which the order was received. Many of the enlisted men, who with us occupied the building, though in a separate appartment, and to whom we had managed to smuggle some of our rations, were too weak to walk alone, and were obliged to walk between two of their comrades, who supported them to the boat and tenderly cared for them. Their emaciated forms and lusterless eyes, told a painful story of the starvation and suffering they had endured for the preservation of their country, and for their loyalty to the flag.
And yet there are those even here in the North, who grew rich through their sufferings, who begrudge them the beggarly pittance of a pension of a few dollars a month, to keep them from the poor house; when, by their heroic fortitude, and their indescribable sufferings, they made it possible for the bonds of the government to be worth a hundred cents on the dollar in gold; made it possible for these very men to be to-day enjoying the luxury of wealth in a happy and prosperous land; to be citizens of a country whose treasury is overflowing to such an extent that the President of the United States has deemed it necessary to cry out in alarm, that the country is in danger from a too plethoric treasury. These same heroic souls who twenty-five years ago, by their loyalty to the old flag, and whose patriotic devotion to the principles of universal freedom, led them to offer themselves upon the altar of their country, if they escaped a horrible death by starvation and are still living, are looked upon by many who profited so largely by their sacrifices, as beggars, because they ask to be remunerated for their shattered health, by a small pittance of ten or twelve dollars a month, to assist them in their old age and decrepitude.
On the morning of the 20th of February, 1865, the last ration of corn bread was issued, and I determined to preserve mine and bring it home to show to my friends. This I did, and have kept it ever since. It was twenty-three years old the 20th of February, 1888, and is still in a fair state of preservation, and on every anniversary of its issue to me, that old Libby prison ration and I have a little celebration, and revive old memories.
We were placed on board river steamers, which were skillfully piloted around the numerous torpedoes that had been sunk for the destruction of our gun-boats, should they attempt to assist in the capture of Richmond, and past the iron-clad monsters that were stationed all along for the protection of that rebel stronghold, and were conveyed to Varina landing, where, as we disembarked, we were met by an equal number of rebs who had been prisoners in our hands, and who returned on the same boats that took us down.
The contrast in the looks and appearances of these gray-backs and our poor boys, was painfully apparent. They were in robust health, full of life and vitality, and fit to at once take the field again, while our boys were scarcely able, many of them, to climb up the bank at the landing, without assistance. While they showed the effects of rest and plenty of wholesome food, our poor comrades showed equally the terrible effects of starvation and disease. They were in excellent condition to again at once go into active service, while we would need months of careful nursing, before any of us could again endure the hardships of camp life; and a large proportion, were forever broken in health, and would never again be able to perform the duties of a soldier.
We still had a march of six miles to make, before we reached the Union lines. Ambulances were in waiting, to convey those who were too feeble to endure the march, and the rest of us who had strength enough left, trudged along on foot.
