BOOK SECOND.
I.
“Plus in carcere spiritus acquirit, quam caro amittit.”—Tertullian.
| “Eternal spirit of the chainless mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart— The heart which love of thee alone can bind: And when thy sons to fetters are consigned— To fetters, and the damp vault’s dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom’s fame finds wings on every wind.” Prisoner of Chillon. |
Within the deadly shadows of this enormous palisade were assembled and confined together at one time during the hot months of 1864, more than thirty-five thousand soldiers, of the various armies of the United States—more men than Alexander led across the Hellespont to the conquest of Asia; more men than followed Napoleon in those glorious campaigns over the bright fields of Northern Italy, where every helmet caught some beam of glory.
Here were men of all conditions, birth, and fortune—some of the best blood and sap of the republic.
The strong-limbed lumbermen from the forests of Maine, the tall, gigantic men from the mountains of Pennsylvania, the hunters of the great prairies of the West,—those men of wonderful courage and endurance,—the artisan from the workshop, the student from his books, the lawyer from the forum, the minister from the pulpit, the child of wealth, and the poor widow’s only son, were collected here in this field of torture.
View of Interior of the Prison, with the quagmire and crowds of huts
and men beyond. From rebel photographs.—Page 29.