Their clothes were of all colors. Some wore gray, some blue, some butternut-colored clothes,—a dirty brown. They were very ragged. Some had old quilts for blankets, others faded pieces of carpeting, others strips of new carpeting, which they had taken from the stores. Some had caps, others old slouched felt hats, and others nothing but straw hats upon their heads.
“We fought well, but you outnumbered us,” said one.
“We should have beaten you as it was, if it hadn’t been for your gunboats,” said another.
“How happened it that General Floyd and General Pillow escaped, and left you?” I asked.
“They are traitors. I would shoot the scoundrels, if I could get a chance,” said a fellow in a snuff-colored coat, clenching his fist.
“I am glad the fighting is over. I don’t want to see another such day as yesterday,” said a Tennesseean, who was lying on the ground.
“What will General Grant do with us? Will he put us in prison?” asked one.
“That will depend upon how you behave. If you had not taken up arms against your country, you would not have been in trouble now.”
“We couldn’t help it, sir. I was forced into the army, and I am glad I am a prisoner. I sha’n’t have to fight any more,” said a blue-eyed young man, not more than eighteen years old.
There were some who were very sullen and sour, and there were others who did not care what became of them.