A man who either drunk or crazy, passing on the opposite side of the street, looked up at the window and seeing the crowd of prisoners, laughed and waved his hat. The officer standing at the door said to the sentry, “You had better bring that fellow in, anyhow.” He was accordingly brought in.
There is a man in Room 16, named Armand. He claims to be from Louisiana. He is of very dark complexion, with black hair, short black beard and mustache. He always wears a blue uniform, but I never saw him with a hat, either indoors or out. He is looked upon with suspicion and shunned by all. By many he is thought to be a spy. If he goes out of the room for any purpose whatever, the other prisoners exchange knowing glances, and shake their heads in a manner indicating distrust. Some do not hesitate to say: “He is now going down to make his report to Wood.” Every act is observed and commented on.
No one cares to be seen speaking to him or noticing him. If he approaches one with a pleasing expression on his face, as if about to speak, the person so approached will turn from him with a look of contempt, or, if addressed, return a half-hearted reply, and with a stealthy look around, as if to see if anyone observed him, shy off in a direction opposite that in which Armand appears to be going. Even the Yankee prisoners are shown more consideration, and more regard paid to their wants and advances. Men who occasionally bestow upon him a look of pity—such as they would give to a poor friendless dog—will quickly turn away if he shows a disposition to return a grateful acknowledgment.
Although I have no means of ascertaining whether this treatment is deserved, or if he is unjustly suspected, yet I cannot shut out from my breast a feeling of pity for the poor fellow.
At night, when all others were soundly sleeping in their bunks, I have often watched him as he paced the floor or stood at the window, his hands folded behind him, looking out into the deserted street, as lonely and forsaken as himself, singing, or rather crooning in a low, mournful, but not unmusical tone:
“When the sad, chilly winds of December,
Stole my flowers, my companions, from me.”
Tuesday, March 10.—Eorio, Comastro and Rinaldi, the three Italians I have already mentioned, were called before the Colonel acting in place of Parker, who is sick.
He questioned them in regard to their arrest, etc. He told them there was no reason for keeping them and they would be released to-morrow. Eorio promised to see my wife and tell her what I could not write her with any certainty of its being delivered. This I learned afterward he did faithfully.
Old Mr. Love was again called before the colonel. He had a certificate from the prison surgeon, stating that he was ill. That the confinement was injuring him, and he should be discharged. The Colonel told him his case would have to go before the Commission.