It needed a stout heart to turn from the frequent scenes of death, at that gloomy time, to cheer and amuse the less dangerously ill. The coming of Christmas was a source of excitement for a few days. Some of the boys had never heard of Santa Claus and his visits down the chimney at this merry season; and when his descent through the pipes, and passage through the stove-doors, and appearance in the tents became possibilities, there was as much amusement and anticipation among them as ever gladdened a nursery full of children. On the morning of this happy festival every man found a sock hanging by his side stuffed with mittens, scarfs, knives, suspenders, handkerchiefs, and many little things. Out of the top of each sock peeped a little flag; and as the men awoke, one by one, and examined the gifts of Santa Claus, shouts of merriment rang through the wards, and they were satisfied that he was a friend worth having.
All that was possible under the pressure of the melancholy circumstances was done to make the day a happy one; but it was not celebrated with the same rejoicings as the year before, nor was there much time to be spared from the sick and dying. Steamers were constantly arriving, and filling up the vacant places with new patients.
On a ragged, soiled piece of paper which a man handed me on landing were these lines, written at Andersonville by a boy of sixteen who died there. They are surely worthy of remembrance.
"Will you leave us here to die?
When our country called for men,
We came from forge and store and mill,
The broken ranks to fill;
We left our quiet, happy homes,
And ones we loved so well,
To vanquish all the Union foes,
Or fall where others fell.
Now, in prisons drear we languish,
And it is our constant cry,
O ye who yet can save us,
Will you leave us here to die?
"The voice of slander tells you
That our hearts were weak with fear,
That nearly every one of us
Was captured in the rear.
The scars upon our bodies
From the musket-ball and shell,
The missing legs and shattered arms
A truer tale will tell.
We have tried to do our duty
In the sight of God on high:
O ye who yet can save us,
Will you leave us here to die?
"There are hearts with hope still beating
In our pleasant Northern homes,
Waiting, watching for the footsteps
That may never, never come.
In Southern prisons pining,
Meagre, tattered, pale, and gaunt,
Growing weaker, weaker daily
From pinching cold and want.
Here brothers, sons, and husbands,
Poor and hopeless, captured lie:
O ye who yet can save them,
Will you leave us here to die?
"From out our prison gate,
There's a grave-yard close at hand,
Where lie ten thousand Union men
Beneath the Georgia sand.
Scores and scores are laid beside them,
As day succeeds to day;
And thus it ever will be
Till they all shall pass away,
And the last can say when dying,
With upturned and glazing eye,
Both love and faith are dead at home,—
They have left us here to die!"
A proof of the humanity with which the Rebel prisoners were treated by our government is found in the fact of their reluctance to be exchanged; they said that they were very comfortable, and would far rather remain at the North until the war was over. One general, who was having an artificial leg made, was forced to return against his will. His entreaties to be left behind prevailed for a few days; but at last he was obliged to take passage on the transport for exchange, as one of our own generals was awaiting his return to come home.
Among the prisoners who came in January was Boston Corbett, of the Seventeenth New York Cavalry. Every name made public even in remote connection with the death of our beloved President becomes an object of interest. The following is a characteristic letter from the brave and earnest-hearted patriot at whose hand the assassin met his doom:—
"Vienna, Va., March 9, 1865.