We were packed in too densely to be able to lie down.
We could hardly sit down.

Andrews and I took up our position in one corner, piled our little treasures under us, and trying to lean against each other in such a way as to afford mutual support and rest, dozed fitfully through a long, weary night.
When morning came we found ourselves running northwest through a poor, pine-barren country that strongly resembled that we had traversed in coming to Savannah.

The more we looked at it the more familiar it became, and soon there was no doubt we were going back to Andersonville.
By noon we had reached Millen--eighty miles from Savannah, and fifty-three from Augusta.

It was the junction of the road leading to Macon and that running to Augusta.

We halted a little while at the "Y," and to us the minutes were full of anxiety.