If we turned off to the left we were going back to Andersonville.

If we took the right hand road we were on the way to Charleston or Richmond, with the chances in favor of exchange.
At length we started, and, to our joy, our engine took the right hand track.

We stopped again, after a run of five miles, in the midst of one of the open, scattering forests of long leaved pine that I have before described.

We were ordered out of the cars, and marching a few rods, came in sight of another of those hateful Stockades, which seemed to be as natural products of the Sterile sand of that dreary land as its desolate woods and its breed of boy murderers and gray-headed assassins.
Again our hearts sank, and death seemed more welcome than incarceration in those gloomy wooden walls.

We marched despondently up to the gates of the Prison, and halted while a party of Rebel clerks made a list of our names, rank, companies, and regiments.