Instantly there went up a general shout: "Read the parole to us." The Rebel was handed a blank parole by a companion, and he read over the printed condition at the top, which was that those signing agreed not to bear arms against the Confederates in the field, or in garrison, not to man any works, assist in any expedition, do any sort of guard duty, serve in any military constabulary, or perform any kind of military service until properly exchanged.
For a minute this was satisfactory; then their ingrained distrust of any thing a Rebel said or did returned, and they shouted: "No, no; let some of us read it; let Ilinoy' read it--" The Rebel looked around in a puzzled manner.
"Who the h--l is 'Illinoy!' Where is he ?" said he.
I saluted and said: "That's a nickname they give me." "Very well," said he, "get up on this stump and read this parole to these d---d fools that won't believe me." I mounted the stump, took the blank from his hand and read it over slowly, giving as much emphasis as possible to the all-important clause at the end--"until properly exchanged." I then said: "Boys, this seems all right to me," and they answered, with almost one voice: "Yes, that's all right.

We'll sign that." I was never so proud of the American soldier-boy as at that moment.

They all felt that signing that paper was to give them freedom and life.

They knew too well from sad experience what the alternative was.

Many felt that unless released another week would see them in their graves.