The men were going about their business as coolly as if loading slaughtered hogs.

'One of them would catch the body by the feet, and the other by the arms.

They would give it a swing--"One, two, three," and up it would go into the wagon.

This filled heaping full with corpses, a negro mounted the wheel horse, grasped the lines, and shouted to his animals: "Now, walk off on your tails, boys." The horses strained, the wagon moved, and its load of what were once gallant, devoted soldiers, was carted off to nameless graves.

This was a part of the daily morning routine.
As we stood looking at the sickeningly familiar architecture of the prison pen, a Seventh Indianian near me said, in tones of wearisome disgust: "Well, this Southern Confederacy is the d---dest country to stand logs on end on God Almighty's footstool.".