There was only one figure in the least military
among all these twenty prisoners of war,--a man with a dark, intelligent,
moustached face, wearing a shabby cotton uniform, which he had contrived
to arrange with a degree of soldierly smartness, though it had evidently
borne the brunt of a very filthy campaign. He stood erect, and talked
freely with those who addressed him, telling them his place of residence,
the number of his regiment, the circumstances of his capture, and such
other particulars as their Northern inquisitiveness prompted them to ask.
I liked the manliness of his deportment; he was neither ashamed, nor
afraid, nor in the slightest degree sullen, peppery, or contumacious, but
bore himself as if whatever animosity he had felt towards his enemies was
left upon the battle-field, and would not be resumed till he had again a
weapon in his hand.
Neither could I detect a trace of hostile feeling in the countenance,
words, or manner of any prisoner there. Almost to a man, they were
simple, bumpkin-like fellows, dressed in homespun clothes, with faces
singularly vacant of meaning, but sufficiently good-humored: a breed of
men, in short, such as I did not suppose to exist in this country,
although I have seen their like in some other parts of the world.
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