I belonged to the 51st Alabama Cavalry, Col. John T. Morgan commanding, Wheeler's Corps.  I was captured at Shelbyville, Tenn., on June 27, 1863, and taken to Camp chase, where we were kept about two weeks.  Being alarmed by Gen. John H. Morgan, the "Kentucky Terror," crossing the Ohio River into Indiana, the authorities marched us double quick to Columbus, where we were put in stock cars and sent to Philadelphia, thence by boat to Delaware Island, called Fort Delaware, situated fifty miles east of Philadelphia in the Delaware bay, about two miles from land.  We landed there on the 17th of July, and were strung out on the island and searched.  Not even an old broken bladed knife was left to me, but they did leave my Bible, which they said was a bad thing for me to have.  We were then marched inside the barracks, where the prisoners were as thick as blackbirds, said to be about ten thousand.  All the Gettysburg prisoners were there, and through them I learned of the death of my brother-in- Law, Capt. J.M. Teague, who fell in the second day's engagement.  The prisoners were all divided by States, with a sergeant leader, and given separate quarters in the barracks, which were long, rough box buildings.  No beds nor, bed clothing except an overcoat and blanket, a hard plank bunk, as they were called, which did very well in warm weather; but when the zero weather came, it was awful, and only one sheet iron stove to about one hundred and fifty men.
     The first day of January, 1864, I think was the coldest day I ever saw.  A few would ring themselves around the stove and form a wall as strong as they could, while the rest trotted back and forth to keep from freezing.  When tired of this, they would form into a line, charge the ring, and all that could take possession, and so on.  Sometimes a fight would occur.  I really feared that we would all freeze that night.  I had two friends that bunked with me, and they were kind enough to let me lie between them.  We lay "spoon style," when one turned, we all had to turn.  To my surprise, there were no deaths reported next morning.  They gave us two scanty meals a day -- three crackers, a little piece of meat, and Irish  potatoes, and a cup of thin soup.  Later on, they changed the bread to a piece of loaf bread.  If anyone took another's allowance, he was punished for it -- tied up by the thumbs.
     My health failed in October. I stayed in the barracks until I was so weak that four men laid me on a blanket and carried me to the hospital.  Some of my friends said:  "That is the last of him."  After a month's treatment, I returned to the barracks.  The men were dying daily in great numbers.  When one died, he was carried out to the dead house till next morning, then the burial detail would come with a coffin, the army chaplain, an Episcopal minister, would hold a burial service, after which the body was carried to the wharf, thence to the Jersey shore and buried.
     In February I had another break down, rheumatism, and again was carried to the hospital.  After partially recovering, I obtained a ward master's place, where I served several months visiting and comforting the sick generally, as a spiritual adviser.  Later the chaplain, Mr. Paddock, got the general to let me assist him, in which capacity I worked among the sick.
     When President Lincoln was killed, all the Rebel attendants and convalescent patients were ordered to the barracks.  A good many prisoners had agreed to take the oath to the United States government:  and these took places as attendants, but I went out.  Going by the managing steward's office, who had been kind to me, and whom I wanted to tell good-by, Lieutenant Wolf was there and said to me:  "Lackey, there is no use in being pompous about this thing; if you will agree to take the oath, you need not leave: "I replied.  "Lieutenant, I expect to have it to do, but I am not prepared to do it now."  And I walked out.
     I must not close without reference to the noble work of some good women, as true patriots as any Southern women.  Among them was Mrs. E.R. Peterkin, of Philadelphia, who came to the hospital time and again and brought delicacies and various good things to the patients; also assisted many true "Rebs," as we were called, but she would not help anyone who had applied for the oath.  We all looked on them with contempt, called them "Galvanized Yankees."  When the final surrender came, she wrote me a nice letter, inclosing five dollars, and said:  You have done all you could for the Southern cause, and now show yourselves true men by returning to your homes and make the best of them you can."
     We were released on the 15th of June, 1865.  I reached my home on the 20th, and found my wife and three little girls safe and sound.  We knelt that night and gave thanks to the Heavenly Father who had so wonderfully preserved us.  We still trust all to him, "who doeth all things well."

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