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 A Florida Boy's Experience. 395

fell into line and marched twelve miles. The cavalry in our front had been fighting all day, and intelligence has just been received that General Cleburne has attacked the enemy. We are holding our- selves in readiness to reinforce the gallant Irishman. I feel confident of the result in the impending battle, and firmly believe that we will be in Richmond to-morrow, living on the fat of the land. But some of us will pay the price of victory with our life's blood. May God give us the victory and have mercy upon the souls that are about to be suddenly ushered into the presence of their Maker. The troops are in splendid fighting trim, and victory seems to be a foregone con- clusion. But we must not be over-confident, but remembering that he that putteth on the harness should not boast as he that taketh it off, look to Divine power for succor in the day of battle.

A Florida Boy's Experience in Prison and in Escaping. By Henry G. Damon.

On the 19th of June, 1864, I became an inmate of Rock Island prison, having been captured June 12th, at Cynthiana, in the last battle fought by Morgan on Kentucky soil — a battle that crowned with disaster a raid which, up to that time, had succeeded beyond every anticipation. We were so completely outnumbered, that it was hardly a battle. The enemy approached us in front, and flanked us right and left. In a few minutes the fight became a rout, and our men were flying in every direction. About two hundred and fifty were captured, a few of whom were taken to Camp Chase, some to Camp Morton, and the remainder to Rock Island.

Rock Island prison, located on an island in the Mississippi, be- tween the towns of Davenport, Iowa, and Rock Island, Illinois, was perhaps the strongest prison in the West. It was a large, rectangu- lar pen, covering about twenty-five acres, and containing one hun- dred and twenty barracks, each having berths for one hundred and twenty men. A fence twelve feet high surrounded the prison yard. Inside and fifteen feet from the fence was a ditch from three to ten feet deep, dug down to solid rock, to prevent prisoners from tunnel- ling. The ditch was the dead line. We were commanded not to get in it, or cross it, on penalty of being shot. Guards paced the fence at short intervals, and overlooked the prison yard. For further security, the yard was illuminated every night by large kerosene lamps with reflectors, which were placed against the fence.