I had seen men shot, and whipped, and shaved,
and branded at Corinth and Tupelo, and one poor fellow named Wright shot
at Shelbyville. They had all been horrid scenes to me, but they were
Rebels, and like begets like. I did not know when it would be my time to
be placed in the same position, you see, and "a fellow feeling makes us
wondrous kind." I did not know what was in store in the future for me.
Ah, there was the rub, don't you see. This shooting business wasn't a
pleasant thing to think about. But Yankees--that was different. I
wanted to see a Yankee spy hung. I wouldn't mind that. I would like to
see him agonize. A spy; O, yes, they had hung one of our regiment at
Pulaski--Sam Davis. Yes, I would see the hanging. After a while I saw a
guard approach, and saw two little boys in their midst, but did not see
the Yankees that I had been looking for. The two little boys were rushed
upon the platform. I saw that they were handcuffed. "Are they spies?"
I was appalled; I was horrified; nay, more, I was sick at heart. One was
about fourteen and the other about sixteen years old, I should judge.
The ropes were promptly adjusted around their necks by the provost
marshal. The youngest one began to beg and cry and plead most piteously.
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