At about half past five, soldiers and prisoners began their long march to the Arsenal. The streets through which they passed were lined with people agitated with deep but diverse emotions. Some viewed with smiles, if not with open-mouthed exultation, the column of disarmed, tramping prisoners, shut in between files of newly armed Germans; the same scene stirred others to bitter execration. From the windows of some houses the soldiers were saluted by the waving of handkerchiefs; from the windows of others women expressed their bitter scorn by spitting at them. These troops with their crestfallen prisoners marched along a street which crossed the one on which I lived. A lady from the South was spending a few days with a family that lived next door to me. She was a very pleasant person, and altogether sane on every subject except that of secession. Any allusion to that seemed at once to unbalance her. She stood with quite a large group of spectators at the intersection of the streets, viewing the troops as they began to file past with the prisoners. She trembled with excitement. She forgot her ladyhood. She clenched and shook her fist at the soldiers, and cried, “They’ve got my lover.” A moment after she ran up to, and spat upon, a soldier; in a twinkling he broke ranks, leveled his bayonet toward her, and chased her down the street before my door. A sergeant followed him, seized him by the collar and led him back to his place in the marching column. When night was slowly shutting down on the city, soldiers and prisoners arrived at the Arsenal; the former to stand guard over their new charge, the latter to think after the excitement of the day was over on this sudden and unexpected change in their affairs. For supper they were offered ordinary soldier’s fare; but having been luxuriously fed at Camp Jackson from the tables of their secession friends, they scorned army rations. They not only refused to eat but, to show their contempt for their captors and their resentment for being treated as prisoners of war, they kicked over the buckets of coffee provided for them, and tossed the hardtack and bacon over the enclosing wall of the Arsenal. They were not very hungry, but some of them afterwards reported that they were treated with indignity and that the Yankees tried to starve them. At the taking of Camp Jackson there was a spectator, then comparatively unknown, who was destined to fill a large place in his country’s history. He was a graduate of West Point and had served with fidelity as a subordinate officer in the regular army. Besides such service he had been by turns a banker in San Francisco and New York, an attorney in Leavenworth, Kansas, and superintendent of a military academy in Louisiana. Just then he was president of a street horse-car railway in St. Louis. Such, up to that time, had been the checkered career of William Tecumseh Sherman.