Every Day Fresh Trenches Are Dug In Which Their Bodies Are Thrown,
Generally Without Coffins.
Two of these, one near each wall of the
cemetery, were waiting for the funerals.
I saw where the spade had divided
the bones of those who were buried there last, and thrown up the broken
fragments, mingled with masses of lime, locks of hair, and bits of
clothing. Without the walls was a receptacle in which the skulls and other
larger bones, dark with the mould of the grave, were heaped.
Two or three persons were walking about the cemetery when we first
entered, but it was now at length the cool of the day, and the funerals
began to arrive. They brought in first a rude black coffin, broadest at
the extremity which contained the head, and placing it at the end of one
of the trenches, hurriedly produced a hammer and nails to fasten the lid
before letting it down, when it was found that the box was too shallow at
the narrower extremity. The lid was removed for a moment and showed the
figure of an old man in a threadbare black coat, white pantaloons, and
boots. The negroes who bore it beat out the bottom with the hammer, so as
to allow the lid to be fastened over the feet. It was then nailed down
firmly with coarse nails, the coffin was swung into the trench, and the
earth shoveled upon it. A middle-aged man, wrho seemed to be some relative
of the dead, led up a little boy close to the grave and watched the
process of filling it.
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