The condition of the old prisoners at this time (say during the month of August, 1864, and about or near four months after our arrival), as far as mortality was concerned, was fully as appalling as that of the new. While the new prisoners seemed fairly dissolving before the resistless sweep of outward influences, as fatal inward difficulties carried the old ones off just as rapidly.

All in the prison drew the same rations; so none had enough to eat that depended upon their rations for their entire subsistence. So we all suffered, and suffered all we could bear, and bore suffering which, unless relieved, must end in certain death—and soon enough. We were all wasting away day by day. Though all suffered, the condition of some was worse than that of others; still, as the Confederates did not issue enough food for a man to subsist on, death in a limited time was certain to overtake all of us who depended entirely upon our rations.God knows how badly we all felt, with the insufficiency of our food, the eternal tediousness of time, and the discouraging prospect of release.

But I must return to that class of prisoners of which I was a representative, the “Chickamauga men;” and before I give an account of the scurvy which broke out among us, I desire to relate briefly something of my own feelings and experiences.

All I wish to say in this connection is, how hunger—this gradual starvation—affected me. The scurvy broke out, I presume, in July, among our men. At this time, and for a long time past, and during the remainder of my imprisonment, I was thin, and although not very strong, stronger than most of my comrades,—for be it remembered, I was one of the lucky few that lived, and not among the great majority, for they are in the South now in their graves,—I seemed to stand it better than most men, and was pointed at and remarked about accordingly; and once, when the scurvy was at its height, I got sick and was down for a day or so, my comrades exclaimed, “Ah, ha! —— is coming down with the rest of us!” Yet my sufferings at this time were so severe, that, had we not departed from Andersonville within a few days, as we did, I would have remained there forever. Although I had, by an ever-watchful activity, both as to bodily exercise and the obtaining of one or two small Irish potatoes, kept the scurvy in abeyance, I was so permeated with it, that I could not touch a toe of my bare foot against the merest twig, without sending, as it were, an electric shock of the most excruciating pain through every bone in my body.

Ten months of prison life, during nearly all of which was continued a system of slow starvation, had so absorbed and dried up my stomach, that, although I still starved daily, the coarse corn bread, half-baked as it was, ever seemed to stick in the centre of my stomach, and cause me an incessant dull pain. This pain continued until I was finally released, and afterwards. After having survived all, and gotten home, I found my stomach so contracted, that, although I was always hungry after as well as before a meal, I could eat but very little, and that distressed me greatly. In fact, it seemed that I had saved my life at the expense of my stomach.

To return to the prison. I suffered continuously, and was so weak that I spent a considerable portion of each day in a kind of trance-like condition—dreaming—my thoughts floating at will, within the limits of my mental horizon, with too little sail to be in danger of drifting very far out at sea; but I must say that in this state I passed the happiest hours of my prison life, my imagination being my greatest friend, and enabling my fancy more than once to set the prisoner free. After eating in the morning, before the heat became too intense, I would start on my trip for exercise, or to make some kind of a trade for a potato, if possible. Again in the evening, after eating, I would do the same. Naked creature that I was! All that summer my clothing consisted of a shirt and a pair of drawers! I must have had some kind of a hat.

I speak of trading; to allow the reader to understand what is meant, I will explain. Although all prisoners were searched, some were fortunate enough to pass the ordeal of examination, retaining their valuables successfully concealed about them; these being traded to a guard for provisions, to wit: onions, potatoes, etc., brought the produce to the inside of the prison, and being inside was exposed for sale at a heavy profit by the lucky and enterprising Yankee.

In this way several stands were started. Paroled men, going out to work during the day, on coming in at night, sometimes smuggled produce into camp, which was disposed of in the same way. But trade was never very extensive until the capture of the “Plymouth men;” then it reached its greatest proportions. The Plymouth men were so called because captured at Plymouth, N. C. They composed a brigade, and had just been paid their back-pay and veteran bounty, and were on the eve of going home on their veteran furlough, when, alas! they were unfortunately captured. These men had the easiest terms of capitulation of any prisoners taken in the late war.

They were allowed to retain all of their clothing and money, and consequently marched into prison under much more favorable circumstances than prisoners generally. “It is an ill wind that blows nobody good,” and the appearance of the Plymouth men in the pen at Andersonville was a providential thing for many an old prisoner. The old ones knew the tricks of trade, and soon had a great part of the Plymouth men’s money. The arrival of the Plymouth men was a great blessing to many who were there before them, and in fact improved the spirits of the whole camp. As I said before, trade then went up to its highest round. Stands could be seen everywhere, and the continual crowds, surging up and down the two main thoroughfares, presented an interesting and exciting scene. Another feature in the trading line was one which always manifested itself more particularly after the drawing of rations, to wit: persons having no money would trade corn-meal for bread, or peas for bread, or bread for meat, etc., to suit their varying tastes or necessities. This noise, added to that of the stand-keepers crying their wares, raised a din above which nothing else could be heard, and gave the camp the appearance of being quite a business place. Produce was very high, however; ordinary biscuits selling for twenty-five cents (green-back) apiece, and onions seventy-five cents to a dollar. Irish potatoes, the size of a pigeon’s egg, were sold for twenty-five cents each, and larger ones for more in proportion. This extensive trading was bound to decline, and then finally collapse. As the produce all came from the outside, that was where the money had to go, and as soon as the supply of money was exhausted, trade of necessity had to sink. Then only remained the trading of one kind of ration for another.

This extensive trading, growing out of the Plymouth money, was a very good thing for us while it lasted. Although the great majority of the prisoners reaped no advantage from it in receiving any addition to the quantity of their food, still it enlivened the camp for all, and was a material blessing to hundreds,—nay, I would perhaps be nearer the truth in saying thousands. Many an old, sun-dried veteran of a long incarceration, who would have otherwise certainly died of the scurvy, by shrewdness and dickering in some way, possessed himself of a few dollars, which, judiciously invested in raw Irish potatoes, and administered to himself, arrested the further progress of the fell destroyer, and saved his life for his friends and family. Money was a very good thing to have at Andersonville. It would have purchased life in thousands of cases.