said this man one day, when the Federal corporal had the impudence to refer to the sacred soil on his clothes— wash 'em, corp'ral?
I'm bound to say 'at you're a damn fool!
That mud's what holds 'em together; sticks 'em fast-like!
Ef you was to put them do's in water they'd go to nothing just like a piece oa salt!
Inside of these clay-clothes a stalwart frame of a man lived and worked, a fearless soul, which had met death and laughed at it, from the Seven Days to Gettysburg, but which was now engaged in superintending a small manufactory of bone trinkets and gutta-percha rings, the sale of which brought wherewithal to eke out the meager sustenance of the prison ration.
The determination to escape held first place with thousands.
Where the prison was a stockade such men were always engaged on a tunnel, or else devoted their minds to working out some fantastic plan which would not fail to give them their liberty.
Some plotted rebellion against authority,
Sidney Lanier in Tiger Lilies.
Sidney Lanier, the Southern poet, in the novel Tiger Lilies, from which the quotation at the head of the chapter was taken, has elaborated some of his reflections during his own prison life at City Point, in the American Civil War. The individuals comprising the three estates, however, were not wholly the same in prison and out. Life in prison brought out unexpected capabilities and unsuspected deficiencies.
Men who in the ordinary routine of on this photograph by a Confederate prisoner's hand speaks eloquently for itself.
This was the only Federal prison without any barracks.
Only tents stood upon the low, narrow sand-spit.
Prisoners were sent here from the West for exchange at City Point; at times as many as twenty thousand were crowded within the limits of the stockade.
But from the faded photograph on this page there is reflected the spirit of the Confederate army—devotion to duty.
As the ex-soldiers stood in line, a task a