Davis vapored a great deal, swearing big round oaths in the broadest of Southern patois; he was perpetually threatening to: 

“Open on ye wid de ahtillery,” but the only death that I knew him to directly cause or sanction was that I have described in the previous chapter.  He would not put himself out of the way to annoy and oppress prisoners, as Wirz would, but frequently showed even a disposition to humor them in some little thing, when it could be done without danger or trouble to himself.

By-and-by, however, he got an idea that there was some money to be made out of the prisoners, and he set his wits to work in this direction.  One day, standing at the gate, he gave one of his peculiar yells that he used to attract the attention of the camp with: 

“Wh-ah-ye!!”

We all came to “attention,” and he announced: 

“Yesterday, while I wuz in the camps (a Rebel always says camps,) some of you prisoners picked my pockets of seventy-five dollars in greenbacks.  Now, I give you notice that I’ll not send in any moah rations till the money’s returned to me.”

This was a very stupid method of extortion, since no one believed that he had lost the money, and at all events he had no business to have the greenbacks, as the Rebel laws imposed severe penalties upon any citizen, and still more upon any soldier dealing with, or having in his possession any of “the money of the enemy.”  We did without rations until night, when they were sent in.  There was a story that some of the boys in the prison had contributed to make up part of the sum, and Davis took it and was satisfied.  I do not know how true the story was.  At another time some of the boys stole the bridle and halter off an old horse that was driven in with a cart.  The things were worth, at a liberal estimate, one dollar.  Davis cut off the rations of the whole six thousand of us for one day for this.  We always imagined that the proceeds went into his pocket.

A special exchange was arranged between our Navy Department and that of the Rebels, by which all seamen and marines among us were exchanged.  Lists of these were sent to the different prisons and the men called for.  About three-fourths of them were dead, but many soldiers divining, the situation of affairs, answered to the dead men’s names, went away with the squad and were exchanged.  Much of this was through the connivance of the Rebel officers, who favored those who had ingratiated themselves with them.  In many instances money was paid to secure this privilege, and I have been informed on good authority that Jack Huckleby, of the Eighth Tennessee, and Ira Beverly, of the One Hundredth Ohio, who kept the big sutler shop on the North Side at Andersonville, paid Davis five hundred dollars each to be allowed to go with the sailors.  As for Andrews and me, we had no friends among the Rebels, nor money to bribe with, so we stood no show.

The rations issued to us for some time after our arrival seemed riotous luxury to what we had been getting at Andersonville.  Each of us received daily a half-dozen rude and coarse imitations of our fondly-remembered hard tack, and with these a small piece of meat or a few spoonfuls of molasses, and a quart or so of vinegar, and several plugs of tobacco for each “hundred.”  How exquisite was the taste of the crackers and molasses!