It was the first wheat bread I had eaten since my entry into Richmond —­nine months before—­and molasses had been a stranger to me for years.  After the corn bread we had so long lived upon, this was manna.  It seems that the Commissary at Savannah labored under the delusion that he must issue to us the same rations as were served out to the Rebel soldiers and sailors.  It was some little time before the fearful mistake came to the knowledge of Winder.  I fancy that the news almost threw him into an apoplectic fit.  Nothing, save his being ordered to the front, could have caused him such poignant sorrow as the information that so much good food had been worse than wasted in undoing his work by building up the bodies of his hated enemies.

Without being told, we knew that he had been heard from when the tobacco, vinegar and molasses failed to come in, and the crackers gave way to corn meal.  Still this was a vast improvement on Andersonville, as the meal was fine and sweet, and we each had a spoonful of salt issued to us regularly.

I am quite sure that I cannot make the reader who has not had an experience similar to ours comprehend the wonderful importance to us of that spoonful of salt.  Whether or not the appetite for salt be, as some scientists claim, a purely artificial want, one thing is certain, and that is, that either the habit of countless generations or some other cause, has so deeply ingrained it into our common nature, that it has come to be nearly as essential as food itself, and no amount of deprivation can accustom us to its absence.  Rather, it seemed that the longer we did without it the more overpowering became our craving.  I could get along to-day and to-morrow, perhaps the whole week, without salt in my food, since the lack would be supplied from the excess I had already swallowed, but at the end of that time Nature would begin to demand that I renew the supply of saline constituent of my tissues, and she would become more clamorous with every day that I neglected her bidding, and finally summon Nausea to aid Longing.

The light artillery of the garrison of Savannah—­four batteries, twenty-four pieces—­was stationed around three sides of the prison, the guns unlimbered, planted at convenient distance, and trained upon us, ready for instant use.  We could see all the grinning mouths through the cracks in the fence.  There were enough of them to send us as high as the traditional kite flown by Gilderoy.  The having at his beck this array of frowning metal lent Lieutenant Davis such an importance in his own eyes that his demeanor swelled to the grandiose.  It became very amusing to see him puff up and vaunt over it, as he did on every possible occasion.  For instance, finding a crowd of several hundred lounging around the gate, he would throw open the wicket, stalk in with the air of a Jove threatening a rebellious world with the dread thunders of heaven, and shout: 

“W-h-a-a y-e-e!  Prisoners, I give you jist two minutes to cleah away from this gate, aw I’ll open on ye wid de ahtillery!”