There was not only hunger for more food, but longing with an intensity beyond expression for alteration of some kind in the rations.  The changeless monotony of the miserable saltless bread, or worse mush, for days, weeks and months, became unbearable.  If those wretched mule teams had only once a month hauled in something different—­if they had come in loaded with sweet potatos, green corn or wheat flour, there would be thousands of men still living who now slumber beneath those melancholy pines.  It would have given something to look forward to, and remember when past.  But to know each day that the gates would open to admit the same distasteful apologies for food took away the appetite and raised one’s gorge, even while famishing for something to eat.

We could for a while forget the stench, the lice, the heat, the maggots, the dead and dying around us, the insulting malignance of our jailors; but it was, very hard work to banish thoughts and longings for food from our minds.  Hundreds became actually insane from brooding over it.  Crazy men could be found in all parts of the camp.  Numbers of them wandered around entirely naked.  Their babblings and maunderings about something to eat were painful to hear.  I have before mentioned the case of the Plymouth Pilgrim near me, whose insanity took the form of imagining that he was sitting at the table with his family, and who would go through the show of helping them to imaginary viands and delicacies.  The cravings for green food of those afflicted with the scurvy were, agonizing.  Large numbers of watermelons were brought to the prison, and sold to those who had the money to pay for them at from one to five dollars, greenbacks, apiece.  A boy who had means to buy a piece of these would be followed about while eating it by a crowd of perhaps twenty-five or thirty livid-gummed scorbutics, each imploring him for the rind when he was through with it.

We thought of food all day, and were visited with torturing dreams of it at night.  One of the pleasant recollections of my pre-military life was a banquet at the “Planter’s House,” St. Louis, at which I was a boyish guest.  It was, doubtless, an ordinary affair, as banquets go, but to me then, with all the keen appreciation of youth and first experience, it was a feast worthy of Lucullus.  But now this delightful reminiscence became a torment.  Hundreds of times I dreamed I was again at the “Planter’s.”  I saw the wide corridors, with their mosaic pavement; I entered the grand dining-room, keeping timidly near the friend to whose kindness I owed this wonderful favor; I saw again the mirror-lined walls, the evergreen decked ceilings, the festoons and mottos, the tables gleaming with cutglass and silver, the buffets with wines and fruits, the brigade of sleek, black, white-aproned waiters, headed by one who had presence enough for a major General.  Again I reveled in all the dainties and dishes on the bill-of-fare; calling for everything