It was impossible to get really clean.  Our bodies seemed covered with a varnish-like, gummy matter that defied removal by water alone.  I imagined that it came from the rosin or turpentine, arising from the little pitch pine fires over which we hovered when cooking our rations.  It would yield to nothing except strong soap-and soap, as I have before stated—­was nearly as scarce in the Southern Confederacy as salt.  We in prison saw even less of it, or rather, none at all.  The scarcity of it, and our desire for it, recalls a bit of personal experience.

I had steadfastly refused all offers of positions outside the prison on parole, as, like the great majority of the prisoners, my hatred of the Rebels grew more bitter, day by day; I felt as if I would rather die than accept the smallest favor at their hands, and I shared the common contempt for those who did.  But, when the movement for a grand attack on the Stockade—­mentioned in a previous chapter—­was apparently rapidly coming to a head, I was offered a temporary detail outside to, assist in making up some rolls.  I resolved to accept; first because I thought I might get some information that would be of use in our enterprise; and, next, because I foresaw that the rush through the gaps in the Stockade would be bloody business, and by going out in advance I would avoid that much of the danger, and still be able to give effective assistance.

I was taken up to Wirz’s office.  He was writing at a desk at one end of a large room when the Sergeant brought me in.  He turned around, told the Sergeant to leave me, and ordered me to sit down upon a box at the other end of the room.

Turning his back and resuming his writing, in a few minutes he had forgotten me.  I sat quietly, taking in the details for a half-hour, and then, having exhausted everything else in the room, I began wondering what was in the box I was sitting upon.  The lid was loose; I hitched it forward a little without attracting Wirz’s attention, and slipped my left hand down of a voyage of discovery.  It seemed very likely that there was something there that a loyal Yankee deserved better than a Rebel.  I found that it was a fine article of soft soap.  A handful was scooped up and speedily shoved into my left pantaloon pocket.  Expecting every instant that Wirz would turn around and order me to come to the desk to show my handwriting, hastily and furtively wiped my hand on the back of my shirt and watched Wirz with as innocent an expression as a school boy assumes when he has just flipped a chewed paper wad across the room.  Wirz was still engrossed in his writing, and did not look around.  I was emboldened to reach down for another handful.  This was also successfully transferred, the hand wiped off on the back of the shirt, and the face wore its expression of infantile ingenuousness.  Still Wirz did not look up.  I kept dipping up handful after handful, until I had gotten about a quart in the left hand pocket.  After each handful I rubbed my hand off on the back of my shirt and waited an instant for a summons to the desk.  Then the process was repeated with the other hand, and a quart of the saponaceous mush was packed in the right hand pocket.