Suspicion pointed very strongly to “Poll Parrot.”  By the next morning the evidence collected seemed to amount to a certainty, and a crowd caught the Parrot with the intention of lynching him.  He succeeded in breaking away from them and ran under the Dead Line, near where I was sitting in, my tent.  At first it looked as if he had done this to secure the protection of the guard.  The latter—­a Twenty-Sixth Alabamian —­ordered him out.  Poll Parrot rose up on his one leg, put his back against the Dead Line, faced the guard, and said in his harsh, cackling voice: 

“No; I won’t go out.  If I’ve lost the confidence of my comrades I want to die.”

Part of the crowd were taken back by this move, and felt disposed to accept it as a demonstration of the Parrot’s innocence.  The rest thought it was a piece of bravado, because of his belief that the Rebels would not injure, him after he had served them.  They renewed their yells, the guard again ordered the Parrot out, but the latter, tearing open his blouse, cackled out: 

“No, I won’t go; fire at me, guard.  There’s my heart shoot me right there.”

There was no help for it.  The Rebel leveled his gun and fired.  The charge struck the Parrot’s lower jaw, and carried it completely away, leaving his tongue and the roof of his mouth exposed.  As he was carried back to die, he wagged his tongue rigorously, in attempting to speak, but it was of no use.

The guard set his gun down and buried his face in his hands.  It was the only time that I saw a sentinel show anything but exultation at killing a Yankee.

A ludicrous contrast to this took place a few nights later.  The rains had ceased, the weather had become warmer, and our spirits rising with this increase in the comfort of our surroundings, a number of us were sitting around “Nosey”—­a boy with a superb tenor voice—­who was singing patriotic songs.  We were coming in strong on the chorus, in a way that spoke vastly more for our enthusiasm for the Union than our musical knowledge.  “Nosey” sang the “Star Spangled Banner,” “The Battle Cry of Freedom,” “Brave Boys are They,” etc., capitally, and we threw our whole lungs into the chorus.  It was quite dark, and while our noise was going on the guards changed, new men coming on duty.  Suddenly, bang! went the gun of the guard in the box about fifty feet away from us.  We knew it was a Fifty-Fifth Georgian, and supposed that, irritated at our singing, he was trying to kill some of us for spite.  At the sound of the gun we jumped up and scattered.  As no one gave the usual agonized yell of a prisoner when shot, we supposed the ball had not taken effect.  We could hear the sentinel ramming down another cartridge, hear him “return rammer,” and cock his rifle.  Again the gun cracked, and again there was no sound of anybody being hit.  Again we could hear the sentry churning down another cartridge.  The drums began beating the long roll in the camps, and officers could be heard turning the men out.  The thing was becoming exciting, and one of us sang out to the guard: