“S-a-y!  What the are you shooting at, any how?”

“I’m a shootin’ at that ——­ ——­ Yank thar by the Dead Line, and by —–­ if you’uns don’t take him in I’ll blow the whole head offn him.”

“What Yank?  Where’s any Yank?”

“Why, thar—­right thar—­a-standin’ agin the Ded Line.”

“Why, you Rebel fool, that’s a chunk of wood.  You can’t get any furlough for shooting that!”

At this there was a general roar from the rest of the camp, which the other guards took up, and as the Reserves came double-quicking up, and learned the occasion of the alarm, they gave the rascal who had been so anxious to kill somebody a torrent of abuse for having disturbed them.

A part of our crowd had been out after wood during the day, and secured a piece of a log as large as two of them could carry, and bringing it in, stood it up near the Dead Line.  When the guard mounted to his post he was sure he saw a temerarious Yankee in front of him, and hastened to slay him.

It was an unusual good fortune that nobody was struck.  It was very rare that the guards fired into the prison without hitting at least one person.  The Georgia Reserves, who formed our guards later in the season, were armed with an old gun called a Queen Anne musket, altered to percussion.  It carried a bullet as big as a large marble, and three or four buckshot.  When fired into a group of men it was sure to bring several down.

I was standing one day in the line at the gate, waiting for a chance to go out after wood.  A Fifty-Fifth Georgian was the gate guard, and he drew a line in the sand with his bayonet which we should not cross.  The crowd behind pushed one man till he put his foot a few inches over the line, to save himself from falling; the guard sank a bayonet through the foot as quick as a flash.