I had an illustration one morning of how far decomposition would progress in a man’s body before he died.  My chum and I found a treasure-trove in the streets, in the shape of the body of a man who died during the night.  The value of this “find” was that if we took it to the gate, we would be allowed to carry it outside to the deadhouse, and on our way back have an opportunity to pick up a chunk of wood, to use in cooking.  While discussing our good luck another party came up and claimed the body.  A verbal dispute led to one of blows, in which we came off victorious, and I hastily caught hold of the arm near the elbow to help bear the body away.  The skin gave way under my hand, and slipped with it down to the wrist, like a torn sleeve.  It was sickening, but I clung to my prize, and secured a very good chunk of wood while outside with it.  The wood was very much needed by my mess, as our squad had then had none for more than a week.

CHAPTER XL.

The battle of the 22D of July—­the arms of the Tennessee assaulted front and rear—­death of general MCPHERSON—­Assumption of command by general Logan—­result of the battle.

Naturally, we had a consuming hunger for news of what was being accomplished by our armies toward crushing the Rebellion.  Now, more than ever, had we reason to ardently wish for the destruction of the Rebel power.  Before capture we had love of country and a natural desire for the triumph of her flag to animate us.  Now we had a hatred of the Rebels that passed expression, and a fierce longing to see those who daily tortured and insulted us trampled down in the dust of humiliation.

The daily arrival of prisoners kept us tolerably well informed as to the general progress of the campaign, and we added to the information thus obtained by getting—­almost daily—­in some manner or another—­a copy of a Rebel paper.  Most frequently these were Atlanta papers, or an issue of the “Memphis-Corin
th-Jackson-Grenada-Chattanooga-Resacca-Marietta-Atlanta Appeal,” as they used to facetiously term a Memphis paper that left that City when it was taken in 1862, and for two years fell back from place to place, as Sherman’s Army advanced, until at last it gave up the struggle in September, 1864, in a little Town south of Atlanta, after about two thousand miles of weary retreat from an indefatigable pursuer.  The papers were brought in by “fresh fish,” purchased from the guards at from fifty cents to one dollar apiece, or occasionally thrown in to us when they had some specially disagreeable intelligence, like the defeat of Banks, or Sturgis, or Bunter, to exult over.  I was particularly fortunate in getting hold of these.  Becoming installed as general reader for a neighborhood of several thousand men, everything of this kind was immediately brought to me, to be read aloud for the benefit of everybody.  All the older prisoners knew me by the nick-name of “Illinoy” —­a designation arising from my wearing on my cap, when I entered prison, a neat little white metal badge of “Ills.”  When any reading matter was brought into our neighborhood, there would be a general cry of: