Most of our needles were manufactured by ourselves from bones.  A piece of bone, split as near as possible to the required size, was carefully rubbed down upon a brick, and then had an eye laboriously worked through it with a bit of wire or something else available for the purpose.  The needles were about the size of ordinary darning needles, and answered the purpose very well.

These devices gave one some conception of the way savages provide for the wants of their lives.  Time was with them, as with us, of little importance.  It was no loss of time to them, nor to us, to spend a large portion of the waking hours of a week in fabricating a needle out of a bone, where a civilized man could purchase a much better one with the product of three minutes’ labor.  I do not think any red Indian of the plains exceeded us in the patience with which we worked away at these minutia of life’s needs.

Of course the most common source of clothing was the dead, and no body was carried out with any clothing on it that could be of service to the survivors.  The Plymouth Pilgrims, who were so well clothed on coming in, and were now dying off very rapidly, furnished many good suits to cover the nakedness of older, prisoners.  Most of the prisoners from the Army of the Potomac were well dressed, and as very many died within a month or six weeks after their entrance, they left their clothes in pretty good condition for those who constituted themselves their heirs, administrators and assigns.

For my own part, I had the greatest aversion to wearing dead men’s clothes, and could only bring myself to it after I had been a year in prison, and it became a question between doing that and freezing to death.

Every new batch of prisoners was besieged with anxious inquiries on the subject which lay closest to all our hearts: 

“What are they doing about exchange!”

Nothing in human experience—­save the anxious expectancy of a sail by castaways on a desert island—­could equal the intense eagerness with which this question was asked, and the answer awaited.  To thousands now hanging on the verge of eternity it meant life or death.  Between the first day of July and the first of November over twelve thousand men died, who would doubtless have lived had they been able to reach our lines—­“get to God’s country,” as we expressed it.

The new comers brought little reliable news of contemplated exchange.  There was none to bring in the first place, and in the next, soldiers in active service in the field had other things to busy themselves with than reading up the details of the negotiations between the Commissioners of Exchange.  They had all heard rumors, however, and by the time they reached Andersonville, they had crystallized these into actual statements of fact.  A half hour after they entered the Stockade, a report like this would spread like wildfire: 

“An Army of the Potomac man has just come in, who was captured in front of Petersburg.  He says that he read in the New York Herald, the day before he was taken, that an exchange had been agreed upon, and that our ships had already started for Savannah to take us home.”