Heretofore I had escaped being searched for money and valuables, but one day a rebel came up and ordered all Chickamauga prisoners down to the second floor. I did not immediately obey his orders and soon there was much speculation among us as to what was wanted. Some were of the opinion that there was to be an exchange of Chickamauga prisoners. Others thought they were to be removed to another prison. To settle the question in my own mind I went down. I had not got half way down the stairs before I found what the order meant, for there standing in two ranks, open order, were the Chickamauga boys, a rebel to each rank, searching them. I had but little money. Not enough to make them rich, but the loss of it would make me poor indeed. I immediately formed my plan and as quickly acted upon it. Going down the stairs, I passed to the rear of the rear rank, down past the rebel robbers, up in front of the front rank, and so on back upstairs, past the guard. I discovered then and there, that a little “cheek” was a valuable commodity in rebel prisons. We were divided into squads, or messes, of sixteen for the purpose of dividing rations. I was elected Sergeant of the mess to which I belonged, and from that time until my release had charge of a mess. Our rations were brought to us by men from our own prison and divided among the Sergeants of messes, who in turn divided it among their respective men. Each man had his number and the bread and meat were cut up into sixteen pieces by the Sergeant, then one man turned his back and the Sergeant pointing to a piece, asked “whose is this?” “Number ten.” “Whose is this?” “Number three,” and so on until all had been supplied. Our rations, while in Richmond, consisted of a half pound of very good bread and about two ounces of very poor meat per day. Sometimes varied by the issue of rice in the place of meat. Sometimes our meat was so maggoty that it was white with them, but so reduced were we by hunger that we ate it and would have been glad to get enough, even of that kind. To men blessed with an active mind and body, the confinement of prison life is exceeding irksome, even if plenty of food and clothing, with good beds and the luxuries of life, are furnished them, but when their food is cut down to the lowest limit that will sustain life, and of a quality at which a dog, possessed of any self respect, would turn up his nose in disgust, with a hard floor for a bed, with no books nor papers with which to feed their minds, with brutal men for companions, with no change of clothing, with vermin gnawing their life out day after day, and month after month, it is simply torture.