This same storm, which occurred on the 12th of August, was the cause of a quite an episode in our otherwise dull life in prison. It was one of those terrible rains which occur sometimes in that region, and had the appearance of a cloud-burst. The rain fell in sheets, the ground in the prison was completely washed, and much good was done in the way of purifying this foul hole. The rapid rush of water down the opposing hills, filled the little stream, which I have called Dead-run, to overflowing, and as there was not sufficient outlet through the stockade, for the fast accumulating water, the pressure became so great that about twenty feet of the stockade toppled and fell over. Thousands of prisoners were out looking at the downfall of our prison walls and when it went over we sent up such a shout and hurrah that we made old Andersonville ring. But the rebel guard had witnessed the break as well as we. The guard near the creek called out “copeler of the gyaad! post numbah fo’teen! hurry up, the stockade is goin to h—l.” The guards, about 3,000 in number, came hurrying to the scene and formed line of battle to prevent a rush of prisoners, while the cannoneers in the forts sprang to their guns. We saw them ram home the charges in their guns, then we gave another shout, when BANG went one of the guns from the south-western fort, and we heard a solid shot go shrieking over our heads. It began to look as though the Johnies were going to get the most fun out of this thing after all. Just at this time Wirz came up to the gap and shrieked, “co pack to your quarters, you tammed Yanks, or I vill open de cuns of de forts on you.” I needed no second invitation after that shot went over our heads, and I hurried to my quarters and laid low. I don’t think I am naturally more cowardly than the average of men, but that shot made me tired. I was sick and weak and had no courage, and knew Winder and Wirz so well that I had perfect faith that they would be only too glad of an excuse to carry out the threat. But let us go back to the month of May. Soon after my arrival, there was marched into the prison about two thousand of the finest dressed soldiers I ever saw. Their uniforms were new and of a better quality than we had ever seen in the western army. They wore on their heads cocked hats, with brass and feather accompaniments. Their feet were shod with the best boots and shoes we had seen since antebellum days, their shirts were of the best “lady’s cloth” variety, and the chevrons on the sleeves of the non-commissioned officers coats, were showy enough for members of the Queen’s Guards.