Shortly after the arrival of his prisoners Captain Senn had realized that their stay was to be an extended one, and he’d had double-decker bunk beds installed in the cells along the corridor. The beds were furnished with straw mattresses and one rough woolen blanket each, supplied by some kindhearted women of Columbia. For a time the floor above the Army officers had been occupied by Army privates, but these men had been sent to Belle Island prison to suffer through the winter in the open air. Now the second floor was occupied by Navy men captured in Admiral Dahlgren’s unsuccessful attempt to land an assaulting force at Sumter. Corporal Addison appeared at the top of the stairs, his holstered pistol bumping foolishly against the curve of his stomach. Another guard stood behind Addison, his bayonet glistening in the gloom. “Fall in,” Addison said. “Time to take you to the yard.” He might have saved himself the trouble of giving the command. Most of the men already waited in line and now they filed along the corridor, talking to each other in quiet tones. The day was warm for late fall, but Tim shivered as he moved down the stairs and walked through the lower corridor, buttoning his ragged uniform. There was sunlight in the yard. Tim’s spirits rose a little as he and Red began their walk. Some of the prisoners took out playing cards and settled against the wall, or marked out games of tick-tack-toe on the ground, but Tim and Red had discovered they could endure prison life better if they took regular exercise. They passed the one-story brick cookshack with its two doors, each leading to a separate kitchen. Red kicked at a little mound of dust. “You seem downhearted this afternoon.” There were six guards in the courtyard. Two were standing near them by the wooden gate at the end of the yard. Tim spoke softly. “It’s been a week since we’ve talked about escape. Prospects of exchange have grown dim. There’s been no mail from Kate or your folks or mine for more than a month. Our money has given out and our rations are poor.” While the money had lasted, the Army prisoners had pooled their funds and paid the colored woman who brought in their rations to bring in extra food and do the cooking, but when their money was gone Senn, in his methodical way, had taken seven volunteers, telling each to cook two meals one day a week. The midday meal was cold. Tim cooked on Mondays. He was glad to do it, to break up the routine, but Red had said he had no love for stirring pots. The meals were served in a long room on the first floor of the jail. The Navy had a separate mess. Two sailors had volunteered for permanent duty in the kitchen. One cooked and the other was a kind of handyman who helped the cook and did the laundry for the Navy boys.