"Into the narrow confines of this prison were herded more than thirty-five thousand enlisted men, whose only fault was they 'wore the Union blue,' many of them the bravest and best, the most devoted and heroic of those grand armies that carried the flag of the Union to final victory. For long and weary months they suffered and died for that flag. Here they suffered =unsheltered= from the burning rays of a southern sun, or were drenched by the rain and deadly dews of the night. All this while they were in every stage of physical disease--hungered, emaciated, starving. "Is it a wonder that during the month of August, 1864, one man died in every eleven minutes, night and day, or that, for six months, beginning April, 1864, one died every twenty-two and one-half minutes night and day? This should forever silence the assertion that men would be taken prisoners rather than risk their lives on the firing line. The lack of water was the cause of much disease and suffering. Under the most favorable circumstances the water supply was insufficient for one-quarter of the number of men confined there. All the water obtainable was from a sluggish creek that ran through the grounds; and, in addition to this, there were thirty-six hundred men acting as guards camped on the bank of this stream before it reached the prison pen, and the water became so foul no words can describe it."--From "A Sketch of Andersonville," by Mrs. Lizabeth A. Turner, Chairman Andersonville Prison Board. Journal of the Twenty-fifth National Convention of the Woman's Relief Corps, page 169. "More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of." --Tennyson. CHAPTER V. A CRY TO HEAVEN. The bitter cry which arose from the suffering camp was changed on the lips of a few to an appeal to heaven. Where else could men look in their dire extremity? One evening early in August the sound of the old long metre doxology was heard from the voices of a group of men gathered around the solitary pine stump in the enclosure, which was situated at the end of the north street of the prison where space was left for the ration wagon to turn around. On this stump was seated an emaciated cavalry sergeant, Mr. Shepard, of Columbus, Ohio, formerly an honored preacher of the gospel. In days past he had frequently been called upon to offer prayer over the remains of some deceased comrade, and now he led in the old and well-known hymn to call like-minded souls together.