The sixth day of freedom, and a hungry one. Still where I
wrote last night, and watching the house. A woman goes out and in but cannot
tell much about her from this distance. No men folks around. Two or three negro
boys playing about. must approach the house, but hate to. Noon. — Still right here. Hold my
position. More than hungry. Three days since I have eaten anything, with the
exception of a small pototoe and piece of bread eaten two days ago and left from
the day before. That length of time would have been nothing in Andersonville, but
now being in better health demand eatables, and it takes right hold of this
wandering sinner. Shall go to the house towards night. A solitary woman lives
there with some children. My ankle from the sprain and yesterday's walking is
swollen and painful. Bathe it in water, which does it good. Chickens running
around. Have serious meditations of getting hold of one or two of them after
they go to roost, then go farther back into the wilderness, build a fire with
my matches and cook them. That would be a royal feast. But if caught at it, it
would go harder with me than if caught legitimately. Presume this is the
habitation of some of the skulkers who return and stay home nights. Believe
that chickens squawk when being taken from the roost. Will give that up and
walk boldly up to the house.
SOURCE: John L. Ransom, Andersonville Diary, p.
126
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