kade at Macon was built of inch pine boards, twelve feet long, put
up endwise and made as tight as possible. On the outside of this fence,
and about four feet from the top, was a platform for the sentry to walk
on, where they could keep a lookout over the camp to see that we were not
trying to escape. Upon this platform were posted sentinels at intervals of
about thirty yards, with instructions to shoot any prisoner who touched or
attempted to pass the _dead line_, which was a row of stakes, or sometimes
a fence of light slats, such as a farmer would build to keep his chickens
or ducks from roaming, and was about twenty-five feet from the stockade.
The original object in establishing the dead line was a precaution against
a sudden raid on the stockade, but it often afforded an excuse for some
cowardly guard to shoot a Yankee prisoner, who inadvertantly came near
enough to place his hand against it. We were not allowed to hang our
clothes on this fence to dry, and on no account could a prisoner pass it
with impunity.

CHAPTER XI.

RECEIVING AND SENDING OFF THE MAIL--ATTEMPTS TO SMUGGLE THROUGH FORBIDDEN
MATTER--SAMPLES OF LETTERS SENT HOME--BOXES OF LETTERS RECEIVED--MY
FEELINGS AT NOT RECEIVING ANY.

We were allowed to write home, and by putting on a Confederate postage
stamp costing 10 cents each, were promised that our letters would be
forwarded to our friends, provided there was nothing objectionable in
them.

We were obliged to leave them unsealed, so they could be examined by the
postoffice department, and in order to ensure an examination they must be
limited to fifty words. I wrote home a number of times, and my letters, as
a general thing, came through all right. I wrote some that I did not
expect they would forward, and was much surprised when I reached home to
find they had been received all right, and in some cases published in the
daily papers. I will give you a sample of one or two. The first was
written to my cousin, H. M. Cooper, and read as follows:

C. S. MILITARY PRISON,

MACON, Ga., July 6, 1864.

MY DEAR HAL:--

Nearly four months have now elapsed since I took up my abode in this
land of bacon and corn dodgers, and like the prodigal son, I often
think of my father's house, where there is bread enough and to
spare. I dream nightly of fatted calves, but awake daily to the sad
reality that my veal cutlets have all been transformed into salt