Saturday, August 13. — Four or five of us clubbed together and bought a pack of cards for sixteen dollars Confederate scrip. Weather warm. Nothing new. Our jail is the county one. On the first floor the navy officers are kept, and deserters and conscripts; on the next floor the army officers, and on the third floor the criminals and runaway negroes. Also on the same floor General Grant’s brother-in-law, named Dent, captured, I believe, on some cotton speculation in Louisiana or Mississippi. On the left of our jail is the lock-up and the town market, and the court house beyond. Every Sunday morning we are regaled by the cries from negroes being whipped in the lock-up, for various offences. The drunkards in the lock-up entertain us nightly by hideous yells and cries, and in the day-time by repentant and seedy countenances. In the lock-up yard are various pigeon-houses inhabited by every variety of doves. We spend much of our time watching them. Just beyond the yard of the lock-up is the court house and town hall, and under them the market. We get nearly all our food from there by purchases made through the sergeants. On this court house is a square tower with clock, etc., and around it a railing and walk where the watchman every quarter of an hour throughout the night calls the time and says, “All ‘s well.” He is there more particularly to give notice of any fires, etc. Back of our yard the rebel Treasury is located, and from windows we daily see the blue-back notes hung out to dry. On the right of the jail is a small house and shop kept by a Union man. The navy officers came near escaping through there last Christmas by digging a tunnel. They were unfortunately found out the night before they planned to escape.
