Where I was was not only no worse than the rest of the prison, but was probably much better and healthier, as it was the highest ground inside, farthest from the Swamp, and having the dead line on two sides, had a ventilation that those nearer the center could not possibly have.

Yet, with all these conditions in our favor, the mortality was as I have described.
Near us an exasperating idiot, who played the flute, had established himself.

Like all poor players, he affected the low, mournful notes, as plaintive as the distant cooing of the dove in lowering, weather.
He played or rather tooted away in his "blues"-inducing strain hour after hour, despite our energetic protests, and occasionally flinging a club at him.

There was no more stop to him than to a man with a hand-organ, and to this day the low, sad notes of a flute are the swiftest reminder to me of those sorrowful, death-laden days.
I had an illustration one morning of how far decomposition would progress in a man's body before he died.

My chum and I found a treasure-trove in the streets, in the shape of the body of a man who died during the night.
The value of this "find" was that if we took it to the gate, we would be allowed to carry it outside to the deadhouse, and on our way back have an opportunity to pick up a chunk of wood, to use in cooking.