I looked back down the long hill, so silent and deserted that gray morning when we were driving together, but now dark with the solid masses of marching troops.  It was a stirring scene to soldier eyes, knowing these men were pressing sternly on to battle.  They seemed like a confused, disorganized mob, filling the narrow road, and streaming out through the fields; yet I could read the meaning of each detached movement, as cavalry, artillery, infantry, staff and wagon trains, met and separated, swinging into assigned positions, or making swift detour.  Hoarse voices shouted; bugles pealed; there was the rumble of wheels, the pounding of hoofs, the tramp of feet, and over all the cloud of dust, through which the sun shone redly.  The intense vividness of the picture gave me a new memory of war.  Suddenly a battery of artillery, out of sight on the distant crest, opened fire, the shrieking shells plunging down into the ploughed field at our left, and casting the soft dirt high in air.  Our advance spread wide into skirmish line, the black dots representing men flitting up the steep side of the hill, white spirals of smoke evidencing their musket fire.  Behind them was a grim mass of infantry, silent and ominous, swinging forward like a huge snake.  The men of the Ninth straightened up, their eyes glowing, but it was soon over with—­the snake uncoiled, flinging a tail gleaming with steel over the ridge, and the troopers sank back wearily into their saddles.

As I turned again to glance over my shoulder I noticed a man riding at the right of the second file.  His face was new to me, and so peculiar was it that I continued to stare, unable to determine whether the fellow was white or colored.  He was in private’s uniform, but carried no arms, and for head covering, instead of the hat worn by the Ninth, had an infantry cap perched jauntily on his curly black hair.  But his face was clear, and his cheeks rosy, and he sat straight as an arrow in the saddle.  I drew back my horse and ranged up beside him, inspired by curiosity.  The eyes turned toward me undoubtedly betrayed negro blood.

“I do not remember seeing you before,” I said, wiping the dust from my lips.  “Are you a new recruit?”

“I’se Col’nel Cochran’s man,” he answered, without salute, but with the accent of education oddly mixed with dialect.

“Oh, I see—­what has become of Sam?”

“He done took sick, an’ de col’nel wanted a man right away, so he picked me.”

“Did you belong around here?”

“Well, no, not exactly belong round yere, but I’se travelled dese parts some considerable.  I was born down in Louisiana, sah.”

“Not so very long ago either,” I ventured, feeling a peculiar interest in the fellow.  “Were you a slave?”

His rather thin lips closed over his white teeth, and his fingers gripped the saddle pommel.

“Yes,”—­the word snapped out.  “I’se nineteen, sah, an’ my mother was a slave.  I reckon my father was white ‘nough, but that don’t count fo’ much—­I’se a nigger just de same.  Dat’s bad ‘nough, let me tell yo’, but it’s worse to be yo’ own father’s nigger.”