When tents were to be pitched, none were more ready to help than he.  When burdens were to be borne, none were more willing to bend beneath them than Thomas Anderson.  When the battle-field was to be searched for the wounded and dying, no hand was more tender in its ministrations of kindness than his.  As a general factotum in the army, he was ever ready and willing to serve anywhere and at any time, and to gather information from every possible source which could be of any service to the Union army.  As a Pagan might worship a distant star and wish to call it his own, so he loved Iola.  And he never thought he could do too much for the soldiers who had rescued her and were bringing deliverance to his race.

“What do you think of Miss Iola?” Robert asked him one day, as they were talking together.

“I jis’ think dat she’s splendid.  Las’ week I had to take some of our pore boys to de hospital, an’ she war dere, lookin’ sweet an’ putty ez an angel, a nussin’ dem pore boys, an’ ez good to one ez de oder.  It looks to me ez ef dey ralely lob’d her shadder.  She sits by ’em so patient, an’ writes ’em sech nice letters to der frens, an’ yit she looks so heart-broke an’ pitiful, it jis’ gits to me, an’ makes me mos’ ready to cry.  I’m so glad dat Marse Tom had to gib her up.  He war too mean to eat good victuals.”

“He ought,” said Robert, “to be made to live on herrings’ heads and cold potatoes.  It makes my blood boil just to think that he was going to have that lovely looking young girl whipped for his devilment.  He ought to be ashamed to hold up his head among respectable people.”

“I tell you, Bob, de debil will neber git his own till he gits him.  When I seed how he war treating her I neber rested till I got her away.  He buyed her, he said, for his housekeeper; as many gals as dere war on de plantation, why didn’t he git one ob dem to keep house, an’ not dat nice lookin’ young lady?  Her han’s look ez ef she neber did a day’s work in her life.  One day when he com’d down to breakfas,’ he chucked her under de chin, an’ tried to put his arm roun’ her waist.  But she jis’ frew it off like a chunk ob fire.  She looked like a snake had bit her.  Her eyes fairly spit fire.  Her face got red ez blood, an’ den she turned so pale I thought she war gwine to faint, but she didn’t, an’ I yered her say, ‘I’ll die fust.’  I war mad ‘nough to stan’ on my head.  I could hab tore’d him all to pieces wen he said he’d hab her whipped.”

“Did he do it?”

“I don’t know.  But he’s mean ‘nough to do enythin’.  Why, dey say she war sole seben times in six weeks, ’cause she’s so putty, but dat she war game to de las’.”

“Well, Tom,” said Robert, “getting that girl away was one of the best things you ever did in your life.”

“I think so, too.  Not dat I specs enytin’ ob it.  I don’t spose she would think ob an ugly chap like me; but it does me good to know dat Marse Tom ain’t got her.”