pay day, and hence could afford to keep a servant.  Be it said to the credit of the soldiers of the South, and to their servants as well, that during my four years and more of service I never heard of, even during times of the greatest scarcity, a mess denying the cook an equal share of the scanty supply, or a servant ever found stealing a soldier’s rations.  There was a mutual feeling of kindness and honesty between the two.  If all the noble, generous and loyal acts of the negroes of the army could be recorded, it would fill no insignificant volume.

There was as much cast among the negroes, in fact more, as among the soldiers.  In times of peace and at home, the negro based his claims of cast upon the wealth of his master.  But in the army, rank of his master overshadowed wealth.  The servant of a Brigadier felt royal as compared to that of a Colonel, and the servant of a Colonel, or even a Major, was far ahead, in superiority and importance, to those belonging to the privates and line officers.  The negro is naturally a hero worshiper.  He gloried in his master’s fame, and while it might often be different, in point of facts, still to the negro his master was “the bravest of the brave.”

As great “foragers” as they were, they never ventured far in front while on the advance, nor lingered too dangerously in the rear on the retreat.  They hated the “Yankee” and had a fear of capture.  One day while we were camped near Charlestown an officer’s cook wandered too far away in the wrong direction and ran up on the Federal pickets.  Jack had captured some old cast-off clothes, some garden greens and an old dominicker rooster.  Not having the remotest idea of the topography of the country, he very naturally walked into the enemy’s pickets.  He was halted, brought in and questioned.  The Federals felt proud of their capture, and sought to conciliate Jack with honeyed words and great promises.  But Jack would have none of it.

“Well, look er here,” said Jack, looking suspiciously around at the soldiers; “who you people be, nohow?”

“We are Federal soldiers,” answered the picket.

“Well, well, is you dem?”

“Dem who?” asked the now thoroughly aroused Federal.

“Why dem Yankees, ob course—­dem dat cotched Mars Clayt.”

The Federal admitted they were “Yankees,” but that now Jack had no master, that he was free.

“Is dat so?” Then scratching his head musingly, Jack said at last, “I don know ’bout dat—­what you gwine do wid me, anyhow; what yer want?”

He was told that he must go as a prisoner to headquarters first, and then dealt with as contrabands of war.

“Great God Almighty! white folks, don’t talk dat er way.”  The negro had now become thoroughly frightened, and with a sudden impulse he threw the chicken at the soldier’s feet, saying, “Boss, ders a rooster, but here is me,” then with the speed of a startled deer Jack “hit the wind,” to use a vulgarism of the army.