“Halt! halt!”—­bang, whiz, came from the sentinel, the whole picket force at Jack’s heels.  But the faithful negro for the time excelled himself in running, and left the Federals far behind.  He came in camp puffing, snorting, and blowing like a porpoise.  “Great God Almighty! good people, talk er ’bout patter-rollers, day ain’t in it.  If dis nigger didn’t run ter night, den don’t talk.”  Then Jack recounted his night’s experience, much to the amusement of the listening soldiers.

Occasionally a negro who had served a year or two with his young master in the army, would be sent home for another field of usefulness, and his place taken by one from the plantation.  While a negro is a great coward, he glories in the pomp and glitter of war, when others do the fighting.  He loves to tell of the dangers (not sufferings) undergone, the blood and carnage, but above all, how the cannon roared round and about him.

A young negro belonging to an officer in one of the regiments was sent home, and his place as cook was filled by Uncle Cage, a venerable looking old negro, who held the distinguished post of “exhorter” in the neighborhood.  His “sister’s chile” had filled Uncle Cage’s head with stories of war—­of the bloodshed on the battlefield, the roar of cannon, and the screaming of shells over that haven of the negro cooks, the wagon yards—­but to all the blood and thunder stories of his “sister’s chile” Uncle Cage only shook his head and chuckled, “Dey may kill me, but dey can’t skeer dis nigger.”  Among the other stories he had listened to was that of a negro having his head shot off by a cannon ball.  Sometime after Uncle Cage’s installation as cook the enemy made a demonstration as if to advance.  A few shells came over our camp, one bursting in the neighborhood of Uncle Cage, while he was preparing the morning meal for his mess.

Some of the negroes and more prudent non-combattants began to hunt for the wagon yard, but Uncle Cage remained at his post.  He was just saying: 

“Dese yer young niggers ain’t no account; dey’s skeered of dere own shad—­”

“Boom, boom,” a report, and a shell explodes right over his head, throwing fragments all around.

Uncle Cage made for the rear, calling out as he ran, “Oh, dem cussed Yankees!  You want er kill er nudder nigger, don’t you?” Seeing the men laughing as he passed by in such haste, he yelled back defiantly, “You can laff, if you want to, but ole mars ain’t got no niggers to fling away.”

“Red tape” prevailed to an alarming extent in the War Department, and occasionally a paroxysm of this disease would break out among some of the officers of the army, especially among the staff, “West Pointers,” or officers of temporary high command—­Adjutant Pope gives his experience, with one of those afflicted functionaries, “Where as Adjutant of the Third South Carolina,” says he, I had remained as such from May, 1862, till about the 1st of September, 1864,