Harry, the foreman on the plantation, a man of a good deal of natural intelligence, was most desirous of learning to read.  He came in at night to be taught, and learned very rapidly.  I never saw any one more determined to learn.  “We enjoyed hearing him talk about the “gun-shoot,”—­so the people call the capture of Bay Point and Hilton Head.  They never weary of telling you “how Massa run when he hear de fust gun.”

“Why didn’t you go with him, Harry?” I asked.

“Oh, Miss, ’t wasn’t ’cause Massa didn’t try to ’suade me.  He tell we dat de Yankees would shoot we, or would sell we to Cuba, an’ do all de wust tings to we, when dey come.  ‘Bery well, Sar,’ says I.  ’If I go wid you, I be good as dead.  If I stay here, I can’t be no wust; so if I got to dead, I might’s well dead here as anywhere.  So I’ll stay here an’ wait for de “dam Yankees."’ Lor’, Miss, I knowed he wasn’t tellin’ de truth all de time.”

“But why didn’t you believe him, Harry?”

“Dunno, Miss; somehow we hear de Yankees was our friends, an’ dat we’d be free when dey come, an’ ’pears like we believe dat.”

I found this to be true of nearly all the people I talked with, and I thought it strange they should have had so much faith in the Northerners.  Truly, for years past, they had had but little cause to think them very friendly.  Cupid told us that his master was so daring as to come back, after he had fled from the island, at the risk of being taken prisoner by our soldiers; and that he ordered the people to get all the furniture together and take it to a plantation on the opposite side of the creek, and to stay on that side themselves.  “So,” said Cupid, “dey could jus’ sweep us all up in a heap, an’ put us in de boat.  An’ he telled me to take Patience—­dat’s my wife—­an’ de chil’en down to a certain pint, an’ den I could come back, if I choose.  Jus’ as if I was gwine to be sich a goat!” added he, with a look and gesture of ineffable contempt.  He and the rest of the people, instead of obeying their master, left the place and hid themselves in the woods; and when he came to look for them, not one of all his “faithful servants” was to be found.  A few, principally house-servants, had previously been carried away.

In the evenings, the children frequently came in to sing and shout for us.  These “shouts” are very strange,—­in truth, almost indescribable.  It is necessary to hear and see in order to have any clear idea of them.  The children form a ring, and move around in a kind of shuffling dance, singing all the time.  Four or five stand apart, and sing very energetically, clapping their hands, stamping their feet, and rocking their bodies to and fro.  These are the musicians, to whose performance the shouters keep perfect time.  The grown people on this plantation did not shout, but they do on some of the other plantations.  It is very comical to see little children, not more than three or four years old, entering into the performance with all