“Ef dere’s spooks anywhere dey’s dereaway,” he muttered over his hoe; “but den, ki! dey woan ’fere wid dis yer niggah.  What hab I’se got ter do wid de wah and de fighten an de jabbin’?  De spooks cyant lay nuffin ter me eben ef ole marse an’ de res’ am a-fighten ter keep dere slabes, as folks say.”

Having thus satisfied himself that the manes of the dead thousands could have no controversy with him, Jeff mustered sufficient resolution to visit the field that night.  He took no one into his confidence, fearing if he discovered treasures of any kind he could not be left in undisturbed possession.  During the day the rudiments of imagination which made him a musician had been conjuring up the possible results of his expedition.

“De ting fer dis cullud pusson ter do is ter p’ramberlate ter de Linkum lines.  Ki!  I doan wan’ what drap outen our sogers’ pockets.  I kin git Virginny leaf widouten runnin’ ’mong de spooks arter it.  De place fer a big fine is whar de brush is tick and de Linkum men crawl away so dey woan be tromp on.  Who knows but I kin fine a place whar a ginral hide hisself?  Ob cose if he hab a lot of gole he’d stick it in de bush or kiver it right smart, so dat oders moutn’t get it foh he could helf hisself.”

Jeff thought he had reasoned himself into such a valorous state that he could walk across the deserted battlefield with nonchalance; but as he entered on a deeply shadowed dirt-road long since disused to any extent, he found strange creeping sensations running up and down his back.  The moonlight filtered through the leaves with fantastic effects.  A young silver poplar looked ghastly in the distance; and now and then a tree out off by a shot looked almost human in its mutilation.

He had not gone very far before he saw what appeared to be the body of a man lying across the road.  With a sudden chill of blood he stopped and stared at the object.  Gradually it resolved itself into a low mound in the dim light.  Approaching cautiously, he discovered with a dull sense of horror that a soldier had been buried where he had fallen, but covered so slightly that the tumulus scarcely more than outlined his form.

“Ob cose I knowed I d hab ter see dese tings foh I started.  What I such a fool fer?  De Feds nor de Yanks am’ a-gwine ter bodder me if I am’ steppin’ on ’em or ober ’em.”  And he went scrupulously on the other side of the road.

By and by, however, he came to a part of the wood-lane where men had fallen by the score, and bodies had been covered in twos, threes, and dozens.  His head felt as if his very wool were straightening itself out, as he wound here and there and zigzagged in all directions lest he should step on or over a grave.  A breeze stirred the forest as if all the thousands buried in its shades had heaved a long deep sigh.  With chattering teeth Jeff stopped to listen, then, reassured, continued to pick his tortuous way.  Suddenly there was an ominous rustling in a thicket just behind.  He broke into a headlong flight across and over everything, when the startled grunt of a hog revealed the prosaic nature of this spook.  Scarcely any other sound could have been more reassuring.  The animal suggested bacon and hominy and hoe-cake, everything except the ghostly.  He berated himself angrily: