“He fol’ de letter wha’ was in his han’ up, an’ put it in he inside pocket—­right dyar on de lef’ side; an’ den he tole me he tho’t mebbe we wuz gwine hev some warm wuk in de nex’ two or th’ee days, an’ arfter dat ef Gord speared ‘im he’d git a leave o’ absence fur a few days, an’ we’d go home.

“Well, dat night de orders come, an’ we all hed to git over to’ds Romney; an’ we rid all night till ‘bout light; an’ we halted right on a little creek, an’ we stayed dyah till mos’ breakfas’ time, an’ I see Marse Chan set down on de groun’ ‘hine a bush an’ read dat letter over an’ over.  I watch ‘im, an’ de battle wuz a-goin’ on, but we had orders to stay ‘hine de hill, an’ ev’y now an’ den de bullets would cut de limbs o’ de trees right over us, an’ one o’ dem big shells what goes ‘Awhar—­awhar—­awhar!’ would fall right ‘mong us; but Marse Chan he didn’ mine it no mo’n nuthin’!  Den it ‘peared to git closer an’ thicker, and Marse Chan he calls me, an’ I crep’ up, an’ he sez: 

“‘Sam, we’se goin’ to win in dis battle, an’ den we’ll go home an’ git married; an’ I’se goin’ home wid a star on my collar.’  An’ den he sez, ‘Ef I’m wounded, kyar me home, yo’ hear?’ An’ I sez, ’Yes, Marse Chan.’

“Well, jes’ den dey blowed boots an’ saddles, an’ we mounted; an’ de orders come to ride ‘roun’ de slope, an’ Marse Chan’s comp’ny wuz de secon’, an’ when we got ‘roun’ dyah, we wuz right in it.  Hit wuz de wust place ever dis nigger got in.  An’ dey said, ’Charge ’em!’ an’ my king! ef ever you see bullets fly, dey did dat day.  Hit wuz jes’ like hail; an’ we wen’ down de slope (I ‘long wid de res’) an’ up de hill right to’ds de cannons, an’ de fire wuz so strong dyar (dey hed a whole rigiment o’ infintrys layin’ down dyar onder de cannons) our lines sort o’ broke an’ stop; de cun’l was kilt, an’ I b’lieve dey wuz jes’ ’bout to bre’k all to pieces, when Marse Chan rid up an’ cotch hol’ de fleg an’ hollers, ‘Foller me!’ an’ rid strainin’ up de hill ’mong de cannons.  I seen ’im when he went, de sorrel four good length ahead o’ ev’y urr hoss, jes’ like he use’ to be in a foxhunt, an’ de whole rigiment right arfter ‘im.  Yo’ ain’ nuver hear thunder!  Fust thing I knowed, de roan roll’ head over heels an’ flung me up ‘g’inst de bank, like yo’ chuck a nubbin over ‘g’inst de foot o’ de corn pile.  An’ dat’s what kep’ me from bein’ kilt, I ’spects.  Judy she say she think ’twuz Providence, but I think ’twuz de bank. 0’ co’se, Providence put de bank dyah, but how come Providence nuver saved Marse Chan?  When I look’ ‘roun’, de roan wuz layin’ dyah by me, stone dead, wid a cannon-ball gone ‘mos’ th’oo him, an’ our men hed done swep’ dem on t’urr side from de top o’ de hill.  ‘Twan’ mo’n a minit, de sorrel come gallupin’ back wid his mane flyin’, an’ de rein hangin’ down on one side to his knee.  ‘Dyar!’ says I, ‘fo’ Gord!  I ’specks dey done kill Marse Chan, an’ I promised to tek care on him.’