University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

“You never have told me yet where we are going,
Picter,” said Dora, as they jogged along at an easy rate.
“Where is the Yankee camp?”

“On de top of what dey call Cheat Mountain, chile,”
said Pic, with much importance. “W'en me an' Cap'n
Charley got away, he tol' me dat we should fin' some
sojers dah, dough I b'lieve dey wasn't de ones dat he
rightly belong to; but he ain't in no rig'lar comp'ny jes'
now, 'cause his'n has gone home. Bud he 'scribed de
place to me, an' I know'd how to get dere fus' rate, an'
showed um de way.”

“And are there many soldiers there?”

“Heaps on em, chile. Dey isn't all in one camp, you
knows, but ebery rigimint by hese'f. Our rigimint is de
— Ohio. Dat's de one dey put Cap'n Charley into, soon's
we got dah.”

“And what do you do, Picter? Do you fight?”

“Well, no, honey, I hasn' done any fightin' yit. I
helps do de cookin' mos'ly, so fur. 'Tain't no use fer
sojers try to fight we'n dey starvin'; so I reckon de feller

dat does de cookin' is, af'er all, de one dat wins de
battle, fer 'twould be lost shore widout him.”

“To be sure it would,” assented Dora, smiling.
“They ought to call you general, at least, Picter.”

“Well, honey, I's 'fraid my wirtue is more pertic'lar
dan general, so fur,” said Pic. “Bud now, missy, I
wants to tell yer sumfin'. S'posin' we meets one ob de
rebels, or any one but a Linkum sojer, we's got ter 'xplain
who we is, an' what we'm about. Now, I reck'n dis
yer'll be de safes' story, 'sides not bein' any lie. I'll tell
um you's my lilly mist's; dat my ole mist's is done gone
dead, an' my mas'r fightin' in de army; an' my mist's,
'fore she died, said dat de chile was to go lib long ob her
aunty, jes' leetly way norf ob here. Den dey'll ax fer
pass, mabbe, an' you'll speak up real peart an' say, `What
fer my nigger want a pass, when he got his mist's 'long
wid him. He my sarvent, an' trabelin' 'long o' me.
Dat's 'nough.”'

“Well, that's all true enough, Picter; but it would
be deceiving them to tell it,” said Dora, rather doubtfully.

“'Ceivin', missy! Lord, ef we don't have ter do no
wus deceivin' dan dat ar, 'fore we gits to camp, we'm
lucky fellers; dat all I got to say. Why, yore own mammy
'ud lie up hill an' down, 'fore she'd let you be took
now, an' kerried back, let alone ole Pic.”

“Do you think so, Picter?”

“I knows it, missy. It say in de Bible dat de end
justerfy de means.”

“O, no, Pic; that isn't in the Bible at all,” said Dora,
decidedly.

“Well, if 'tain't, it oughter be, fer it's de truf,” asserted
Picter, doggedly. “Now mind, honey, an' tell de story
straight, an' face it out dat it's de truf right frew, fer ef
we'm took, dey'll kerry you back to your aunty Wilson,
an' poor ole Pic, dat comed back a purpose to fotch ye
away, will git licked to def, p'raps.”

“O, Picter, how horrid! Yes, I am sure mother would
think it was worse to let that happen, than to deceive the
rebels. But I don't want to tell any lies.”

“Neber fear, missy; I'll do all de lyin' fer bof ob us.
'Twon't hurt me a mite.”

Dora, instead of replying, fell into a puzzled reverie
upon the question of speaking the exact truth at all times,
and under all circumstances, and longed, as she had
longed many a time before, to be able to go to her dear
mother's side, and lay all her doubts and troubles before
her.

The night went on. The great constellations rose,
climbed the summit of the heavens, and sank. The air
grew chill and heavy, and the eyes of the poor, tired
child dropped together with weariness. Laying her head
upon Picter's broad shoulders, and clinging to his belt,
she slept soundly, wrapped in her blanket, and was

sweetly dreaming of home and mother, when she was
suddenly aroused by the halt of the horse, and a stern
voice demanding, —

“Who goes there?”

“Now fer it! Missy, missy, wake up, an' git yer wits
about ye,” whispered Pic hoarsely, and in the same
breath answered aloud to the challenge, —

“Lor, mas'r sojer, 'taint on'y mist's an' me.”

“Who is your mistress? Let her speak,” said the
sentinel, after a little pause.

“Miss Jones her name. She right here on de hoss
'long o' me.”

“What do you want, Miss Jones, in this camp?”
asked the sentinel, courteously.

“I don't want anything in camp,” replied Dora,
steadily. “I am travelling to the northern part of the
state with my servant, and we didn't know of a camp
about here.”

“Why, that's a child's voice,” exclaimed the sentinel,
abruptly. “How old are you, Miss Jones?”

“Twelve years old.”

“And travelling alone at night with this negro! How's
that?” asked the man, suspiciously, as he peered through
the dim, gray light of dawn at the horse and riders.

“We are in a hurry, and wished to travel part of the
way to-night, and have got a little out of our way, I suppose,”
said Dora, quietly.

“H'm. Well, you can't pass this way without the

countersign, and I think the colonel had better talk with
you a little before you go back. I shall be relieved in a
few minutes, and then I'll take you to him.”

“We'm much obleege,” ventured Pic; “but 'tain't a bit
wuf while to bother the kunnel 'bout us, an' we'm in
most a awful hurry. Ef dis yer ain't de way, we'll jes'
go back a piece, an' fin' anoder road.”

“Halt, there! If you go either backward or forward
a step, I'll shoot you, you black scoundrel!” exclaimed
the soldier, sternly. “I think, for my part, your story
is a very queer one, and I shall detain you for examination.”

“Don't say any more, Pic,” whispered Dora, softly.
“By and by you can turn suddenly, and be off before
he can shoot.”

Her advice was cut short by another order from the
sentinel.

“Dismount, boy, and tie your horse to this tree. Then
stand out in the road in sight.”

“Neber fear, missy; we'll fool 'em yet,” whispered
Picter, hastily, as he slowly obeyed so far as to dismount;
but the knot with which he tied Jump to the sapling indicated
by the sentinel was such that a single pull at the
bridle would loosen it and although he posted himself in
the middle of the road, it was with every muscle ready
for a spring to the horse's back, should any opportunity
of escape present itself.

None, however, appeared. The sentinel never for a
moment relaxed his vigilance, and the cold, gray light of
the morning gleamed warningly from the barrel of his
musket. He did not make any further remark, and
when Pic, unable to long remain silent, attempted to
enter into conversation, he was sternly ordered to “hold
his tongue.”

A long half hour passed, and then approaching footsteps
were heard, and the challenge, “Who goes there?”
was returned by the countersign, “Confederacy,” as
“the relief” came up, and after a hurried glance at the
prisoners, made some inquiries of his comrade concerning
them.

The latter in a low voice explained his suspicions and
his intention of taking them immediately to “the bridge,”
that the question of their detention might be decided by
the colonel.

“The colonel ain't there now; he's gone back to
camp,” said the new comer.

“Well, I suppose the captain will send them up. I
shall report to him, at any rate. Come then, boy, untie
your nag, and lead him along; or stop — I'll lead him,
and you go in front. Right along this path. Step!”

Picter, without reply, shambled along in the direction
indicated, followed by the young soldier, leading Jump,
with Dora sitting erect and indignant in the saddle.
The morning had now fully opened, clear and beautiful.
Through the thin foliage of the wood the little girl presently

caught the blue sparkle of running water, and a
rippling murmur as of a stream at hand.

It was, though Dora did not know it, Green Brier
River, and their guide was a vidette from a rebel company
stationed at the bridge across it, to watch for the
federal troops, of whose approach the rebel general had
been warned some hours previously.

Emerging from the wood at some little distance from
the bridge, the prisoners caught one glance of the sparkling
stream, the winding mountain road beyond it, and
of dark lines of gray-coated men drawn up at the end
of the bridge nearest to them, in position to defend it.
All this they saw in the first instant; in the next their
eyes were blinded by a blaze of fire from the mouths of
a hundred muskets, while the sulphurous smoke and
deafening rattle of their breath stunned and suffocated
them.

Captor and captured started back instinctively to the
shelter of the trees, for, as if it were the echo of the
first, another crash of musketry pealed from the other
side of the river, another flashing cloud of fire and smoke
filled the air, while over their heads, and among the
trees at either hand, pattered and whistled the leaden
hail born of that portentous cloud. Wild shouts, near
at hand and farther off, next arose upon the air, mingled
with the ring of many feet as they rushed across
the bridge. All passed in a single moment. In the
next the sentinel exclaimed eagerly, —

“The Yankees, by thunder!” and, dropping the bridle
of the horse, he rushed forward to join the fray.

“Now's de time, missy,” exclaimed Picter, eagerly,
as he darted forward and caught the rein before Jump
had time to plunge away, as he evidently wished to do.

“Now what we's to do is to git out ob de way ob all
han's, till de fight's ober, an' den jine our own men.”

“Quick then, Pic. Mount before me; that other man
behind us, the guard, will be up in a minute; he'll hear
the firing.”

“To be shore he will; here we be. Now den.”

Turning the horse's head directly into the woods,
Picter soon put himself and his companion out of reach
or sight of the combatants; but curiosity as to the event
of the fight so strongly pressed him, that he was no
sooner in safety than he abandoned the reins to Dora,
while he hastily climbed a tall chestnut tree, and finally
got a view of the bridge.

“Hooray!” exclaimed he so soon as his eyes rested
upon the scene. “Dat's you, Yanks. Gib it um! Lor,
how dey does come peltin' down on 'em! Dat's it; pour
it in, hot and heavy, blue-coats! Now dey feels it; now
dey squirms! At 'em, boys! Hit um agin; hole dah
noses down to de grin'stone, an' gib um anoder turn o' de
handle. Dat's it! Hooray, now! Dere dey runs!
Now dey scampers! Foot it, ole gray-backs! Run yer
pootiest! Let out den! Prick 'em up, boys, wid de
baggonets! Show um de way to make time! O, golly!

if dis yer ain't a bressed sight, den I didn' neber see
one, on'y it didn' las' long enough; deys all out o' sight
now, ebery moder's son ob 'em, de gray-coats heavin'
away dey coats, an' guns, an' knapsacks, like as dey
didn' neber expec' to want noffin' more in dis worl'.
Spec a good many on 'em won't. Golly! dere'll be pickin's
fer somebody dere, I reckon.”

With a sigh for the unattainable plunder, ending in a
chuckle at the success of the side he had espoused in the
quarrel, Picter came slowly down out of the chestnut
tree, and again mounted in front of Dora, who had sat
with flushed face and gleaming eyes, drinking in the
somewhat fragmentary description of the skirmish to be
gathered from the negro's exclamations.

“O, Picter,” said she, breathlessly, when he was
again beside her, “will there be more fighting? will there
be a real battle? O, Pic, can't you take me somewhere
to see it?”

“Would you like 'o see it, chile? Wouldn' ye be
scar't nor noffin'?” eagerly demanded Pic, who was
every bit as anxious to see the fight as herself, and who
was glad to find an excuse in her own wishes for lingering
with the little girl in a scene of possible danger, and
certain horror, should a general battle ensue.

“Scar't! no indeed!” cried Dora. “Do make haste,
and get somewhere where we can see the whole.”

“Lors, honey, who'd tink of a pooty leetly gal wantin'
ter see a big fight, wif lots o' men a bleedin' an' a dyin'

all 'bout her. You'd be right for a sojer's wife, missy,
to help take care ob de pore wounded fellers in de hospital.”

“And so I will,” cried Dora, with enthusiasm. “I am
not old enough to be a soldier's wife, but I will be the
sister or the daughter of every soldier that I can help.
There will be men wounded in this very battle — won't
there, Pic?”

“Dere will dat, missy.”

“Well, I will take care of them. You will see how
handy I can be with sick folks. Mother always said I
was a born nurse.”

“Specs you's born fer eberyting dat's good an' comfor'ble,
honey,” said the negro, turning round to look
lovingly into her glowing face.

“But now we must get where we can see something,
Pic. Do you know anything about the fight, who it is,
and what they are trying to do?”

“Dey's our fellers from Cheat Mountain, ob course,”
said Picter, confidently. “Wedder part or de whole I
couldn' say, an' I specs dey's come down dis mornin' to
clean out a rebel hole dat dey calls Camp Bartow, some'eres
here on dis Green Brier River. I was talkin' long
wid a berry 'telligent feller, fer a nigger, t'oder day;
he'd been scoutin' roun' here, an' he know'd all 'bout it.
But our gen'ral couldn' make up he mind to trus' a nigger's
story, so he sent de lightes' complected feller in de
brigade to see if Jonas (dat's de nigger) had tole right;

but de foxy head got took, or shor — didn' neber come
back, any way. Den anoder feller, a doctor dat lives
roun' here, up an' said he'd go; but he's got orful tanned
dis summer ridin' a hossback, an' I don' know wedder
de gen'ral took him or not. Specs he'll hab to sen' to
Richmon' arter some creturs dey had dere makin' a show
on 'em. Dey called 'em Albinos, an' dey was jes' as white
as snow. Dem's de fellers to spy out a rebel camp.”

“Well, and did this Jonas tell you where Camp Bartow
is, so that you can find it?” asked Dora, eagerly.

“Yis, honey. It's on de side ob a mountain called
Buffler Hill.”

“Buffalo Hill? Why there aren't any buffaloes about
here.”

“Might 'a ben once, honey, ef dere isn' now. Any
ways, dat's what dey calls it; an' de rebels has frowed up
fortifications, an' dug trenches, an' mounted big guns
dere, 'nough to kill de whole Yankee nation if dey dares
to 'tack 'em. Least, dat what dey say.”

“And what do you say, Picter?”

“I says de rebels is biggest at sayin', bud de Yankees
is de fellers fer doin',” said Picter, emphatically. “So
now, honey, we'll jes' skirt roun' here in de woods, an'
git ober dis big hill afore us, an' den, if I rec'lect de lay
ob de lan', we shall see Buffler Hill an' de whole ob de
fun.”

“Make haste, then; I hear guns now!”