t the wagons was because of
the lemons among the stores.

Dawn of the following day (Sunday) was ushered in by the sound of
Fremont's guns. Our lines had been early drawn out to meet him, and
skirmishers pushed up to the front to attack. Much cannonading, with
some rattle of small arms, ensued. The country was densely wooded, and
little save the smoke from the enemy's guns could be seen. My brigade
was in reserve a short distance to the rear and out of the line of fire;
and here a ludicrous incident occurred. Many slaves from Louisiana had
accompanied their masters to the war, and were a great nuisance on a
march, foraging far and wide for "prog" for their owners' messes. To
abate this, they had been put under discipline and made to march in rear
of the regiments to which they pertained. They were now, some scores,
assembled under a large tree, laughing, chattering, and cooking
breakfast. On a sudden, a shell burst in the tree-top, rattling down
leaves and branches in fine style, and the rapid decampment of the
servitors was most amusing. But I must pause to give an account of my
own servant, Tom Strother, who deserves honorable and affectionate
mention at my hands, and serves to illustrate a phase of Southern life
now passed away.

As under feudal institutions the arms of heiresses were quartered with
those of the families into which they married, in the South their slaves
adopted the surname of the mistress; and one curious in genealogy could
trace the descent and alliances of an old family by finding out the
names used by different slaves on the estate. Those of the same name
were a little clannish, preserving traditions of the family from which
their fathers had come, and magnifying its importance. In childhood I
often listened with credulous ears to wondrous tales of the magnificence
of my forefathers in Virginia and Maryland, who, these imaginative
Africans insisted, dwelt in palaces, surrounded by brave, handsome sons,
lovely, virtuous daughters, and countless devoted servants. The
characters of many Southern children were doubtless influenced by such
tales, impressive from the good faith of the narrators. My paternal
grandmother was Miss Sarah Strother of Virginia, and from her estate
came these Strother negroes. Tom, three years my senior, was my foster
brother and early playmate. His uncle, Charles Porter Strother (to give
him his full name), had been body servant to my grandfather, Colonel
Richard Taylor, w