e force of
the cold November wind, dismounted, and instructed the staff to
pick out the place for our camp.

The afternoon was unusually raw and cold. My orderly was at hand
with his invariable saddle-bags, which contained a change of
under-clothing, my maps, a flask of whiskey, and bunch of cigars.
Taking a drink and lighting a cigar, I walked to a row of
negro-huts close by, entered one and found a soldier or two warming
themselves by a wood-fire. I took their place by the fire,
intending to wait there till our wagons had got up, and a camp made
for the night. I was talking to the old negro woman, when some one
came and explained to me that, if I would come farther down the
road, I could find a better place. So I started on foot, and found
on the main road a good double-hewed-log house, in one room of
which Colonel Poe, Dr. Moore, and others, had started a fire. I
sent back orders to the "plum-bushes" to bring our horses and
saddles up to this house, and an orderly to conduct our headquarter
wagons to the same place. In looking around the room, I saw a
small box, like a candle-box, marked "Howell Cobb," and, on
inquiring of a negro, found that we were at the plantation of
General Howell Cobb, of Georgia, one of the leading rebels of the
South, then a general in the Southern army, and who had been
Secretary of the United States Treasury in Mr. Buchanan's time. Of
course, we confiscated his property, and found it rich in corn,
beans, pea-nuts, and sorghum-molasses. Extensive fields were all
round the house; I sent word back to General David to explain whose
plantation it was, and instructed him to spare nothing. That night
huge bonfires consumed the fence-rails, kept our soldiers warm, and
the teamsters and men, as well as the slaves, carried off an
immense quantity of corn and provisions of all sorts.

In due season the headquarter wagons came up, and we got supper.
After supper I sat on a chair astride, with my back to a good fire,
musing, and became conscious that an old negro, with a
tallow-candle in his hand, was scanning my face closely. I inquired,
"What do you want, old man!" He answered, "Dey say you is Massa
Sherman." I answered that such was the case, and inquired what he
wanted. He only wanted to look at me, and kept muttering, "Dis
nigger can't sleep dis night." I asked him why he trembled so, and
he said that he wanted to be sure that we were in fact "Yankees,"
for on a former occasion so