versed in mountain craft, had made their way along the Blue Ridge and
put in a heroic appearance in their native valleys.

That night we arrived at a farm-house near the river, where we found
Major Parker, commanding the battalion, with a small detachment billeted
upon the family. The farmer was a gray-haired old loyalist, whom I shall
always remember, leaning on his staff in the middle of the kitchen,
barred out from his place in the chimney-corner by the noisy circle of
his unbidden guests. Major Parker was a brisk little man, clad in
brindle jeans of ancient cut, resplendent with brass buttons. Two small
piercing eyes, deep-set beside a hawk's-beak nose, twinkled from under
the rim of his brown straw hat, whose crown was defiantly surmounted by
a cock's feather. But he was exceedingly jolly withal, and welcomed the
Yankees with pompous good-humor, despatching a sergeant for a jug of
applejack, which was doubtless as inexpensive to the major as his other
hospitality. Having been a prisoner at Chicago, he prided himself on his
knowledge of dungeon etiquette and the military courtesies due to our
rank.

We were awakened in the morning by high-pitched voices in the room
below. Lieutenant Sill and I had passed the night in neighboring caverns
of the same miraculous feather-bed. We recognized the voice of the
major, informing some culprit that he had just ten minutes to live, and
that if he wished to send any dying message to his wife or children then
and there was his last opportunity; and then followed the tramping of
the guards as they retired from his presence with their victim. Hastily
dressing, we hurried down to find what was the matter. We were welcomed
with a cheery good-morning from the major, who seemed to be in the
sunniest of spirits. No sign of commotion was visible. "Step out to the
branch, gentlemen; your parole of honor is sufficient; you'll find
towels--been a prisoner myself." And he restrained by a sign the
sentinel who would have accompanied us. At the branch, in the yard, we
found the other refugees trembling for their fate, and learned that
Headen had gone to the orchard in the charge of a file of soldiers with
a rope. While we were discussing the situation and endeavoring to calm
the apprehensions of the Georgians, the executioners returned from the
orchard, our guide marching in advance and looking none the worse for
the rough handling he had undergone. The brave fellow had confided his
last mes