The Federals felt proud of
their capture, and sought to conciliate Jack with honeyed words and
great promises. But Jack would have none of it.

"Well, look er here," said Jack, looking suspiciously around at the
soldiers; "who you people be, nohow?"

"We are Federal soldiers," answered the picket.

"Well, well, is you dem?"

"Dem who?" asked the now thoroughly aroused Federal.

"Why dem Yankees, ob course--dem dat cotched Mars Clayt."

The Federal admitted they were "Yankees," but that now Jack had no
master, that he was free.

"Is dat so?" Then scratching his head musingly, Jack said at last, "I
don know 'bout dat--what you gwine do wid me, anyhow; what yer want?"

He was told that he must go as a prisoner to headquarters first, and
then dealt with as contrabands of war.

"Great God Almighty! white folks, don't talk dat er way." The negro
had now become thoroughly frightened, and with a sudden impulse
he threw the chicken at the soldier's feet, saying, "Boss, ders a
rooster, but here is me," then with the speed of a startled deer Jack
"hit the wind," to use a vulgarism of the army.

"Halt! halt!"--bang, whiz, came from the sentinel, the whole picket
force at Jack's heels. But the faithful negro for the time excelled
himself in running, and left the Federals far behind. He came in camp
puffing, snorting, and blowing like a porpoise. "Great God Almighty!
good people, talk er 'bout patter-rollers, day ain't in it. If dis
nigger didn't run ter night, den don't talk." Then Jack recounted his
night's experience, much to the amusement of the listening soldiers.

Occasionally a negro who had served a year or two with his young
master in the army, would be sent home for another field of
usefulness, and his place taken by one from the plantation. While a
negro is a great coward, he glories in the pomp and glitter of war,
when others do the fighting. He loves to tell of the dangers (not
sufferings) undergone, the blood and carnage, but above all, how the
cannon roared round and about him.

A young negro belonging to an officer in one of the regiments was
sent home, and his place as cook was filled by Uncle Cage, a venerable
looking old negro, who held the distinguished post of "exhorter" in
the neighborhood. His "sister's chile" had filled Uncle Cage's head
with stories of war--of the bloodshed on the battlefield, the roar
of cannon, and the screaming of shells over that haven of the negro
cooks, the wagon yards--b