"Lawd, Ma.r.s.e Dan, I'se mo' feared ter stay hyer," responded Big Abel, with an ashen face. "Whar we gwine hide, anyhow?"

"We won't hide, we'll run," returned Dan gravely, and with his arm on the negro's shoulder, he pa.s.sed through the alley out into the street. There the noise bewildered him an instant, and his eyes went blind while he grasped Big Abel's sleeve.

"Wait a minute, I can't see," he said. "Now, that's right, go on. By George, it's bedlam turned loose, let's get out of it!"

"Dis away, Ma.r.s.e Dan, dis away, step right hyer," urged Big Abel, as he slipped through the hurrying crowd of fugitives which packed the street.

White and black, men and women, sick and well, they swarmed up and down in the dim sunshine beneath the flying sh.e.l.ls, which skimmed the town to explode in the open fields beyond. The wounded were there--all who could stand upon their feet or walk with the aid of crutches--stumbling on in a mad panic to the meadows where the sh.e.l.ls burst or the hot sun poured upon festering cuts. Streaming in noisy groups, the slaves fled after them, praying, shrieking, calling out that the day of judgment was upon them, yet bearing upon their heads whatever they could readily lay hands on--bundles, baskets, babies, and even clucking fowls tied by the legs. Behind them went a troop of dogs, piercing the tumult with excited barks.

Dan, fevered, pallid, leaning heavily upon Big Abel, pa.s.sed unnoticed amid a throng which was, for the most part, worse off than himself. Men with old wounds breaking out afresh, or new ones staining red the cloths they wore, pushed wildly by him, making, as all made, for the country roads that led from war to peace. It was as if the hospitals of the world had disgorged themselves in the sunshine on the bright September fields.

Once, as Dan moved slowly on, he came upon a soldier, with a bandage at his throat sitting motionless upon a rock beside a clump of thistles, and moved by the expression of supreme terror on the man's face, he stopped and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

"What's the trouble, friend--given up?" he asked, and then drew back quickly for the man was dead. After this they went on more rapidly, flying from the horrors along the road as from the screaming sh.e.l.ls and the dread of capture.

At the hour of sunset, after many halts upon the way, they found themselves alone and still facing the open road. Since midday they had stopped for dinner with a hospitable farmer, and, some hours later, Big Abel had feasted on wild grapes, which he had found hidden in the shelter of a little wood. In the same wood a stream had tinkled over silver rocks, and Dan, lying upon the bank of moss, had bathed his face and hands in the clear water. Now, while the shadows fell in spires across the road, they turned into a quiet country lane, and stood watching the sun as it dropped beyond the gray stone wall. In the gra.s.s a small insect broke into a low humming, and the silence, closing the next instant, struck upon Dan's ears like a profound and solemn melody. He took off his cap, and still leaning upon Big Abel, looked with rested eyes on the sloping meadow brushed with the first gold of autumn. Something that was not unlike shame had fallen over him--as if the horrors of the morning were a mere vulgar affront which man had put upon the face of nature. The very anguish of the day obtruded awkwardly upon his thoughts, and the wild clamour he had left behind him showed with a savage crudeness against a landscape in which the dignity of earth--of the fruitful life of seasons and of crops--produced in a solitary observer a quiet that was not untouched by awe. Where nature was suggestive of the long repose of ages, the brief pa.s.sions of a single generation became as the flicker of a candle or the glow of a firefly in the night.

"Dat's a steep road ahead er us," remarked Big Abel suddenly, as he stared into the shadows.

Dan came back with a start.

"Where shall we sleep?" he asked. "No, not in that field--the open sky would keep me awake, I think. Let's bivouac in the woods as usual."

They moved on a little way and entered a young pine forest, where Big Abel gathered a handful of branches and kindled a light blaze.

"You ain' never eat n.i.g.g.e.r food, is you, Ma.r.s.e Dan?" he inquired as he did so.

"Good Lord!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Dan, "ask a man who has lived two months on corn-field peas if he's eaten hog food, and he'll be pretty sure to answer 'yes.' Do you know we must have crawled about six miles to-day." He lay back on the pine tags and stared straight above where the long green needles were illuminated on a background of purple s.p.a.ce. A few fireflies made golden points among the tree-tops.

"Well, I'se got a hunk er middlin'," pursued Big Abel thoughtfully, "a strip er fat en a strip er lean des like hit oughter be--but a n.i.g.g.e.r 'ooman she gun hit ter me, en I 'low Ole Marster wouldn't tech hit wid a ten-foot pole." He stuck the meat upon the end of Dan's bayonet and held it before the flames. "Ole Marster wouldn't tech hit, but den he ain' never had dese times."

"You're right," replied Dan idly, filling his pipe and lighting it with a small red ember, "and all things considered, I don't think I'll raise any racket about that middling, Big Abel."

"Hit ain' all n.i.g.g.e.r food, no how," added Big Abel reflectively, "caze de 'ooman she done steal it f'om w'ite folks sho's you bo'n."

"I only wish she had been tempted to steal some bread along with it,"

rejoined Dan.

Big Abel's answer was to draw a hoecake wrapped in an old newspaper from his pocket and place it on a short pine stump. Then he reached for his jack-knife and carefully slit the hoecake down the centre, after which he laid the bacon in slices between the crusts.

"Did she steal that, too?" inquired Dan laughing.

"Naw, suh, I stole dis."

"Well, I never! You'll be ashamed to look the Major in the face when the war is over."

Big Abel nodded gloomily as he pa.s.sed the sandwich to Dan, who divided it into two equal portions. "Dar's somebody got ter do de stealin' in dis yer worl'," he returned with rustic philosophy, "des es dar's somebody got ter be w'ite folks en somebody got ter be n.i.g.g.e.r, caze de same pusson cyarn be ner en ter dat's sho'. Dar ain' 'oom fer all de yerth ter strut roun' wid dey han's in dey pockets en dey nose tu'nt up des caze dey's hones'. Lawd, Lawd, ef I'd a-helt my han's back f'om pickin' en stealin' thoo dis yer wah, whar 'ould you be now--I ax you dat?"

Catching a dried branch the flame shot up suddenly, and he sat relieved against the glow, like a gigantic statue in black basalt.

"Well, all's fair in love and war," replied Dan, adjusting himself to changed conditions. "If that wasn't as true as gospel, I should be dead to-morrow from this fat bacon."

Big Abel started up.

"Lis'en ter dat ole hoot owl," he exclaimed excitedly, "he's a-settin'

right over dar on dat dead limb a-hootin' us plum in de mouf. Ain' dat like 'em, now? Is you ever seed sech airs as dey put on?"

He strode off into the darkness, and Dan, seized with a sudden homesickness for the army, lay down beside his musket and fell asleep.

III

THE CABIN IN THE WOODS

At daybreak they took up the march again, Dan walking slowly, with his musket striking the ground and his arm on Big Abel's shoulder. Where the lane curved in the hollow, they came upon a white cottage, with a woman milking a spotted cow in the barnyard. As she caught sight of them, she waved wildly with her linsey ap.r.o.n, holding the milk pail carefully between her feet as the spotted cow turned inquiringly.

"Go 'way, I don't want no stragglers here," she cried, as one having authority.

Leaning upon the fence, Dan placidly regarded her.

"My dear madam, you commit an error of judgment," he replied, pausing to argue.

With the cow's udder in her hand the woman looked up from the streaming milk.

"Well, ain't you stragglers?" she inquired.

Dan shook his head reproachfully.

"What air you, then?"

"Beggars, madam."

"I might ha' knowed it!" returned the woman, with a snort. "Well, whatever you air, you kin jest as eas'ly keep on along that thar road. I ain't got nothing on this place for you. Some of you broke into my smokehouse night befo' last an' stole all the spar' ribs I'd been savin'. Was you the ones?"

"No, ma'am."

"Oh, you're all alike," protested the woman, scornfully, "an' a bigger set o' rascals I never seed."

"Huh! Who's a rascal?" exclaimed Big Abel, angrily.

"This is the reward of doing your duty, Big Abel," remarked Dan, gravely.

"Never do it again, remember. The next time Virginia is invaded we'll sit by the fire and warm our feet. Good morning, madam."

"Why ain't you with the army?" inquired the woman sharply, slapping the cow upon the side as she rose from her seat and took up the milk pail. "An officer rode by this morning an' he told me part of the army was campin'

ten miles across on the other road."