"Who can take me to him " one of them said.
"Uncle Harrison," she replied.
The man ordered Uncle Harrison to show the way to the horse.
He did not move, but, instead, looked at his mistress.
"Go, Uncle Harrison," she said.
"Must I, missis?" and the old man moved off reluctantly. He had hidden him away off in the deep woods, where they could never have found him, he explained afterwards.
When the horse was brought up, one of these rough fellows leaped on his back and struck him with his great whip. The fine creature, that had been trained to go by the word and the reins, and did not know the meaning of a whip, reared and danced with pain.
The man Edmund who had drunk a glass of wine in the porch had always been a bad negro. He was set as a sentinel to prevent our leaving the house. We saw him standing on the quarters' hill about a quarter of a mile off watching the house.[1] Perhaps it was believed that we would attempt to carry off valuables. All night long the cavalry galloped around the house, sometimes under the very windows. We could not sleep for the noise of their horses' hoofs. The servants were as respectful and kind as ever, more so indeed. Aunt Abby crept in the house and handed back the package containing watches and other trinkets. "I cyarn't keep it any longer," she sobbed, while the tears poured down her venerable face. "Dey tells me dey has a wand, and dat wand will pint to anything dey tell it. I gave up all I had. I had a tumbler glass full o' money, presents, an' things dat de ladies had give to me,—half-dollars an' things. I give 'em all up. But I couldn't give up your things. But de wand will pint an' dey will git 'em, an' I bring 'em back to you now."
- ↑ When the war was over, "Edmund Dabney," as he signed himself, wrote to his old master begging to be allowed to return to Burleigh. He sent messages of humble apology by all passing negroes. He was never allowed to return.
