On the morrow (the thirtieth of December) we went to the gate, presented our compliments to the sergeant of the guard, and informed him that private business with Colonel Allen, commanding, etc., required a personal interview. The sergeant communicated the fact to a gentleman in butternut, who took his rifle and strolled leisurely over to head-quarters with us. The Colonel smiled pleasantly, and as he wrote out the pass, said in a well-bred way, that he never doubted the honor of his prisoners, though he sometimes had a little fear of their discretion, and that when he was applied to by gentlemen who would be discreet in their intercourse with the country people, it afforded him great pleasure to let them out on parole.
The lieutenant and I returned to our quarters, and hung around our necks a couple of canteens and three or four haversacks; we took a basket and bag, received with gravity sundry bits of ironical advice, and then presenting to the sergeant of the guard our pass, stepped out of Camp Ford on parole.
The road carried us into the woods. At the end of half a mile we descended a hill, crossed a little brook, and found ourselves close upon the white house and negro-cabins of a plantation. At the door we encountered a sour-faced, respectable man, with whom we were soon engaged in the following delightful dialogue:
“Good day, sir.”
“Good day.”
“Have you any dried fruit to sell?”
“No.”
“No apples?”
“No.”
“Nor peaches?”