March, 1862.
A great many negroes came into the lines, and were welcomed by the soldiers. Among them was a boy, black as anthracite, with large, lustrous eyes, and teeth as white as purest ivory. He was thirteen years old, born in Kentucky, but for several years had lived near Dover. His master, he said, was a gentleman, owned twenty-four slaves. He had on a greasy shirt of snuff-colored jean, the genuine negro cloth, such as one half the Southern army was compelled to wear. His slouched hat was tipped back upon his head, showing a countenance indicative of intelligence.
"Well, my boy, what is your name?" I asked.
"Dick, massa."
"Where do you live?"
"About fourteen miles from Dover, massa, up near de rollin' mill."
"Is your master a Secessionist?"
"He was Secesh, massa, but he be Union now."
This was correct testimony, the master appearing with great boldness at General Grant's head-quarters to let it be known he was for the Union.
"Are you a slave, Dick?"