Barker also went down to the Yazoo River and took his first lessons in handling a dugout, but he soon returned to town to see if he couldn’t find some way of getting into Vicksburg.
An old fisherman to whom Barker broached the subject, carefully, gave him this advice:
“Stranger,” he said, “there be a fellow in the Union army somewhere. His name is U. S. Grant. Ye may have heard of him. They say he is much set on getting into that town. May be if ye and he put your heads together ye can find a way to get in.”
“Look here, my friend,” Barker replied, somewhat angered, “I have a very good reason for wanting to get into Vicksburg.”
“I reckon ye have that,” the old fisherman replied, testily. “I reckon ye are a Confederate spy or a Federal spy. If ye are, ye’ll have to find your own way into town. Ye cant get me into trouble. Two of my sons are in General Pemberton’s army, if they haven’t been killed. I’m too old to fight, and I won’t mix up with spies. Ye’re the third stranger this week that’s talked to me about getting into Vicksburg, so ye’ll have to pardon me, if I’m a bit techy. I tell them all my boat’s not running.”
Barker protested that he was neither a Confederate nor a Federal spy.
“Well, if ye aren’t a spy, ye can’t get in. It’s only birds and fish and spies that can get in. We can’t even smuggle in a side of bacon for our boys. I hear they’re eating rats and mules with young cane for vegetables.”
Barker was silent. His sympathy went out to the old man, whom like thousands north and south the great war had made sad and lonely.
“If ye ain’t a spy,” the old man took up the conversation again, “I’ll give ye a bit of advice. Don’t ye talk to anybody about getting into Vicksburg. It’s a bad subject for conversation just now at this place.
“The Union men would turn ye over to the soldiers, and there are still men here whose hearts are filled with hatred against the North.