We put spurs to our horses, dashed through the sharp-shooters’ fire, and a few minutes later began exploring the lower quarters of the house, the fire being above. We found nothing till we came to the cellar. There we discovered a little girl, anywhere from two to three years old,—I’m not a good judge of little girls’ ages,—sitting in a little rocking-chair, and singing “Dixie.”
The captain grabbed her suddenly and ran to the open air with her, for the volumes of smoke were rapidly penetrating to the cellar. When he got her out, he said: “Who are you?”
She replied, in a piping little voice, “I’m Lulalie.”
Whether this meant that her name was Lula Lee, or Eulalie, or what, we could not make out.
“Where is your mamma?” asked the captain.
“She’s dead—she died when I was born.”
“Where is your papa?”
“I don’t know. Those ugly other people took him away. When he saw ’em coming, he took me to the cellar, and told me to stay there so the shellies wouldn’t hit me.”
“Where’s your maumey?” (Maumey meaning in South Carolina “negro nurse.”)
“I don’t know,” she answered. “Those ugly other people took all the colored folks away.”