"You, Rafe, what ye up to? What ye got a light burnin' this time o' night fo'?"
"'Deed, marsa, it's nuffin'—fo' God, marsa! I was gittin' de stomach bottle fo' Gabe—he eat some jelly root fo' supper and he's been powerful sick—frow his insides out—I—"
"Leave your horses, boys. Rafe's got some of Hinton's best sorghum whisky—you, there, nigger, get us a jug and some cups."
How many dismounted Jack couldn't make out, but presently there was a heavy tramping in the cabin and then a ferocious oath.
"What does this mean; why have you got all these traps packed? Going to cut to the Yankees! Don't lie, now—you'll get more lashes for it."
Jack listened breathlessly. Would the quavering slaves have presence of mind to divert suspicion? There was a pause, and then the old man cried, pleadingly:
"We'se gwine to lebe dis place; we's gwine up to de house in de mornin'. My ole woman can't come down heah now, case de sojers is always firm', and Mars' Hinton told us to come to de quarters, sah."
"I don't believe a word of it, you old rascal. I'll see whether Hinton has ordered you to leave here. Likely story, indeed; leave one of his best fields with no one to care for it. Git the whisky and stop your mumbling. You, there, you young imps, step about lively—do you heah?"
There was the sound of a sharp stroke, then a howl of pain and a boisterous laugh.
"You keep an eye on the rear and I will see how many horses there are," Jack's lips murmured in Barney's ear. He slid cautiously down the slanting roof until he came to the corner where he saw the dark group of horses. There were three—tied to the peach-trees. He made his way back to Barney and whispered: