They nodded, in friendly fashion, but the speaker was already going on as though sure of the answer:
“I 'members monstrous well dat day w'en my young marster jined out wid de artillery and Ole Miss she send me 'long wid him to look after him, 'cause he warn't nothin' but jess a harum-scarum boy noway. Less see, boss—dat must be goin' on thutty or forty yeah ago, ain't it?”
It was more than thirty years or forty either, but neither of them was moved to correct him. Again their heads conveyed an assent, and Uncle Ike, satisfied, went ahead, warming to his theme:
“So I went 'long with him jess lak Ole Miss said. And purty soon, he git to be one of dese yere lieutenants, and he act mighty biggotty toward hisse'f wid dem straps sewed onto his cote collar, but I bound I keep him in order—I bound I do dat, suhs, ef I don't do nothin' else in dat whole war. I minds the time w'en we wuz in camp dat fust winter and yere one day he come ridin' in out of de rain, jess drippin' wet. Befoah 'em all I goes up to him and I says to him, I says, 'Marse Willie, you git right down off'en dat hoss and come yere and lemme put some dry clothes on you. What Ole Miss gwine say to me ef I lets you set round here, ketchin; yore death?
“Some of dem y'other young gen'l'men laff den and he git red in de face and tell me to go 'way from dere and let him be. I says to him, I says, 'I promised yore maw faithful to 'tend you and look after you and I pintedly does aim to do so.' I says, 'Marse Willie,' I says, 'I hope I ain't gwine have to keep on tellin' you to git down off'en dat hoss.' Dem y'others laff louder'n ever den and he cuss and r'ar and call me a meddlin' black raskil. But I tek notice he got down off'en dat hoss—I lay to dat.
“But I didn't have to 'tend him long. Naw suh, not very long. He git killed de very fust big battle we wuz in, which wuz Shiloh. Dat battery shore suffer dat day. 'Long tow'rds evenin' yere dey come failin' back, all scorified and burnt black wid de powder and I sees he ain't wid 'em no more and I ax 'bout him and dey tells me de Battery done los' two of its pieces and purty near all de hosses and dat young Marse Willie been killed right at de outset of de hard fightin'. I didn't wait to hear no mo'n dat—dat wuz 'nuff fur me. I puts right out to find him.
“Gen'l'men, dat warn't no fittin' place to be prowlin' 'bout in. Everywhahs you look you see daid men and crippled men. Some places dey is jess piled up; and de daid is beginnin' to swell up already and de wounded is wrigglin' round on de bare ground and some of 'em is beggin' for water and some is beggin' for somebody to come shoot 'em and put 'em out of dere miz'ry. And ever onc't in a wile you hear a hoss scream. It didn't sound like no hoss tho', it sound mo' lak a pusson or one of dese yere catamounts screamin'.
“But I keep on goin' on 'count of my bein' under obligations to 'tend him and jess him alone. After while it begin to git good and dark and you could see lanterns bobbin' round whar dere wuz search parties out, I reckin. And jess befo' the last of de light fade 'way I come to de place whar de Battery wuz stationed in the aidge of a little saige-patch lak, and dar I find him—him and two y'others, right whar dey fell. Dey wuz all three layin' in a row on dere backs jes' lak somebody is done fix 'em dat way. His chist wuz tore up, but scusin' de dust and dirt, dar wam't no mark of vilence on his face a t'all.
“I knowed dey wam't gwine put Ole Miss's onliest dear son in no trench lak he wuz a daid hoss—naw suh, not wile I had my stren'th. I tek him up in my arms—I wuz mighty survig'rous dem times and he wam't nothin' but jes' a boy, ez I told you—so I tek him up and tote him 'bout a hundred yards 'way whar dar's a little grove of trees and de soil is sort of soft and loamy; and den and dere I dig his grave. I didn't have no reg'lar tools to dig wid, but I uses a pinted stick and one of dese yere bay-nets and fast ez I loosen de earth I cast it out wid my hands. And 'long towo'ds daylight I gits it deep nuff and big nuff. So I fetch water frum a little branch and wash off his face and I wrop him in a blanket w'ich I pick up nearby and I compose his limbs and I bury him in de ground.”
His voice had swelled, taking on the long, swinging cadences by which his race voices its deeper emotions whether of joy or sorrow or religious exaltation. Its rise and fall had almost a hypnotizing effect upon the two old men who were his auditors. The tale he was telling was no new one to them. It had been written a score of times in the county papers; it had been repeated a hundred times at reunions and Memorial Day services. But they listened, canting their heads to catch every word as though it were a new-told thing and not a narrative made familiar by nearly fifty years of reiteration and elaboration.