“Was he dead?”
“Yes. He was one of Sedgwick’s men; he was killed when Sedgwick took the Heights. Shot through the head. The pants wa’n’t hurt none.” And putting spurs to his mule, he galloped ahead.
I noticed that he and Richard, like many of the young men, white and black, I had seen about Fredericksburg, wore United States army trousers.
“Dey was all we could git one while,” said Richard. “I reckon half our boys ’u’d have had to go widout pants if it had n’t been for de Union army. Dar was right smart o’ trad’n’ done in Yankee clothes, last years o’ de wa’.”
“Did you rob a dead soldier of those you have on?”
“No; I bought dese in Fredericksburg. I never robbed a dead man.”
“But how did you know they were not taken from a corpse?”
“Mought be; but it couldn’t be ho’ped. A poo’ man can’t be choice.”
Richard expressed great contempt—inspired by envy, I thought—of the young chap riding the mule.
“United States gov’ment give away a hundred and fifty old wore-out mules in Fredericksburg, not long ago; so now every lazy fellow ye see can straddle his mule! He a’n’t nobody, though he thinks he’s a heavy coon-dog!”