"It's all a mistake. Let me go! I ain't Mis' Stackridge"
Nothing so natural as that the wife of the notorious Unionist should deny her identity at sight of the whips. The soldiers looked at each other, muttered something in German, smiled, and replaced their muskets in the corner.
"You tell us where is your husband. Or else we whip you. Dat is our orders."
This they said in low tones, with mild looks, and with a calmness which was frightful. The widow saw that she had to do with men who obeyed orders literally, and knew no mercy.
"I hain't got no husband. I ain't Mis' Stackridge. I'm a poor lone widder, that jest come over here to borry a few things, and that's all."
"Ve unterstan. You say shust now you are Mrs. Stackridge. Now you say not. Dat make no difruns. Ve know. You tell us where is your husband, or ve string you up."
This speech was pronounced by both the foreigners, a sentence by each, alternately. At the conclusion one drew a strong cord from his pocket, while the other looked with satisfaction at certain hooks in the plastering overhead, designed originally for the support of a kitchen pole, but now destined for another use.
"Don't you dast to tech me!" screamed the false Mrs. Stackridge. "I'm a secessionist myself, that hates the Union-shriekers wus'n you do, and I've got a son that's a capting, and a poor lone widder at that!"
"Dat we don't know. What we know is, you tell what we say, or we whip you. Dat's Captain Shprowl's orders."
"Capting Sprowl! That's my son! my own son! If he sent you, then it's all right!"