It was sunrise, perhaps a little later, when we stood near the ruins of the barracks, where a number of negroes were digging amid the glowing embers with the hope of finding weapons which might be restored to a condition of usefulness after being subjected to such great heat.
One of these searchers for useless treasure straightened up as we approached, and I saw that he was an old man, who looked as if he might have been a gentleman's servant.
"Do you live here in Washington, uncle?" I asked, and the old darkey replied:
"I'se ain't noways conditioned fur to answer dat question, sah, kase I dunno whar massa am ter be foun' dese yere queer days wha' we'se habin'."
"Who is your master?"
"Massa Clayton, sah. He's foolin' 'roun' wid some ob dem militious men; but I ain't foun' out wedder he whipped de Britishers, or ef dey done gone got de bes' ob him."
"I reckon you can say that he has got the worst of it up to the present time, for your 'militious' men didn't make any great showing," I said with a laugh, and then there came into my mind the memory of Elias Macomber. "Tell me, uncle, where did the American soldiers keep their prisoners?"
"Right hyar, sah; I'se done seed de barracks jail many a time."
"Were you around here when the building was fired?"
"Yes sah, I stood right hyar when de ossifers rode up."