"Who's thar?" was answered in a tone, common to the poor whites and blacks of that section, that afforded no indication of the color of the speaker. That, however, was the first thing to determine before proceeding further. So our hero replied, interrogatively: "Are you black or white in there?" "Thar aint no niggahs heah," was the response, and the indignant tone of its delivery placed it beyond doubt that they had fallen upon a family of "poor whites." Glazier thereupon changed his voice to that of the "high-toned" rebel, and asked why he kept an officer of the Confederate army waiting for admittance. The man reluctantly opened the door, and the soi-disant Confederate demanded in an imperious tone, "How long is it since our army passed here?"
"What army?" was the cautious query, before an answer was vouchsafed.
"Why the rebel army, of course!"
The man hereupon stated that Wheeler's cavalry had passed by a week before, following Sherman's rear guard.
"How far is it to General Wheeler's headquarters?" asked Lieutenant Glazier.
"I dun'no!" growled the other; "but I guess it's a right smart distance."
To other questions, as to the possibility of obtaining one or more horses and mules, and even a suggestion that something to eat would not be unwelcome, the fellow protested that the —— Yankees had stripped the country of everything, and left them neither horses, mules, nor anything to eat. Through the intervention of his wife, however, Glazier finally obtained some bread and sweet potatoes; and, delivering a lecture to him upon the gross ingratitude of treating in such a niggardly manner a soldier who had left a home of opulence and comfort, to battle for his rights and liberties, with much more of a similar audacious character, he left the house.
Time, however, was too precious to be wasted, and, at the conclusion of the meal, they hurriedly resumed their march.
A solitary planter passed them, returning their carefully-worded salutation, and, evidently mistaking them for Confederates, volunteered the information that "our cavalry"—meaning Wheeler's, had passed that point last Tuesday. He was barely out of view, when they overtook a couple of negroes going to their work; and of them Glazier inquired the distance to the nearest plantation, receiving for answer, "Jess a mile, massa." "Are there any white folks there?" asked our hero. "Narry one, massa," was the reply; adding, "Dat ar planter is what dey call a Beeswaxer"—meaning a Bushwacker, "and Massa Sherman took dem all orf." Not wishing to commit themselves by imprudently revealing their true character, Glazier asked them indifferently, if they had seen any of Wheeler's cavalry lately. To which one of them responded, "Dar's right smart of dem down at Mars' Brown's, free mile from de swamp, and dey's hazin' de country all 'round."
This intelligence was not encouraging, but our friends thought it the wiser course to proceed at once to the plantation the negro had described. They soon reached the place, and, finding that the dwelling of the owner was closed, they, without delay, advanced to the nearest of the smaller tenements, such as were usually occupied by slaves.