The provisions furnished by our black friends at the time we crossed the Savannah, were at length exhausted. We concluded again to recruit them at the first opportunity, but for some reason this seemed long in coming. However, early one morning, after crossing Etowah River, and secreting ourselves in the brush, we heard voices, and soon afterwards footsteps, which we discovered to belong to two young negroes. We at once made ourselves known, and asked them to supply our wants. This they promised to do during the day, and just at dark they appeared with some provisions, sufficient to fill our empty stomachs, and begged to be permitted to accompany us. This request we dared not grant, for this would unquestionably have put the man-hunters again upon our track. If caught under such circumstances, we would be treated to a speedy passage to the celestial regions, without calling into practice the services of judge or jury. Selfish reasoning this, no doubt, but quite sufficient for three feeble and well-nigh exhausted fugitives.
We were now within some sixty miles of where we supposed our lines to be, and concluded to divide the distance that night, so as to be able to reach the army the following night. But after traveling until three o'clock in the morning, the supper of the evening before had served its purpose. We were like the nightingale in the fable of the "Nightingale and the glow-worm," beginning to feel the keen demands of appetite.
During all this time Spencer had saved a few spoonfuls of flour. We thought we should never need it more than we did just then. My old kettle was brought into requisition, a small fire kindled, and the flour converted into gruel. This consumed, we went on.
By the map, we were nearing Jasper, the seat of Pickens County, about forty miles from Calhoun, the point at which we were aiming to strike our lines. As we were winding along the side of a hill, at a turn of the road, there stood within a couple of rods of us a man with a gun in his hand. It was just in the grey of the morning.
A Cautious Picket
A man was the last object we wished to see just then, unless he happened to be clad in Federal blue, and this fellow was in Confederate grey. If we could, we would have avoided his acquaintance. In truth, we could not have encountered a more startling object. Under such circumstances men think quickly. Avoid him we could not. If we ran, he would shoot, and it struck me quite forcibly that the gun was a thing to gain control of, so I jumped for him. To my astonishment, he exclaimed in startled tones: "Who is you, Mars?"
In appearance he was a white man; his dialect was that of a negro.
"Who are you?" I inquired.
"I'se Mars Jackson's boy."
"You don't pretend you are a slave?"