Both of us could not sleep at once, so we divided the watch; neither slept much. After they thought we were asleep the wife said to Enos, “I don’t like this; I feels sort of jubus. If my uncle knew these men were here they would hang you before morning.” “Don’t care a d—n,” said Enos; “I said that I would help them and I shall do it; what did they all do for you when I was fighting? Not a thing; I tell you this is a rich man’s war and a poor man’s fight. I have got my eyes open.” After that we felt safe and went to sleep. We turned out the next morning feeling much refreshed, but the rain continued to fall and we could not travel, although every hour was precious to us.
Frank made the women happy. They had some old shoes that were ripped, and being a good cobbler, he repaired them. We said if we had some stock we would make them new ones, and they wanted us to wait until they got the stock. It rained hard when night came, but we must be on the road, and the negro was sent with us. We clasped the hand of Enos, gave him our address, and told him if we could ever be of service to him not to fail to call. I have never heard from him since, but remember him kindly as one of the few rebels who gave me a kind word and treated me like a human being.
We travelled all night. Everything indicated that the army had just passed over the ground,—fences were gone, barns had been burned, there was no crowing of the cock in the morning and the grunting hog was a thing of the past. At daylight, wet to the skin, we halted at a negro cabin. He welcomed us, but, like everything else, had been “cleaned out.” He was old and the only one left on the plantation, all the rest having gone with “Massa Sherman.” Our army had passed the day before, and he was delighted with them; said they had bands just like the circuses and guns that they loaded in the morning and fired all day.
After drying our clothes before the fire and cooking an ash-cake he took us to a barn across the road and covered us with husks. Sherman was but ten miles away, and we felt confident that this was our last day in the rebel lines. We planned to leave the road and travel through the fields. If the pickets halted us, we were to run and let them fire. We believed that they could not hit us in the darkness, and that the firing would alarm our pickets, who would protect us.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE CAPTURE AND RETURN TO COLUMBIA.
About four in the afternoon we sat up in the husks, ate the last of the corn-bread the negro had given us, then covered ourselves over to wait for darkness. While we were hidden from view we did not entirely cover our haversack. In a short time we heard voices, and a man said, “There is a haversack: I am going to get it.” As he walked over the husks he stepped on me, but I did not squeal. As he picked up the haversack, he saw Frank’s arm and cried, “The barn is full of d—d Yankees.” We heard the click as they cocked their pieces, and thinking it about time to stop further proceedings, we lifted up our heads. “Throw down your arms,” was the next order. We explained that we had performed that sad duty several months before.
After much talk they let us come out. Our captors were Texas rangers, the hardest looking set of men I ever met; dressed more like cowboys than soldiers, armed with sabres, two revolvers each, carbines, besides a lariat hung to the saddle. There were but three of them, and we resolved to make an appeal for one more chance. In the most earnest manner possible we told the story of our long service in the field, our starvation in prison, our long tramp for liberty and our near approach to our lines, and begged them to let us go. I think we made an impression on them, but after conferring they said, “You are loyal to your side and we must be to ours, but we will use you well while we have you in charge.”