We resolved to select a dark and rainy night to put into execution our long cherished plan, and we waited anxiously for such a night. The morning of the 1st of June, which was the anniversary of my twenty-ninth birth-day, brought with it deep and long forgotten memories of other days.
The next day I was attracted by the movements of the old negro Dave, who was employed in the menial services of the prison. He was evidently well acquainted with our position, and knew all about the state of affairs. As he passed near me, he gave me a significant grin, hung his head in assumed diffidence, and began shoveling among the rubbish with all his might, saying to me as he labored, just loud enough for my ear, but looking all the while at his work:
“You Yankees has jis made about a tousand of the drefful rebels bite the dust up in Tennessee. I golly, I’se glad!”
“Why, Dave, aren’t you a rebel, yourself?”
“No, sah, massa, I’se—”
Just here, a straggling rebel official sauntered in sight, and our conversation was interrupted. If any Federal prisoners were discovered holding private consultations with the slaves, there was a death penalty just so adjusted in the martial laws of the Confederacy, as to meet the case. I let the day pass without further effort to see Dave.
The next day, however, finding a favorable opportunity, I asked Dave if he could furnish me three fish-hooks.
“God bless you, massa, yes!”—his eyes snapping fire as he responded.
“Can you get me a tin full of salt, and a paper of pepper?”
“Yes, massa!”