“I seen ’im when he went, de sorrel four good lengths ahead o’ ev’ry urr hoss, jes’ like he use’ to be in a fox-hunt, an’ de whole rigiment right arfter ’im. Yo’ ain’ nuvver hear thunder! Fust thing I knowed, de roan roll’ head over heels an’ flung me up ’g’inst de bank, like yo’ chuck a nubbin over ’g’inst de foot o’ de corn pile. An’ dat’s what kep’ me from bein’ kilt, I ’spects. Judy she say she think ’twuz Providence, but I think ’twuz de bank. O’ c’ose, Providence put de bank dyah, but how come Providence nuver saved Marse Chan?

“When I look ’roun’ de roan wuz lyin’ dyah by me, stone dead, wid a cannon-ball gone ’mos’ th’oo him, an’ our men had done swep’ dem on t’urr side from de top o’ de hill. ’Twan’ mo’n a minit, de sorrel come gallupin’ back wid his mane flyin’, an’ de rein hangin’ down on one side to his knee. ‘Dyar!’ says I, ‘fo’ God! I ’spects dey done kill Marse Chan, an’ I promised to tek care on him.’

“I jumped up an’ run over de bank, an’ dyar, wid a whole lot o’ dead men, an’ some not dead yit, onder one o’ de guns, wid de fleg still in he han’, an’ a bullet right th’oo he body, lay Marse Chan. I tu’n him over an’ call him, ‘Marse Chan!’ but ’twan’ no use, he wuz done gone home, sho’ ’nuff. I pick ’im up in my arms wid de fleg still in he han’s, an’ toted’ im back jes’ like I did dat day when he wus a baby, an’ ole marster gin ’im to me in my arms, an’ sez he could trus’ me, an’ tell me to tek keer on ’im long ez he lived.

“I kyar’d ’im ’way off de battle-fiel’ out de way o’ de balls, an’ I laid ’im down onder a big tree till I could git somebody to ketch the sorrel for me. He wuz cotched arfter a while, an’ I hed some money, so I got some pine plank an’ made a coffin dat evenin’, an’ wrapt Marse Chan’s body up in de fleg, and put ’im in de coffin; but I didn’ nail de top on strong, ’cause I knowed ole missis wan’ see ’im; an’ I got a’ ambulance, an’ set out for home dat night. We reached dyar de nex’ evenin’, arfter travellin’ all dat night an’ all nex’ day.”

FOOTNOTE:

[46] By permission of author, and publishers, Charles Scribner’s Sons, N. Y.

MARY NOAILLES MURFREE.

“CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK.”