“Yesterday there were some people who tried to pass out,” answered the boy. “They sent a flag of truce to the Federals asking permission to enter their lines, and Grant sent back word to stay quietly in the city as he would be in possession the Fourth of July. And he will, Jeanne. Mark my words, if Grant says so, he will be here.”
“Oh, Dick,” and Jeanne clapped her hands for joy.
“Hush! not a word,” said Dick. “I am sorry for these people. They are nice folks, and Bob will never get over it. But of course we just had to win.”
“I wonder where Snowball is,” mused Jeanne, as she retired.
The morning brought the answer. As the shelling was resumed with more frequency than ever for the delay, a number of negroes rushed into the cave.
“We ’longs ter yer now,” said Snowball acting as spokesman for the others. “Hyar’s me, an’ Jeff, an’ Feliciane, lill’ missy. Missus Adele’s niggas done gone ter her folks, an’ we reckoned we ’longed ter yer an’ Massa Dick.”
“To me?” exclaimed Jeanne bewildered. “Why, what in the world will I do with you all?”
“Dunno. Yer’ll hab ter take keer ob us, I reckon,” and Snowball seated herself on the floor in happy unconsciousness of the fact that taking care of them implied any responsibility. “You won’t whip us nohow. Will yer, lill’ missy?”
“I certainly won’t do that,” answered Jeanne, “but it will be a problem to feed you.”
And so it proved. Supplies were running very low in the city. Starvation stared the inhabitants in the face. And yet, despite the privations and the constant play of artillery and musketry through every minute of the day, when Minie balls were accompanied by Parrott, Canister, solid shot and shrapnel shells, and projectiles of all kinds, the soldiers became almost indifferent to them, and frequently sang amid the pattering of the balls.