What a predicament for a youthful soldier. There I stood, despised and hated by four ladies with whom I had been apparently on good terms a few moments before. Had a band of bushwhackers opened fire on me at that moment I should have been happy again.
The bushwhackers did not come, but Julius did. I shall never forget Julius.
“Miss Julia, dis yere Yankee doan' know nuffin 'bout stealin' dat goose.”
“How do you know, nigger?”
“Cos' what dat oder Yankee say.”
“What did he say?”
“He tole me 'fi made de leas bit of holler so dat Yankee sittin' on de porch wid you all see he, he would don' cut my brack hed off wid he's s'od. Deed he did, Miss Julia.”
“How did he know about the goose?”
“Spec I'se de nigger to blame. He axed me whar missus kept her pervisions, an' fo' I know'd what I do'n, I say, 'Nuffin left but one ole goose, Massa.' Den he say, 'Whar dat goose?' an' what wor a poor nigger to do, Miss Julia?”
“We have done you an injustice, sir,” said the mother, again turning to me.