“Yes, and old Columbia’ll be red, white and blue when we’re done,” chimed in another.
At sunset the aged woman went out into the empty yards and an old negro mammy was sitting on her porch, her body swaying backward and forward, as is the custom of the race when in the deepest misery. Occasionally a low moan and the ringing of hands in silent sorrow. Then seeing her mistress approaching, she cried out:
“Mistis, what kind of folks is dese here Yankees? Dey won’ eben let de daid rest in de grabe.”
“Why, Mary Ann, what is it?”
“You know my little John, what was buried yistiddy? Ain’t dey done tuk him up and lef’ him on de top o’ de groun’ fer de hogs to root?”
The soldiers had seen the fresh earth, and they mistook the new-made grave for hidden treasures, and “a little dead nigger was not worth reburying.”
So the black mother rocked and moaned in horror and agony.
And that night by the campfires not far away, a man was warming his hands and saying:
“Dees tarn rebels down here tink dey haf a hard time in Georgy—jus’ wait till we strike South Ca’liny oncet. We’ll burn ’em up all to oncet already.”
“Have you heard what Sherman says, Dutchy?” a soldier asked.