It was the mountaineer.
McArthur handed him the pistol, and divesting himself, took the negro’s blue uniform and put it on.
“If he speaks, blow his brains out!”
“Ugh, ugh, ugh!” sobbed the negro, trying hard to swallow even this sound.
“Quick, what is your regiment?”
“Secon’ South Ca’lina. Marster, please take down dat gun!”
“Who runs the ferry boat at Cumming’s Point?”
“Hatchett an’ Simpson, Fifty-fourth Massachusetts.”
“What is your company?”
“Company C, sah.”