y own observation.
The first two years of the war I served with Griffith's-Barksdale's Mississippi Brigade.
In the company I belonged to was a gallant fellow, Kit Gilmer, who was badly wounded at Sharpsburg.
Our wounded were placed in a large stone barn, near the battlefield.
When the army recrossed the Potomac, on Friday, September, 19, 1862, I ran into the barn, as we passed by, to see my wounded friends.
I bid Kit Gilmer and others good-by, believing I would never see them again.
After remaining a day or so near Shepardstown, we fell back to Winchester, and among the first to greet us when we reached there was Ike, Kit Gilmer's nigger, who saidKit Gilmer's nigger, who said, Mars Kit is in dat house, I ain't gwine let dem Yankees git Mars Kit.
Ike had appropriated a horse belonging to the old farmer, placed Kit on him, and, mounting behind, carried him to safety.
Ike is living now, a respected citizen of Madison county, Miss., but poor Kit died many years ago.
My grandmother left me, at her dea