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time, my servant.
“Uncle York,” as we called him, was as good a specimen of a saint as I have ever met, and was quite the equal of Mrs. Stowe's “Uncle Tom.”
He was a fine-looking old man, with dignified and courtly manners, and his gray head was a perfect benediction, as he sat with us on the platform at our Sunday meetings.
He fully believed, to his dying day, that the “John Brown song” related to his son, and to him only.
Trowbridge, after landing on the island, hunted the rebels all day with his colored soldiers, and a posse of sailors.
In one place, he found by a creek a canoe, with a tar-kettle, and a fire burning; and it was afterwards discovered that, at that very moment, the guerillas were hid in a dense palmetto thicket, near by, and so eluded pursuit.
The rebel leader was one Miles Hazard, who had a plantation on the island, and the party escaped at last through the aid of his old slave, Henry, who found them a boat.
One of my sergeants, Clarence Kennon, who had not then escaped from slavery, was present when they reached the main-land; and he described them as being tattered and dirty from head to foot, after their efforts to escape their pursuers.
When the troops under my command occupied Jacksonville, Fla., in March of the following year, we found at the railroad station, packed for departure, a box of papers, some of them valuable.
Among them was a letter from this very Hazard to some friend, describing the perils of that adventure, and saying, “If you wish to know hell before your time, go to St. Simon's and be hunted ten days by niggers.”
I have heard Trowbridge say that not one of his men flinched; and they seemed to take delight in the pursuit, though the weather was very hot, and it was fearfully exhausting.
This was early in August; and the company remained two months at St. Simon's, doing picket duty within hearing of the rebel drums, though not another scout ever ventured on the island, to their knowledge.
Every Saturday Trowbridge
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