Both of us could not sleep at once, so we divided the watch; neither slept much.
After they thought we were asleep the wife said to Enos
, “I don't like this; I feels sort of jubus.
If my uncle knew these men were here they would hang you before morning.”
“Don't care a d-n,” said Enos
; “I said that I would help them and I shall do it; what did they all do for you when I was fighting?
Not a thing; I tell you this is a rich man's war and a poor man's fight.
I have got my eyes open.”
After that we felt safe and went to sleep.
We turned out the next morning feeling much refreshed, but the rain continued to fall and we could not travel, although every hour was precious to us.
Frank made the women happy.
They had some old shoes that were ripped, and being a good cobbler, he repaired them.
We said if we had some stock we would make them new ones, and they wanted us to wait until they got the stock.
It rained hard when night came, but we must be on the road, and the negro was sent with us. We clasped the hand of Enos
, gave him our address, and told him if we could ever be of service to him not to fail to call.
I have never heard from him since, but remember him kindly as one of the few rebels who gave me a kind word and treated me like a human being.
We travelled all night.
Everything indicated that the army had just passed over the ground,--fences were gone, barns had been burned, there was no crowing of the cock in the morning and the grunting hog was a thing of the past.
At daylight, wet to the skin, we halted at a negro cabin.
He welcomed us, but, like everything else, had been “cleaned out.”
He was old and the only one left on the plantation, all the rest having gone with “Massa Sherman.”