618 
FOREST AND STREAM 
May 17, 1913 
"Oh. he got in too big a hurry for Shank s 
mare, and berried one of my bosses to help him 
on. You see, Ben got to my house ’bout i 
o’clock, and nothing would do but I must jump 
up and get the team harnessed. While 1 was 
gettin’ my dry goods on, Ben he told me the 
story, short and sweet, and when we got out 
to the yard where the bosses was, there was my 
gentleman’s track in the snow, and my best boss 
gone. Ben he knowed the track by the moccasin, 
so he left me to manage matters ’bout raisin’ 
the party, and some fixin’s for the darkies, while 
he went on to Smith’s for a warrant and the 
constable. The chap was headin’ for Crown 
P’int, and had about an hour the start. They’ve 
nailed him afore this, and I’ll appear ag’in him 
for boss stealin’. How do I know he meant to 
fetch the boss back? I don't b’lieve he did; a 
slave hunter’s mean enough to steal bosses or 
sheep, either.’’ 
"So you see,” said farmer Kelly, “it’s jest 
as I told you. There won’t be any scrimmage. 
It's as well to be lively, though. No telling but 
we may be overhauled by parties from below' 
with reg'lar papers and a posse to back ’em. 
Jason. 3'ou tend to the breakfast, while I—” 
He was interrupted by a wail of anguish so 
wild, so full of agony, that we all paused in¬ 
voluntarily, and for a moment every man of us 
seemed frozen in his tracks. A glance at the 
back end of the shanty explained all. 
There sat the poor octoroon mother, her 
hair in long disheveled waves flowing over her 
nude arms and shoulders, moaning and rocking 
to and fro in her misery, and frantically hug¬ 
ging her little girl to her breast. The child 
was dead, had been dead, none of us could even 
guess how long. It was pitiful, heartrending. 
But there was brief time for mourning. The 
fugitives were made to drink some hot tea and 
whiske}', hustled into clean, dry clothes, and 
hurried ofif through the woods to where a spring 
wagon and a smart team awaited them. As the 
woman utterly refused to leave her dead child 
behind, it was wrapped in a blanket and com¬ 
mitted to the strong arms of the father for a 
last, sad journey, and the mournful procession 
disappeared in the direction of the main road, 
leaving me alone in camp. 
In a couple of hours farmer Kell}' returned 
with Jason, and reported the party safely off— 
not for Canada, but Wisconsin, where they would 
be helped in settling a claim, and just as safe 
from pursuit. 
I had given the woman my address, and she 
had promised to write without fail, for she could 
write a little, but I nex-er expected to hear from 
her. In a little less than two years, however, a 
letter came from a remote town in Wisconsin 
to say that they were settled on a quarter section 
of land, with a log cabin, barn and ten acres of 
cleared fields. But the climate did not agree 
with them, and there was a despondent, home¬ 
sick tone throughout the letter that led me to 
believe they were pining for the South. I wrote 
them a cheerful, encouraging letter, and there 
the correspondence ended. 
■Nineteen years passed away. It was in IMay, 
1861. The country was in a warlike ferment, 
and more men were volunteering than could be 
mustered in under the law. or armed. A Mass¬ 
achusetts regiment—mostly unarmed—had been 
mobbed in the streets of Baltimore: Camp 
Curtin, near Harrisburg, was alive with troops, 
and regiments from the West were daily coming 
and going, making this camp their objective 
point of armed departure. 
Among others, the -th Wisconsin un¬ 
loaded from the cars near camp one morning, 
and taking possession of the road that was ankle 
deep in dust, proceeded to practice the tactics 
of “street firing’’ for three mortal hours. They 
were going through Baltimore on the morrow, 
armed, and with sixty rounds of “buck and ball” 
to the man. They thought it well to be prepared 
for mobbing. .As a regiment, it was heavier and 
taller than any that had yet stopped at Camp 
Curtin, and attracted a good deal of attention. 
When they had their tents up and camp¬ 
fires going, I walked over to their quarters to 
scrape acquaintance and do a little interviewing. 
It was a pleasant surprise to run against an old 
schoolmate, Johnny S., who was Lieutenant of 
FROG BAIT. THREE-HOOK GANG. 
Company E. Together we sauntered up the 
narrow street between the tents, stopping at the 
fires for a minute to chat with the men, until 
arriving at the officers’ quarters, my attention 
was attracted by a tall, stooping darky, busily 
engaged in cooking. For a minute I was in 
doubt. But as he looked up and our eyes met, 
I knew him at once. 
It was the fugitive of more than twenty 
years ago. 
It was not strange that I should know him, 
for a grown darky does not change like a white 
man, but I thought it a little remarkable that 
he should recognize me at once, as he did, and 
he could not have been more rejoiced had I been 
an own brother. Short stories must suffice in 
war time. Lieutenant S. had duties that called 
him to his company. Jim managed, while at¬ 
tending to his duties as cook, to give me a few 
brief notes of his free life. His wife had died 
soon after they had received my letter, and he 
could not write. He still held his land, but 
fanning had not been a success with him. The 
war, however, had stirred him thoroughly, and 
he talked almost insanely about it. He had not 
enlisted, but had “hired out” as cook, and to 
look after the colonel’s things generally. “What 
I mos’ly wants ter see is a battle,” he said. “I 
wants ter see de anger ob de Lord come down 
on de ’pressor. I does so. An’ when de day ob 
battle comes, I’se goin’ to be dar. Dat day dey’ll 
hab to do deir own cookin’.” 
In the early dawn of the next morning the 
regiment piled on to a train of flat cars and left 
for Washington. I was told that their march 
through Baltimore was grand. They marched 
in close order, to martial music, in slow time, 
and it was thought best not to assault or insult 
them. 
It was in July, two days after the battle of 
Bull Run, that I found myself in Washington. 
The state of the city beggars’ description and 
the general demoralization was almost past be¬ 
lief. It was a terror-stricken city. Five thou¬ 
sand well disciplined troops could have taken it 
almost without loss. The streets were filled with 
beaten, broken up, disorganized vofimteers. No 
man seemed to know where his regiment was, 
or if he had a regiment or company, and all 
were unarmed, save officers, who mostly retained 
their side-arms. 
I met several acquaintances who had been 
through the fight and got a different version of 
the affair from each one, as each saw it from 
his individual standpoint, I suppose. All agreed 
that the day was virtually with the Federals, 
until the Confederate reinforcements came on 
the field; also as to the terrible flight and panic 
which ensued, and they agreed on little else. 
I met several of the-th Wisconsin, 
and at last found Lieutenant S. in a drinking 
saloon, with a corporal and several privates of 
Company E. He was trying to get his com¬ 
pany together for mustering out, as their three 
months had nearly expired. When questioned 
about his regiment, he said: “Regiment! Well, 
I don’t know as we’ve got one. At best I can’t 
find it. We are badly cut up. We fought until 
late in the afternoon and took three batteries, 
but I think they were taken back for lack of 
troops to hold them. Perhaps we may muster 
half the regiment when the stragglers are all in.” 
‘ Do you know what has become of big Jim, 
the darky?” I asked. 
“Oh, him. Yes; he’s accounted for. He 
would have done well enough had he obeyed 
orders, but he left the officers’ baggage to take 
care of itself, and came straggling on to our 
left flank just as we were going to charge a 
battery. He had picked up an old_ Harper’s 
Ferry musket, and was just boiling over with 
fight. I didn’t see him killed myself, but—oh, 
here’s Sergeant Boyce. Sergeant, Jim was right 
near you when he was killed, wasn’t he? Here’s 
a gentleman would like to hear particulars.” 
The sergeant was a tall, fine looking fellow, 
with one eye in a patch and his left arm in a 
sling. At my invitation he got himself on the 
outside of some commissary whiskey, and then 
briefly told his little story about as follows: 
“Jim tailed on to our left flank just afore 
we made our first charge, and I told him to go 
back to the wagons; he hadn’t any business there. 
But he allowed he was the sword of the Lord 
and Gideon, and was jest goin’ in. I must say 
he fought like the devil. It was encouraging 
to see the way he went in, with the old musket 
