were intoxicated. Then they called to the negroes to come up into the porch to join them, as they struck the necks off the bottles of wine. The negroes stood around the porch, but only one accepted the invitation. The others looked on silently while a loud-voiced drunken fellow, who seemed to be the leader, announced that he had come to hang the old gray-haired scoundrel to whom all this belonged.
"I will hang your father on the nearest tree, under your eyes," he said to the daughters. "He is well known. I have long known him as an aider and abettor in this rebellion. I mean to get him yet. I hear that he is coming home in a few days." And then he cursed and swore dreadful oaths.
One of them shook a whip over Emmy's head because she said, "Sister, do not be frightened. Only cowards try to scare women and children."
"You had better not exasperate me," he cried, shaking a whip passionately over her. He was drunk enough to go any lengths. In the midst of all they called up Tom and ordered him to produce the large quantity of powder that he had buried. He denied all knowledge of any buried powder, not recollecting at the moment that he had buried a powder-can. Being inflamed with drink, they became very angry at his supposed obstinacy and falsehood. Holding a pistol to his head, they commanded him to bring the powder or his brains should be shot out. They marched the boy across the yard and down the declivity of the hill in this way. We expected every minute to see the pistol go off, whether the man willed it or not. It came to Tom, or to somebody, that the men must refer to the powder-can, and he took them to the spot. They dug it up, and were disgusted to find it empty. Our little black boy, Peter, had told the soldiers of this powder-can. He was with Tom when he buried it.
We did not see Peter for many years after this occurrence. A few years ago an emaciated and prematurely aged negro man came to the kitchen door to beg. He was ill, he said, and starving for something good to eat,—would we give him some pickle?
