whar er bullet gone clean froo his heart. He nebber groan. I tuk his head up in my arms en cry en take on en call him! I pull back his close en listen at his heart. Hit wuz still. I takes de swode an de watch en de letters outen de pockets en start on—when bress God, yer cum dat whole Yankee army ten hundred millyons, en dey tromple all over us!
"Den I hear er Yankee say ter me 'Now, my man, you'se free.' 'Yassir, sezzi, dats so,' en den I see a hole ter run whar dey warn't no Yankees, en I run spang into er millyon mo. De Yankees wuz ev'y whar. Pear ter me lak dey riz up outer de groun'. All dat day I try ter get away fum 'em. En long 'bout night dey 'rested me en fetch me up fo er Genr'l, en he say,
"What you tryin' ter get froo our lines fur, nigger? Doan yer know yer free now, en if you go back you'd be a slave ergin?"
"Dats so, sah," sezzi, "but I'se 'bleeged ter go home."
"What fur?" sezze.
"Promise Marse Charles ter take dese letters en swode en watch back home to my Missus en young Marster, en dey waitin' fur me—I'se 'bleeged ter go."
"Den he tuk de letters en read er minute, en his eyes gin ter water en he choke up en say, 'Go-long!'
"Den I skeedaddled ergin. Dey kep on ketchin' me twell bimeby er nasty stinkin low-life slue-footed Yankee kotched me en say dat I wuz er dang'us nigger, en sont me wid er lot er our prisoners way up ter ole Jonson's Islan' whar I mos froze ter deaf. I stay dar twell one day er fine lady what say she from Boston cum er long, en I up en tells her all erbout Marse Charles and my Missus, en how dey all waitin' fur me, en how bad I want ter go home, en de nex news I knowed I wuz on er train er whizzin' down home wid my way all paid. I get wid
