Page:The Overland Monthly Volume 5 Issue 3.djvu/10



work of trembling fingers) apprised us of an interruption of our solitude, when the door flew open to admit the old woman, who, basket in hand, came in upon us like a thunderbolt.

She was a rare old specimen of her race, active yet, although her years must have been many.

What with joy, solicitude, anxiety, hope, and fear, her feelings were almost too much for her, and Eph.'s cabin too small, by far, for a proper physical demonstration of her emotions.

For fear that our fire would attract notice from without, on account of the smoke it made, down she tumbled before it, to extinguish the blaze with her apron and hands; and then,-"r fear that we should be cold, the san. willing hands excited among the dry .ticks such a flame as we had never thought of.

During the discussion of the inevitable bacon and hoe-cake she kept moderately quiet, giving expression to her feelings only in slight moans, but evidently relishing every mouthful that we took. The feast over, she gathered together the fragments, and, though her mission had been fulfilled, still lingered, her object in so doing not being apparent to us.

Slowly surveying the group, she singled out one, as a proper subject for her last demonstration. The Major, being small, was of the most convenient size for her purpose, while his after-dinner attitude, (stretched at full length upon Eph.'s couch of miscellaneous rags) put him at a hopeless disadvantage. Witha little scream of affection, "auntie" pounced on the unsuspecting Major, clasped him in her long and not over-plump arms, and gave him a hug, which he yet feels in memory, saying, by way of parting salute:

"Lord bress you, children! Oh! my good Lord! my soul loves every one of you." The powerless and astonished

Major fell back witha bump; once more

the door rattled, and our good friend was gone.

Eph. returned early in the day, ostensibly to mend his chimney, actually to keep an eye on us, and to ward off any danger that might threaten.

At night we were on the march, in a blinding snow-storm, still strong and hopeful.

In the Pamunkey River is an island, inhabited by a small tribe of Indians, said to be descendants of Pocahontas. Independent, both in politics and religion, these few people have lived, for many years as a little nation by themselves—having no voice in the rule of the land, paying tax to neither State nor country, peaceable and prosperous. Their chiefs and leaders were shrewd enough, (or perhaps loyal) at the beginning of the war, to understand thoroughly the inevitable consequence of such a struggle, and, while they took no active part as a people, readily gave their sympathies, and, in individual cases, their valuable aid, to the cause of the North. The slaves, therefore, had no hesitation in conducting to Indian-town fugitives from Southern military prisons.

At midnight, the guide knocked at the door of a neat little house, and, without much delay, we stood upon the hearth of one of the chiefs of the tribe. If we did not expect to see scalps and antlers decorating the walls, we were a little disappointed at finding this "noble Redskin" very like other mortals in appearance. He gave us a welcome, more in acts than words, bade us make ourselves comfortable, and left us, without cereniony, to find a hiding-place in which we should be more secure than under his roof.

He returned in about an hour, and led the way to a remote corner of the island, where, in a field, a corn-shuck rick offered a shelter not to be despised on such a night.

We were then left to ourselves, with