' As I was talking, I saw an uncle of mine among the Yankees, and
says he, 'Ashe, what are you doing here?' 'The same you are doing
there,' I says; and I asked the colonel just to let me off this time,
and I would try and keep out of their way hereafter. He asked me, Would
I come down there any more? And I told him I didn't know--I would have
to go where I was ordered. 'Well,' says he, 'you can't beg off.' But I
says, 'step here a minute, colonel,' and I took him to the wagon, and
offered him my canteen of brandy. He took three or four good drinks,
and then he says, says he, 'That's all I want! You can go on with your
wagons.' And I tell you I put out quick, colonel, and never looked
behind me till I got back to Petersburg?"[1]
[Footnote 1: In the words of the narrator.]
I have attempted to recall here, reader, the few gleams of sunshine,
the rare moments of laughter, which I enjoyed in those months of the
winter of 1864-'5.
I shrink from dwelling on the events of that dreary epoch. Every day I
lost some friend. One day it was the brave John Pegram, whom I had
known and loved from his childhood; the next day it was some other,
whose disappearance left a gap in my life which nothing thenceforth
could fill. I pass over all that. Why recall more of the desolate
epoch than is necessary?
For the rest that is only a momentary laugh that I have indulged in.
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