Ned Vaughan was in Jackson's skirmish line feeling the way through the
tender green foliage of the spring. The days were warm and the leaves
far advanced--the woods so dense it was impossible for picket or
skirmisher to see more than a hundred yards ahead--at some points not a
hundred feet.
The thin, silent line suddenly swept into the little opening of a negro
cabin with garden and patch of corn. A kindly old colored woman was
standing in the doorway.
She looked into the faces of these eager, slender Southern boys and they
were her "children." The meaning of war was real to her only when it
meant danger to those she loved.
She ran quickly up to Ned, her eyes dancing with excitement:
"For de Lawd's sake, honey, don't you boys go up dat road no fudder!"
"Why, Mammy?" he asked with a smile.
"Lordy, chile, dey's thousan's, an' thousan's er Yankees des over dat
little hill dar--dey'll kill every one er you all!"
"I reckon not, Mammy," Ned called, hurrying on.
She ran after him, still crying:
"For Gawd's sake, come back here, honey--dey kill ye sho!"
She was calling still as Ned disappeared beyond the cabin into the woods
redolent now with the blossoms of chinquepin bushes and the rich odors
of sweet shrub.
They climbed the little ridge on whose further slope lay an open field,
and caught their first view of Howard's unsuspecting division.
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