His house and
gin-house had been burned, his fields laid waste; he had left his
young daughters without protection and without shelter. What the
ladies felt as they saw this sad cavalcade pass out of sight may not
be told. Morning dawned upon a scene of desolation, sickening in the
extreme,--ruin, waste, wreck everywhere. The house emptied of
everything valuable, floors filthy with the prints of muddy feet, the
garden ruined, furniture battered and spoiled. Outside, broken
barrels, boxes, etc., strewed the earth; lard, sugar, flour, meal were
mingled together and with the sandy soil; streams of molasses ran down
from broken casks; guns which had belonged to the family were broken
and splintered and lay where they had been hurled; fences were broken
down. Had there been any stock left, there was nothing to keep them
out of garden or yard. Only old Whitey was left, however, and he
walked gingerly about sniffing at the cumbered ground, looking as
surprised as he was able. The carriage and buggy had been drawn out,
the curtains and cushions cut and _smeared thoroughly with molasses
and lard_. Breakfast-time arrived, but no Ruthy came up from the
quarter; no smoke curled upward from the kitchen-chimney; a more
hopeless, dismal party could not well be imagined than the three women
who walked from room to room among the _debris_, neither noticing or
caring for the losses, only intensely anxious regarding the helpless
prisoner, who was surely suffering, but whom they could not hope to
relieve.
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