I said he ought to be ashamed to tell it; even a Yankee was entitled to protection when a prisoner of war.
"But these fellows wasn't regular prisoners of war, lady," said the sick soldier; "they were thieves and houseburners," — and I couldn't but feel there was something in that view of it.1
About three miles from Sparta we struck the "Burnt Country," as it is well named by the natives, and then I could better understand the wrath and desperation of these poor people. I almost felt as if I should like to hang a Yankee myself. There was hardly a fence left standing all the way from Sparta to Gordon. The fields were trampled down and the road was lined with carcasses of horses, hogs, and cattle that the invaders, unable either to consume or to carry away with them, had wantonly shot down to starve out the people and prevent them from making their crops. The stench in some places was unbearable; every few hundred yards we had to hold our noses or stop them with the cologne Mrs. Elzey had given us, and it proved a great boon. The dwellings that were standing all showed signs of pillage, and on every plantation we saw the charred remains of the gin-house and packing-screw, while here and there, lone chimney-stacks, "Sherman's Sentinels," told of homes laid in ashes. The infamous wretches! I couldn't wonder now that these poor people should want to put a rope round the neck of every red-handed "devil of them" they could lay their hands on. Hay ricks and fodder stacks were demolished, corn cribs were empty, and every bale of cotton that could be found was burnt by the savages. I saw no grain of any sort, except little patches they had spilled when feeding their horses and which there was not even a chicken left in the country to eat. A bag of oats might have lain anywhere along the road without danger from the beasts of the field, though I cannot say it would have been safe from the assaults of hungry man. Crowds of soldiers were tramping over the road in both directions; it was like traveling through the streets of a populous town all day. They were mostly on foot, and I saw numbers seated on the roadside greedily eating raw turnips, meat skins, parched corn — anything they could find, even picking up the loose grains that Sherman's horses had left. I felt tempted to stop and empty the contents of our provision baskets into their laps, but the dreadful accounts that were given of the state of the country before us, made prudence get the better of our generosity.
The roads themselves were in a better condition than might have been expected, and we traveled at a pretty fair rate, our four mules being strong and in good working order. When we had made about half the distance to Milledgeville it began to rain, so the gentlemen cut down saplings which they fitted in the form of bows across the body of the wagon, and stretching the lieutenant's army blanket over it, made a very effectual shelter. Our next halt was near a dilapidated old house where there was a fine well of water. The Yankees had left it, I suppose, because they couldn't carry it away. Here we came up with a wagon on which were mounted some of the people we had seen on the cars the day before. They stopped to exchange experiences, offered us a toddy, and brought us water in a beautiful calabash gourd with a handle full three feet long. We admired it so much that one of them laughingly proposed to "capture" it for us, but we told them we didn't care to imitate Sherman's manners. A mile or two further on we were hailed by a queer-looking object sitting on a log in the corner of a half-burnt fence. It was wrapped up in a big white blanket that left nothing else visible except a round, red face and a huge pair of feet. Before anybody could decide whether the apparition was a ghost from the lower regions or an escaped lunatic from the state asylum in his nightgown, Sam Weller jumped up, exclaiming:
"Galvanized, galvanized! Stop, driver, a galvanized Yankee!" 2
As soon as Uncle Grief had brought his mules to a halt, the strange figure shuffled up to the side of the wagon and began to plead piteously, in broken Dutch, to be taken in. He was shaking with a common ague fit, and though we couldn't help feeling sorry for him, he looked so comical as he stood there with his blanket drawn round him like a winding sheet and his little red Dutch face peering out at us with such an expression of exaggerated and needless terror, that it was hard to repress a smile. The captain was about to order Uncle Grief to drive on without taking any further notice of him, but Sam Weller assured us that the country people would certainly hang him if they should catch him away from his command. They were too exasperated to make any distinction between a "galvanized" and any other sort of a Yankee — and to tell the truth, I think, myself, if there is any difference at all, it is in favor of those who remain true to their own cause. The kind-hearted lieutenant took his part, Mett and I seconded him, and the poor creature was allowed to climb into our wagon, where he curled himself up on a pile of fodder beside our sick soldier, who didn't seem to relish the companionship very much, though he said nothing. But Sam Weller couldn't let him rest, and immediately began to berate him for his imprudence in straggling off from his command at the risk of getting himself hanged, and to entertain him with enlivening descriptions of the art of "dancin' on nothin'" and the various methods of getting "lost." All at once he came to a sudden stop in his tirade, and asked,
"Iss you cot any money, Wappy?"
"Nein, ich cot no more ash den thaler," quaked Hans.
Then, pulling a fat roll of change bills out of his pocket, he ("Sam") handed them to the Dutchman, saying:
"Well, here's shin-plasters enough to cover you better than that there blanket, if you want them."
Hans grabbed the money, which was increased by small contributions from the rest of us — not that we thought his enlistment in the Confederate army counted for anything, but we felt sorry for him, because he was "sick and a stranger." After all, what can these ignorant foreigners be expected to know or care about our quarrel?
Soon after this we came to a pretty, clear stream, where Uncle Grief stopped to water his horses and we decided to eat our dinner. Those of our companions who had anything to eat at all, were provided only with army rations, so Mett and I shared with them the good things we had brought from home. We offered some to Hans, and this started Sam off again:
"Now, Wappy, see that!" he cried. "The rebel ladies feed you; remember that the next time you go to burn a house down, or steal a rebel lady's watch! I say," he shouted, putting his lips to Hans's ear, as the Dutchman seemed not to understand, "remember how the rebel ladies fed you, when you turn Yank agin and go to drivin' women out-o'-doors and stealin' their clothes."
Fortunately for "Wappy's" peace of mind he didn't know enough English to take in the long list of Yankee misdeeds that Sam continued to recount for his benefit, although he assured us that he could "unterstant vat man say to him besser als he could dalk himselbst." The captain suspected him of putting on, and laughed at Metta and me for wasting sympathy on him, but the lieutenant shared our feelings, and I liked him for it.
Just before reaching Milledgeville, Sam Weller got down to walk to his home, which he said was about two miles back from the highway. "Come, Wappy," he said, as he was climbing down, "if you will go home with me, I will take care of you and put you in a horspittle where you won't be in no danger of gittin' lost. Can you valk doo milsh?"
Hans replied in the affirmative, and scrambled down with a deal of groaning and quaking. Sam and the lieutenant assisted him with much real gentleness, and when he was on the ground, he tried to make a speech thanking the "laties unt shentlemansh," but it was in such bad English that we couldn't understand.
"Now, don't lose the poor wretch," I said to Mr. Weller, as they moved off together.
"No, no, miss, I won't do that," he answered in a tone of such evident sincerity that I felt Hans was safe in the care of this strange, contradictory being, who could talk so like a savage, and yet be capable of such real kindness.
Before crossing the Oconee at Milledgeville we ascended an immense hill, from which there was a fine view of the town, with Gov. Brown's fortifications in the foreground and the river rolling at our feet. The