Just back from the river-bank, and not far from where he
lay, a cornfield lifted its yellowed plumes into the air.
Cushing managed to reach its friendly shelter unobserved,
and now, almost for the first time since his escape, stood
upright, and behind the rustling rows made his way past the
soldiers.
To his alarm, as he came near the opposite side of the
field, he found himself face to face with a man who glared
at him in surprise. Well he might, for the late
trimly-dressed lieutenant was now a sorry sight, covered
from head to foot with swamp mud, his clothes rent, and
blood oozing from a hundred scratches in his skin.
He had no reason for alarm; the man was a negro; the dusky
face showed sympathy under its surprise.
"I am a Union soldier," said Cushing, feeling in his heart
that no slave would betray him.
"One o' dem as was in de town last night?" asked the negro.
"Yes. Have you been there? Can you tell me anything?"
"No, massa; on'y I's been tole dat dar's pow'ful bad work
dar, an' de sojers is bilin' mad."
Further words passed, in the end the negro agreeing to go to
the town, see for himself what harm had been done, and bring
back word. Cushing would wait for him under shelter of the
corn.
The old negro set out on his errand, glad of the
opportunity to help one of "Massa Linkum's sojers.
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