You aren't afraid to go
out, are you?"
"Lawd, Marse Dan, I'se mo' feared ter stay hyer," responded Big Abel, with
an ashen face. "Whar we gwine hide, anyhow?"
"We won't hide, we'll run," returned Dan gravely, and with his arm on the
negro's shoulder, he passed through the alley out into the street. There
the noise bewildered him an instant, and his eyes went blind while he
grasped Big Abel's sleeve.
"Wait a minute, I can't see," he said. "Now, that's right, go on. By
George, it's bedlam turned loose, let's get out of it!"
"Dis away, Marse Dan, dis away, step right hyer," urged Big Abel, as he
slipped through the hurrying crowd of fugitives which packed the street.
White and black, men and women, sick and well, they swarmed up and down in
the dim sunshine beneath the flying shells, which skimmed the town to
explode in the open fields beyond. The wounded were there--all who could
stand upon their feet or walk with the aid of crutches--stumbling on in a
mad panic to the meadows where the shells burst or the hot sun poured upon
festering cuts. Streaming in noisy groups, the slaves fled after them,
praying, shrieking, calling out that the day of judgment was upon them, yet
bearing upon their heads whatever they could readily lay hands on--bundles,
baskets, babies, and even clucking fowls tied by the legs. Behind them went
a troop of dogs, piercing the tumult with excited barks.
Dan, fevered, pallid, leaning heavily upon Big Abel, passed unnoticed amid
a throng which was, for the most part, worse off than himself.
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