One evening just after the New York steamer had blown her three whistles in honor of my Soldier, as the river steamers always did in passing our wharf, and had gone around the bend, we saw Uncle Tom, the faithful old negro fisherman, coming up the hill with a bag over his stooping shoulders and talking to himself more excitedly than usual.

"Good evening, Uncle Tom," I said, stepping off the porch to greet him. "What have you in your bag for me?"

"Tarepins—dat's what I got fer you, but I got a piece of my mind fer Marse George, en ez dis piece of mind mought not agree wid your temperation I reckon you better g'long in de house en sing some of dem song chunes while I's mekin' a present of de piece of mind to Marse George."

As my curiosity was greater than my fear of mental indigestion, I stayed to share with my Soldier the "piece of mind."

Uncle Tom proceeded to unfold his story to the effect that a carpet-bagger who had come to Bermuda Hundred was inciting the colored people against my Soldier and planning with them to visit us in force. He said that he was a brother of one of the same class of human wreckage who had visited our community some time before, selling to the negroes ointment that was advertised to turn them into white people. My Soldier had reported the enterprising merchant and, with Mr. "Buck" Allen and Colonel John Selden, had taken to Richmond some boxes of the ointment and some of the negroes to whom the ointment had been sold, and the "carpet-bagger" had been put in jail. His brother was now inflaming the credulous colored people with the idea that my Soldier had caused the disappointment of their ambitious aspirations.

The man who thus excited Uncle Tom's indignation and apprehension had lain in the river with his vessel for weeks, sending out his emissaries to tell the poor credulous colored people that the United States government had authorized him to promise that to every colored man who would bring him a good bridle and saddle, thereby showing his fitness for the possession, should be given a mule to fit the saddle and bridle, and that he would receive and receipt for the same every night between the hours of midnight and daybreak. So successful was this impostor that he had almost made up his load before he was caught, and there was hardly a bridle and saddle left in all the surrounding country.

While my Soldier had confidence in Uncle Tom, he did not much believe that the negroes would dare make an attack upon him. He insisted, though, that I should not run any risk, but should take our babies and go to Richmond for a few days. Finding that no persuasion could induce me to leave him, he consented that we might wait together, fearing, yet not believing, that they would come.

The third night after Uncle Tom's warning, when we had begun to hope that he had after all been misinformed, we heard a rapping at the door and then a low growl.

"That's Rufus, rapping on the door with his tail," said my Soldier. "He hears something and is warning us. Listen!"

He opened the door and the dog entered, trembling and with great tears of fear in his loyal eyes. We listened but heard nothing. My Soldier came in and shut the door.

"Lay the baby down," he said, "and take this, but keep it out of sight," handing me a pistol.

His loaded gun was resting on a bracket just above the door. Rufus stood pointing, his nose nearly touching the panel of the door. My heart seemed almost bursting from my throat and sounded in my ear like the beating of a drum. The baby smiled and dreamed aloud. While we listened tensely there came the sound of footsteps, the rolling of loose dirt and brickbats.

"Listen! They are coming around the back way and across the ruins of the old house. I hear a number of steps, but they are uncertain steps. Don't be afraid, dear; be your own plucky little self."

"I am not the least afraid," I answered, my teeth chattering and my hands trembling, "not the least, Soldier."

Rufus turned his head and looked at me as if he had heard a stranger's voice, and then, wagging his tail to reassure me, returned to a dead point. The sounds became louder and the surging wave rolled nearer.

One who has never beheld a raging sea of black faces filled with excitement and fury, wild, ignorant, brutal, some distorted with intoxication, cannot form the faintest idea of the awful sight. They threatened vengeance against my Soldier, saying that, not satisfied with fighting against their liberties, he was now trying to keep away those who would befriend them. They were led by a renegade white man who, when they reached a point where possible danger lay, retired from leadership and withdrew to a protected spot in the rear.

My Soldier stepped out on the porch and confronted the mob, who were yelling, cursing, and brandishing pistols, knives, and all manner of weapons. Looking at them for a few seconds he said:

"Boys, what does all this mean? What is all this trouble about? You don't know what you are doing. That cowardly dog there, sneaking and crouching down behind you to save his own worthless carcass, is not your friend. For a few handfuls of money he will lead you to steal, lie and kill. All he wants is what he can make out of you. Don't trust him, boys. These miserable Yankee scalawags haven't any love for you. They never owned any negroes. We who owned you are your friends. We have been brought up together and understand each other."

"Dat's so, niggers; dat's so," cried Uncle Tom, who had come up with the mob as if he were one of them in spirit. "You better listen to Marse George. He sho' is tellin' you de trufe, niggers—de gorspel trufe."

"Stand back! Stand back!" cried my Soldier, suddenly starting forth and waving both hands. "Stand back, I say!"

The negroes fell back on both sides and my Soldier went down between them to where the white renegade was cowering behind his poor, ignorant, impulsive black dupes, and, seizing him by the collar, shook him with all his force. The collar broke and the man fell to the ground. My Soldier jumped on top of him and called, "Bring me that rope!" pointing to the clothes-line stretched across the road. "Come, boys, let's tie the scoundrel!"

After they had securely bound him the General ordered some of them to pick him up and carry him to the smokehouse and lock him in, which they did with great satisfaction, their mercurial natures having now veered completely to the side of my Soldier.

"Now, boys," said he, "get into your boats and go back home, and be thankful that the bad man locked up there in the haunted smokehouse with the rats and ghosts has not made you all commit a crime, too, for which you would be sent to jail."

The reference to the spectral inhabitants of the smokehouse was, for the colored people, a sufficient bar to their possible change of sentiment and return to the rescue of their former leader. They believed implicitly in the uncanny reputation of that house and, to their view, the ghost of old Grundy, who had hanged himself from its rafters and who, as the story goes, when the flames were devouring the old colonial home within a stone's throw of it, came out shaking his fist at them, thus saving the smokehouse from the fire, was more formidable than the armies of the whole world. The next morning the sheriff took the prisoner to Richmond, where he was jailed and promptly brought to trial. He was found guilty of inciting a riot and was sent out of the country.

Uncle Tom was an old servitor of the Pickett family. He had been at Turkey Island when the mansion was burned and had contrived to save a few relics from the ruins. Among them was a medallion which had been presented to my Soldier's grandfather by La Fayette. It was set in gold, framed in blue velvet, and hung in the library under La Fayette's picture. As one of Butler's men was carrying it to the steamer the medallion fell out, and Uncle Tom picked it up and had saved it all these years. In his own logical way he explained the selection of the one to whom it should be given.

"I done studied 'bout dis 'heritance a heap, en I says to myse'f, 'Well, I gwine to give dis 'heritance to Miss Sally, kase she Marse George's wife en Marse George he is de oldest chile.' Den I says, 'No, dat ain't ret; I gwine to give it to Miss Lizzy, kase she Marse Charlie's wife en Marse Charlie is de youngest chile.' Den I says, 'No, I gwine let de wifes 'cide fer darse'fs which gwine to have de 'heritance, en I gwine to give it to de one dat treats de ole man de best.'

"So de Sunday atter dey moved down I goes 'roun' to Miss Lizzy's house en she axes me 'Howdy?' en axes me how Aunt Lindy, my ole 'oman, sagashuates. Den she say, 'Uncle Tom, won't you hab a toddy?' En I say, 'Yas'm, Miss Lizzy, thanky, ma'm; ole nigger allus raidy for a toddy.' Den she mek me a gre't big nice toddy en fetches it out to me herse'f. Den she say, 'Uncle Tom, don't you want sump'n to eat?' I say, 'Yas'm, de ole man allus hongry.' Den she fetches me out a pilin' plate of vitals. Den I say, 'Dat's Miss Lizzy's 'heritance, sho'!'

"De nex' Sunday I goes ter Miss Sally's house, en she axes me 'Howdy?' too, jest as 'spec'ful as ef I wuz de king, en den she axes me how my ole 'oman is, too, en I tells her. Den she say, 'Uncle Tom, don't you want a dram?' 'Yas'm,' I says, 'Miss Sally, de ole man allus wants a dram.' Den she say, 'Well, g'long back dar to de sideboa'd en he'p yo'se'f. Dar's de canter of ole apple jack en ole London dock; you jest go he'p yo'se'f, Uncle Tom.' Den when I comes 'long back she say, 'Uncle Tom, did you he'p yo'se'f plent'ful?' I say, 'Yas'm, de ole man allus does dat.' Den she say, 'Ain't you hongry?' I say, 'Yas'm, de ole man's allus hongry.' Den she say, 'Well, Uncle Tom, you must 'scuse me, but I fergot to ax you 'bout bein' hongry, so g'long back to de dinin' room en he'p yo'se'f; dar's plenty er col' ham en fried chicken en pickle oyschers en 'zerbs en t'ings. I's waitin' for de hunters to come in 'fo' I puts 'em away, so g'long back en he'p yo'se'f.' 'Name of God,' I say, 'Marse George's wife's gwine to git dis hyer 'heritance, atter all.' Yas, dat 'heritance is Miss Sally's, sho'."

From the rim of gold around this "'heritance," as Uncle Tom called it, my Soldier had made two pairs of beautifully carved bracelets, one for his brother's wife and one for his sister. The miniature was made into a pin for me, which I still have and wear, not only for its quaint prettiness and because it is almost the only relic of all those old household treasures, but in memory as well of Uncle Tom and of La Fayette's appreciation of the hospitality of old Turkey Island.