L. P. Brockett, The camp, the battlefield, and the hospital: or, lights and shadows of the great rebellion

“Who are you?” exclaimed one of them, as they all sprang to their feet.

“Cunnel Smith, uv the Fust Tennessee Nigger Regiment-one old black man ana a yaller'ooman,” coolly replied the scout.

“ Go to --,” shouted the surgeon, quickly drawing his revolver, and discharging it directly at Bible's face. The ball grazed his head, cut off a lock of hair just above his ear, and lodged in the wall at his back. The report was still sounding through the apartment, when the surgeon uttered a wild cry, sprang a few feet in the air, and fell lifeless to the floor! The negro had shot him.

“Come, gentlemen, none oa thet,” said Bible, as coolly as if nothing had happened, “guv me the shootina iron, ana surrender, or we'll sot the rest on ye ter his wuckrakina coals fur the devil's funnace — in less nur a minnit.”

Without more hesitation the rebel colonel handed the scout the fallen man's pistol, and then all, followed by the scout and the negro, marched quietly out of the front door. The mulatto woman, holding the horses, was standing in the highway.

“ Hitch the nags, my purty gal,” said the scout, “ana git a coil. ana ye, gentlemen, sot down, ana say nothina -'cept it mought be yer prayers; but them, I reckon, ye hain't larned yit.”

The negress soon returned with the rope, and while Bible and her husband covered them with their revolvers, she tied ft e arms of the prostrate chivalry. When this was done, the scout affixed a long rope to the waist of