"How many soldiers are there on the bluff ?" he asked of the first-comer.
"Mas'r," said the man, stuttering terribly, "I c-c-c--" "Tell me how many soldiers there are!" roared Trowbridge, in his mighty voice, and all but shaking the poor old thing, in his thirst for information.
"O mas'r," recommenced in terror the incapacitated wit-ness, "I c-c-carpenter!" holding up eagerly a little stump of a hatchet, his sole treasure, as if his profession ought to excuse from all military opinions.
I wish that it were possible to present all this scene from the point of view of the slaves themselves.

It can be most nearly done, perhaps, by quoting the description given of a similar scene on the Combahee River, by a very aged man, who had been brought down on the previous raid, already mentioned.

I wrote it down in tent, long after, while the old man recited the tale, with much gesticulation, at the door; and it is by far the best glimpse I have ever had, through a negro's eyes, at these wonderful birthdays of freedom.
"De people was all a hoein', mas'r," said the old man.

"Dey was a hoein' in the rice-field, when de gunboats come.

Den ebry man drap dem hoe, and leff de rice.