These were moments of glory for Jeff. In fact, on all similar
occasions he had a consciousness of his power; he made the slave
forget his bondage, the poor whites their poverty, maidens the
absence of their fathers, brothers, and lovers, and the soldier
the chances against his return.
At last there came a summer day when other music than that of
Jeff's fiddle resounded through that region. Two armies met and
grappled through the long sultry hours. Every moment death wounds
were given and received, for thick as insects in woods, grove, and
thicket, bullets whizzed on their fatal mission; while from every
eminence the demoniacal shells shrieked in exultation over the
havoc they wrought.
Jeff's home was on the edge of the battlefield, and as he trembled
in the darkest corner of the cellar, he thought, "Dis yer beats
all de thunder-gusts I eber heered crack, run togedder in one big
hurricane."
With the night came silence, except as it was broken by the groans
and cries of wounded men; and later the contending forces
departed, having accorded to the fallen such poor burial as was
given them when life was cheap and death the chief harvester in
Virginia.
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