"Come hither,
ould man, and warm that shivering carcass of yeers by the blaze of this
fire. I'm sure a Guinea nagur loves hate as much as a soldier loves
his drop."
Caesar obeyed in silence, and a mulatto boy who was sleeping on a bench
in the room, was bidden to convey the note of the surgeon to the
building where the wounded were quartered.
"Here," said the washerwoman, tendering to Caesar a taste of the article
that most delighted herself, "try a drop, smooty, 'twill warm the black
sowl within your crazy body, and be giving you spirits as you are going
homeward."
"I tell you, Elizabeth," said the sergeant, "that the souls of niggers
are the same as our own; how often have I heard the good Mr. Whitefield
say that there was no distinction of color in heaven. Therefore it is
reasonable to believe that the soul of this here black is as white as my
own, or even Major Dunwoodie's."
"Be sure he be," cried Caesar, a little tartly, whose courage had
revived by tasting the drop of Mrs. Flanagan.
"It's a good sowl that the major is, anyway," returned the washerwoman;
"and a kind sowl--aye, and a brave sowl too; and ye'll say all that
yeerself, sargeant, I'm thinking."
"For the matter of that," returned the veteran, "there is One above even
Washington, to judge of souls; but this I will say, that Major Dunwoodie
is a gentleman who never says, Go, boys--but always says, Come, boys;
and if a poor fellow is in want of a spur or a martingale, and the
leather-whack is gone, there is never wanting the real silver to make up
the loss, and that from his own pocket too.
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