It was the "cannon" whose note I had marked all through the unequal fray.
The fellow was a returned Confederate whom we had taken on at one of the
upper landings as our only passenger; we were dead-heading him to Mobile.
He was undoubtedly in hearty sympathy with the enemy, and I at first
suspected him of collusion, but circumstances not necessary to detail here
rendered this impossible. Moreover, I had distinctly seen one of the
"guerrillas" fall and remain down after my own weapon was empty, and no
man else on board except the passenger had fired a shot or had a shot to
fire. When everything had been made snug again, and we were gliding along
under the stars, without apprehension; when I had counted fifty-odd bullet
holes through the pilot-house (which had not received the attention that
by its prominence and importance it was justly entitled to) and everybody
was variously boasting his prowess, I approached my butternut
comrade-in-arms and thanked him for his kindly aid. "But," said I, "how
the devil does it happen that _you_ fight _that_ crowd?"
"Wal, Cap," he drawled, as he rubbed the powder grime from his antique
artillery, "I allowed it was mouty clever in you-all to take me on, seein'
I hadn't ary cent, so I thought I'd jist kinder work my passage."
WORKING FOR AN EMPRESS
In the spring of 1874 I was living in the pretty English town of
Leamington, a place that will be remembered by most Americans who have
visited the grave of Shakespeare at Stratford-on-Avon, or by personal
inspection of the ruins of Kenilworth Castle have verified their knowledge
of English history derived from Scott's incomparable romance.
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