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I
see women with strained and anxious faces, and children alert yet
helpless. I see night come down with its dangers and its apprehensions,
and in a big homely room I feel on my tired head the touch of loving
hands, and I thank God that she is safe in her sanctuary, because her
slaves, sentinel in the silent cabin or on guard at her chamber door,
put a black man's loyalty between her and danger.
I catch another vision. The crisis of battle, a soldier struck,
staggering, fallen. I see a slave, scuffling through the smoke, winding
his black arms about the fallen form, reckless of the hurtling
death--bending his trusty face to catch the words that tremble on the
stricken lips. I see him by the weary bedside, ministering with
uncomplaining patience, praying with all his humble heart that God will
lift his master up, until death comes in mercy and in honor to still the
soldier's agony and seal the soldier's life. I see him by the open
grave, mute, motionless, uncovered, suffering for the death of him who
in life fought against his freedom.


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