A private letter from West Point, Va., narrates an exciting adventure which befell a negro scout in the employ of the Union forces, and his shrewdness in escaping from the rebels. His name was Claiborne, and he was a full-blooded African, with big lips, flat nose, &c. He lived in the vicinity all his life, and was therefore familiar with the country, which rendered him a very valuable scout. On Claiborne's last trip inside the enemy's lines, after scouting around as much as he wished, he picked up eight chickens and started for camp. His road led past the house of a secesh doctor named Roberts, who knew him, and who ordered him to stop, which, of course, Claiborne had no idea of doing, and kept on, when the doctor fired on him, and gave chase, shouting at the top of his voice. The negro was making good time towards camp, when all at once he was confronted by a whole regiment of rebel soldiers, who ordered him to halt. For a moment the scout was dumbfounded, and thought his hour had come; but the next he sung out:
"The Yankees are coming! the Yankees are coming!"
“Where? where?" inquired the rebels.
“Just up in front of Dr. Roberts' house, in a piece of woods," returned Sambo. “Dr. R. sent me down to tell you to come up quick, or they'll kill the whole of us."
“Come in, come into camp," said the soldiers.
“No, no," says the 'cute African, “I have got to go down and tell the cavalry pickets, and can't wait a second." So off he sprang —with a bound; running for dear life, the rebs, discovering the ruse, chasing him for three miles, and he running six, when he got safely into camp, but minus his chickens, which he dropped at the first fire.
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