[Illustration: CAPT. R. A. RAGAN IN 1863.]
ESCAPE
FROM
EAST TENNESSEE
TO
THE FEDERAL LINES.
THE HISTORY, GIVEN AS NEARLY AS POSSIBLE, BY CAPTAIN R. A. RAGAN
OF HIS INDIVIDUAL EXPERIENCES DURING THE WAR OF THE
REBELLION FROM 1861 TO 1864.
ILLUSTRATED.
WASHINGTON, D. C.
JAMES H. DONY, PUBLISHER.
1910.
Copyright 1910, by
R. A. RAGAN.
INTRODUCTION.
I lay no claim to literary attainments, but undertake to tell in
simple words the story of my experiences, hardships and sufferings,
lying out in the cold weather many nights, trying to make my way
across the mountains and rivers to Kentucky, where the Union Army was
encamped.
There have been a number of books written since the Civil War,
dealing with the loyalty, heroism and suffering of the Union people
of East Tennessee during that period, but few men have given their
individual experience from 1861 to 1864.
I am, so far as I can ascertain, the only East Tennessee pilot
living. I give the following names of those who piloted Union men
through the lines: Daniel Ellis, James Lane, A. C. Fondren, James
Kinser and David Fry. These men have all died since the War, except
James Lane, who was killed at the foot of the Cumberland Mountain, in
Powell’s Valley, while conveying men to Kentucky.
R. A. R.
ESCAPE FROM EAST TENNESSEE
CHAPTER I.
I was born in Greene County, Tennessee, near the banks of the Nola
Chucky River. My father moved in 1845 to the banks of the French
Broad River, in Cocke County, Tennessee, shortly after I was born.
I was the oldest of the six children, namely, myself, Alexander,
Laura, Creed, Mary and James Ragan. My father was a county officer
for years—in fact, until the late war. I grew up in the county, and
attended muster.
In 1860 I was elected Lieutenant-Colonel of the Militia, and in the
Fall of 1861 was in the employ of Frank Clark, who fattened hogs and
every year drove them to South Carolina markets. At that time there
were no railroads in East Tennessee leading to South Carolina. When
we left East Tennessee there was no talk of war, but when we reached
South Carolina, the people were excited and in a state of rebellion.
Before reaching Spartanburg, Mr. Clark told me to be careful how I
talked. He seemed to know the situation.
After we arrived at Spartanburg I was sick with jaundice for a few
days, and confined to my bed. While in bed I could hear the rebels
hallooing and riding through the streets, and the rattling of sabers.
In a few days I got out of my bed and went out into the streets. I
was young, and hardly knew what it meant, for everything was calm
when I left East Tennessee; but when I looked up and saw the rebel
flag, I felt a thrill of patriotism run through my veins, and then
began to realize the fact that it was not the flag I had been used to
all my life. At that moment I was a Union boy, and felt that I was in
the wrong latitude.
If I had uttered a word against the South at that time I would have
been hung to the first limb. The Negroes were excited and scared
nearly to death. Some one would set a house on fire and accuse a
Negro of the crime, and arrest the first one he came across, taking
him out and hanging him. I saw two hung in this manner.
The next morning I said quietly to Mr. Clark, “I believe I will go
back to East Tennessee.”
“All right,” he said.
I had, I think, the best saddle horse in the State; he was a fox
trotter, only three years old, and his gait was smooth and easy. I
bid Mr. Clark good-day, and started on my journey.
The farther I got from Spartanburg, the better I felt. I believe I
rode sixty-two miles from early in the morning until dark. It seemed
to me that the horse was a Union animal, for he “pulled for the
shore.” I never put a spur or whip to his flesh. I was young, and
will confess I was afraid the rebels were after me.
When I reached the top of the Blue Ridge, I looked back and it seemed
to me that I could see the smoke of war. I then turned my face toward
East Tennessee, and imagined I could see peace and harmony. I looked
to my right and could see the Holston and Watauga Rivers running down
through the valleys of East Tennessee, and the people going about
their daily avocations; and next was the Nola Chucky, where I was
born, with her beautiful bottom lands extending for miles. Next came
the French Broad, on the banks of which I was raised. Next was the
Big Pigeon, which was made from the little streams gushing from the
Great Smoky Mountain and the North Carolina Mountains. I imagined
I could see all these rivers making their way in peace to the
Tennessee River, which emptied into the Ohio above its junction with
the great Mississippi. I did not think at that time that there were
preparations being made by the North and the South for the greatest
war that was ever fought in the world.
After I had rested on the top of this mountain, I continued my
journey down through a part of North Carolina to Paint Rock, and
then into East Tennessee. When I arrived at Newport, Cocke County, I
found the people making preparations to sow wheat. I remember on my
way from South Carolina I came to a farm on the banks of the French
Broad. The men were plowing, some with mules, some with horses and
others with yokes of oxen, turning over the land. They knew me, and
asked how I had come out with my hogs, and how the times were over in
South Carolina.
I said, “H— is to pay over there; they are fixing for war.”
They asked me who they were going to fight.
“The Yankees,” I said.
I told them that Fort Sumter had been fired upon. They asked me where
Fort Sumter was. You see that the people in that locality had never
heard of war, but in a short time they began talking about secession.