In July, 1863, the news came that George Kirk would meet some men in
Greene County to take them to Kentucky. I was determined to go, if
I had to crawl part of the way. We met in Greene County, with about
a hundred men. We crossed Walden Ridge and the Watauga, Cumberland,
Holston and Powell’s Rivers, encountering great hardships. Our
provisions gave out, and the only way we could get anything to eat
was to find a colored family. They were always loyal, and we could
depend on them. They never would “give us away.”
When we reached Camp Dick Robinson, Kentucky, we found a great many
East Tennessee men who had made their way through the mountains. Some
had organized into companies.
Col. Felix A. Reeve, who is now Assistant Solicitor of the Treasury
Department, was organizing the Eighth Tennessee Regiment of Infantry.
I reported to him that there were a great many Union men in North
Carolina and Cocke County, Tenn., that wanted to come to the Union
army, and if he would give me recruiting papers I would attempt to
cross the Cumberland Mountain into East Tennessee, and make up a
company and bring them back with me. He was very anxious for me to
try it, but said it was a very dangerous undertaking, for the rebel
soldiers were guarding every road and path that had been traveled by
the Union men. I concluded, however, to make the venture.
With my brother Alexander Ragan, Iranious Isenhour, James Kinser
and James Ward, I started for East Tennessee. We crossed Cumberland
Mountain, and it commenced raining, and when in the night we came to
Powell’s River it was overflowing its banks. We had crossed at this
place on our journey to Kentucky. The canoe was on the opposite side,
and the night was so dark that we could not see across the stream.
We knew that if we remained there until daylight we certainly would
be captured and hung or shot. My brother and Eisenhour were good
swimmers. They stripped off their clothes, and I never expected to
see either of them again. I remember that my brother, while we were
talking about who should swim over to get the canoe, said to me,
“I am not married, and if I get drowned it will not be so bad; if you
were to get drowned, Emeline would be left alone.”
I have since thought thousands of times how noble it was in him
to have such fraternal feeling for myself and my wife under
circumstances of so trying a nature.
They both plunged in at the same time. The timber was running and
slashing the banks on the other side. I held my breath, waiting to
hear the result. In a few minutes I heard my brother say, “Here
it is, Iranius.” So they brought the canoe over, and one by one
we crossed to the other side. It was a frail little thing, and we
thought every minute we would be drowned. We crawled up the steep
bank to an old field, and as by this time it was daylight, we had to
get into the woods and hide for the day. We had filled our haversacks
with provisions when we left Camp Dick Robinson, but they were all
wet and mixed up; yet we ate them all the same.
James Ward could not see a wink in the night. We did not know it
until we had passed Cumberland Mountain. Of course we had to take
care of him. He was like a moon-eyed horse; he was all right in the
daytime, but we had to travel in the night, and we had to lead him
half the time.
After a good many hardships, we reached Cocke County, Tenn. I do not
think we met any one but an old man named Walker, whom I will mention
later on. He gave us something to eat—in fact all he had, for the
rebel soldiers had robbed him and left him destitute.
I went to my home in the night and made myself known, but did not
sleep in the house.
While I was away, the rebels came to my father-in-law’s house and
took him out to an old blacksmith shop and told him if he did not
give up his money they would hang him. He would not tell them where
the money was, and they put the rope around his neck and threw it
over the joist of the blacksmith shop, and pulled him up by the neck.
His daughter came and agreed to tell them where the money was, and
they let the old man down, but he was so near dead that he could not
stand. They took the money, some gold and some silver, and passed on.
My father-in-law was Benjamin F. Neass, an unconditional Union man.
These things I relate to show how Union men and families were treated.
In the meantime I sent for my father at Newport, whom I had not seen
for a year, and told the messenger not to let him know who wanted to
see him, but to meet me in a piece of woodland in a certain place on
my father-in-law’s farm. The next night he came. I asked him to send
word to North Carolina, and every place where he could find out that
there were Union men who wanted to go to Kentucky, but not to let a
man know who was the “pilot.” He was Deputy Sheriff of the county,
and was exempt from going into the rebel army at that time, but later
on he had to leave the country.
In a few days word reached North Carolina and Greene and Cocke
Counties, Tenn., that a “pilot” would be on hand at a place in the
woods on my father-in-law’s farm at a certain date. On the appointed
day, one, two and three at a time, they made their appearance. I did
not make myself known, but had a man ready to meet them and keep them
quiet, for the rebels were all through the country. I knew if they
captured me it would be certain death, for they killed every “pilot”
they could lay their hands on.
The Union women had been notified when we were to meet, and they had
made haversacks and filled them with provisions for their husbands.
The mothers and sisters had done the same thing for their sons and
brothers who were single.
When the time came at nine o’clock for us to start, I came out and
made myself known. There were about a hundred men present, and I had
been acquainted with nearly all of them. They were surprised and glad
to see me, and I swore in all who wanted to enlist. It was a sad
sight. The wives bid their husbands good-bye, net knowing whether
they would ever see them again or not, and some of them never did;
but they were loyal women and were ready at all times to sacrifice
all for their country.
Women in North Carolina and some parts of East Tennessee suffered
themselves to be whipped, and everything taken from them, and yet
they would not tell where their husbands were. I have known them
to cut up the last blanket in the house, to make clothes for their
husbands, who were lying out, waiting for a chance to reach the
Federal army. The night I left, my wife had cut up a blanket and made
for me a shirt and a pair of drawers. All these things go to show
what the Union men and women of East Tennessee did to help save this
Government when it was in danger of destruction.
We then started on the perilous undertaking, which was more dangerous
at that time than upon the previous trip to Kentucky, for men all
over East Tennessee had to leave, and the roads and river were
guarded. Nearly all the men had old rifles or shotguns that they had
rubbed up until they looked like army rifles. We reached the Nola
Chucky, about twelve miles from our starting point, about midnight in
a violent thunder storm, in the darkest night I had ever witnessed.
As the lightning flashed we could see it run along the barrels of the
guns. The river was very high, and there seemed to be a general war
of the elements.
Each man had been instructed before we started to not speak above his
breath, and if possible not to break a stick under foot. We halted
in the lane in front of the house occupied by the man who kept the
ferry, who was a Union man. His name was Reuben Easterly, six feet
and two inches in height. I went to the door and knocked; he was slow
to get up, but in a few moments came and opened the door.
[Illustration: CAPT. R. A. RAGAN ARRESTED AT THE SCHOOL HOUSE. See
page 8.]
I said in a low tone of voice, “One hundred and twenty Union men want
to cross the river.”
He hesitated and said, “The river is up, and I am afraid you can’t
cross.”
I said to him, “We have to cross, dead or alive. If we remain on this
side until daylight, we will be captured and sent to Tuscaloosa.”
He finally agreed to try, as he was always ready to help Union men.
He came out and about half of the men got into the flat-bottomed
boat and ran up the river a hundred yards to get a start so as to
reach the landing on the other side. We waited some time, and heard
the old boat strike dirt on the safe side. In about half an hour the
boat returned to our side, and the balance of us got in and were soon
safely landed with the others. We asked old Reuben what he charged.
“Nothing,” said he, “and I wish you a safe journey to the promised
land.”
Those kind words served to cheer us very much on our way.
After crossing the river we started for the Chucky Knobs, where we
were to meet several Union men. When we reached the place, in a deep
hollow, with no house within a mile, we found fifteen men waiting
for us, including Judge Randolph, of Cocke County. A number of Union
women had learned that we were to meet at this place, and that
their husbands were going away, and they had prepared rations and
haversacks to supply them on their dangerous journey. They bid them
good-bye, and two of them never saw their husbands again.
We remained there all that day, and that night at eight o’clock we
started for good, with about one hundred and thirty men. All seemed
to be in good spirits and glad that they were on their way to the
“promised land,” as Reuben Easterly said when we crossed the Nola
Chucky. We travelled about fifteen miles that night, and next day
laid in the woods on the banks of the Watauga River.
When night came we crossed the river—some swimming and some crossing
in an old canoe—and continued our journey. At daylight we came to the
Holston River, at a point where no Union men had previously crossed
on their way to Kentucky. I sent three men up the river to find a
canoe, for some of the men could not swim and it was too deep to
wade. They found an old canoe, and while some swam and others crossed
in the canoe, it was nearly midnight when we all got across.
As the men reached the opposite side, they would lie down and go to
sleep while the others were crossing. It was a level place on the
opposite side, and stick weeds had grown up about five feet high.
When the men had all crossed, they woke up those that were asleep,
and we got in line and started. After travelling about half a mile,
we heard some one howling at the top of his voice. I sent two of
the boys back in haste to find out what was the matter. They found
that Jimmie Jones was left asleep on the bank of the river, the boys
having failed to awaken him. He said that he dreamed that the rebels
were after him and he woke up and found we had gone, and the old man
commenced howling like a lost dog. We were very uneasy about it, for
fear the rebels had heard him, but evidently they had not and no
unpleasant consequences resulted.
Next came Bays and Clinch Mountains, steep and rugged, over which
we had to pass; and then came Clinch River, another dangerous place
to cross, for the rebels were watching the paths and the rivers to
prevent Union men from leaving the country and reaching the Federal
lines.
We crossed Powell’s Mountain, tall, rough and rugged; then came
Walden Ridge and the Wild Cat Mountain. The nights were so dark we
could not see ten feet ahead of us. As we passed through these dark,
narrow paths, we marched in single file, myself leading; the next
one would take hold of my coat tail, and so on down the line. No
man was allowed to speak above his breath. Sometimes men would fall
and suffer themselves to be dragged for yards, but never spoke nor
murmured a word.
We had some rations on hand that our wives had prepared for us, but
they were getting scarce, from the fact that we had to keep away from
houses and public roads. It was certainly strange that one hundred
and thirty men could travel through a country two hundred miles,
thickly settled in some places, and never be seen.
We continued on our march, the night being very dark and the country
very rough. The men had become tired and worn out. Some were nearly
barefooted, for their shoes were poor before they left home.
The next morning we came in sight of Powell’s River, and remained in
a thick piece of woods for the day. We were in a dangerous part of
the country—we were nearing Powell’s Valley, the most dangerous place
in all our travels. When night came we were a little refreshed, but
were out of rations, and had been living on quarter rations all the
way. We crossed Powell’s River that night, and started for the great
task. We had to cross the “Dead Line” and Powell’s Valley the next
night.
It was so dark we could not see ten steps ahead of us, and we lost
our trail. When daylight came we found ourselves about two miles
East of the regular trail. We halted in a deep hollow and had a
consultation. I knew that I was “in for it,” if I failed to get them
out. I was sure we were East of the home of old man Walker, the man
who gave us something to eat on our way to Tennessee on our previous
trip, and I thought I could find his house. I started West, and
travelled two miles through the woods, in a rough country, with no
houses near. It so happened that I came out of the woods at the rear
of his house. I lay down in a patch of chinkapin bushes for some
time, as I was not certain that I was at the right place, the house
being a very ordinary log building.
I crawled to a low rail fence, and knocked on a rail of the fence
with a small stone. In a moment Walker came out of the house, looking
like a wild man, and seemed to know what was up. He went back and in
a few minutes a company of rebel cavalry passed along the road. I
waited until they got out of the way and then knocked again and he
came out the second time.
He came slowly to where I lay, and said, “What’s the matter?” He
recognized me, for it had been but a short time since we had a talk
with him on our way from Kentucky to Tennessee. I told him that about
one hundred and thirty men had got off the trail and had wandered
about two miles East.
He said, “Don’t say a word; there have been several such cases.” He
told me to go back in the thicket and not make any noise, for the
rebels were travelling up and down the road; and he would bring the
men out in a short time. In about two hours Walker returned, with the
men trailing after him. I never saw men so happy, for they knew if
they had remained there they would be captured and sent to Tuscaloosa.
We were all nearly starved, having eaten up all we had the day
before. I asked Walker if he could get us something to eat. He said
he did not have anything but Irish potatoes, and they were in the
ground, and some apples that were on the trees, and nothing to make
bread of. The rebels had taken nearly everything he had. He went to
work and dug the potatoes and gathered the apples, and cooked them in
some old tin buckets, the only things available. He cooked about two
bushels each of the apples and potatoes.
It was about nine o’clock in the morning when he brought the men to
his place, and at noon the “dinner” was ready. I got the men in line,
and Walker passed the buckets along. As the men had no knives, forks
or spoons, they had to use their hands, and some of them were so
hungry that they burned their fingers in their eagerness to partake
of the delicious and inviting repast. Our generous host continued to
supply them until all was consumed.
The men were so famished that while he was cooking the apples and
potatoes they peeled the bark off all the little trees and ate it.
The whole thicket, about an acre, looked white after the trees had
been thus denuded of their bark.
By this time it was two o’clock in the afternoon, and I told the men
to lie down and try to sleep, for we had to cross the “Dead Line” and
Powell’s Valley that night, and get into Cumberland Mountain, for I
knew the rebels were on our trail.
While we were lying on the ground about three hundred yards from the
main road, we could hear the rebels riding up and down the road. No
man was allowed to make any noise. They obtained a few hours of sleep
and rest, which was very much needed. I had two men detailed to keep
them from snoring, for some of them you could hear a hundred yards.
These men would go around and when a man would snore they would shake
him or give him a kick.
When night came, the perilous task of crossing the “Dead Line,” which
we had dreaded from the start, was before us. Several men had been
killed at this place during the preceding ten days. I asked Walker if
he knew a good Union man who could be relied upon to guide us to the
road. He said there was a man in the neighborhood who had helped men
to Powell’s Valley, and he would send a colored girl to see if the
man could be found. By the time we were ready to start, about nine
o’clock, he came. I questioned him and he seemed to be all right, so
we started, he in the lead. I had been on the trail before, and after
travelling about a mile I became a little suspicious and stopped the
men. I thought we were too far West. I formed a hollow square, with
this man in the center. I questioned him and found we were a mile
off the trail. We put the man under arrest, and went back to where
we had started and took up the right trail. I do not think this man
intended to lead us into the rebels’ hands, but he became bewildered
and scared.
[Illustration: CAPT. R. A. RAGAN AT HIS HOME AFTER ARREST. See page
8.]
We reached Powell’s Valley about three o’clock in the morning, and
halted on a little bank about ten feet above the level of the main
road leading up and down the valley, which was called the “Dead
Line.” I remember this experience as vividly as if it were but
yesterday. The woods in which we were concealed were as dark as hell,
and hell was in front of us. There were about one hundred and thirty
men standing in single file, and I could not hear a man move or
breathe. Even death itself could never be more still.
The valley we had to cross was about four hundred yards wide, and not
a tree or bush in the valley. The road in front of us was dusty, and
while we stood there we heard in the distance the rattle of sabers
and the galloping of rebel cavalry. We stood motionless as they
passed by, and the dust from the horses’ hoofs came up in the bushes
and settled on our shoulders. What a time it was for us! It seemed
that we were to cross the “Valley and shadow of death.”
When the rebel cavalry had passed, I cut off twenty-five men and
said, “Now, boys, go!” and they did go. They crossed that valley
like wild cattle. When I thought they were safely over, I cut off
twenty-five more men, and they also landed safely. I waited awhile,
and we could hear the rebel cavalry coming back. They passed down
again, so we waited about ten minutes and then I said, “Boys, now
follow me!” and we all crossed in safety and were at the foot of
Cumberland Mountain, which was rough, steep, rocky and pathless.
Every man had to pick his way until we nearly reached the top.
As we crossed the valley, the air was filled with the stench of the
decaying bodies of the men who had been killed a few days before. No
one could venture to remove or bury them. I understood afterward that
they attempted to cross in the daytime, and were killed.
When we reached the top of Cumberland Mountain we came to what was
called Bailes’ Meadow, a name and place familiar to nearly every
“pilot” and man who crossed the mountain. The boys were worn out,
mostly all barefooted and nearly naked from crawling through bushes
and briar thickets.
Some of them, when we reached the top of the mountain, looked back
into the valley of East Tennessee and said, “Farewell to rebellion;”
and they looked North and said, “I can see the Promised Land!” They
were happy, but they had been so long hiding in the woods that they
would only speak in whispers, and it was a long time before they
could break themselves from the habit. You could trail them by the
blood from their feet, but like brave men they marched along without
a murmur.
James H. Randolph, of Newport, Tennessee, was with us. I was sorry
for him as well as the others. His shoes were entirely worn out,
and his feet were bleeding. I can remember the circumstances as
distinctly as though it were but a few days ago. He looked at me and
said, “Bob, when we get back to Tennessee we will give them H—, and
rub it in!” He was mad, worn out, and nearly starved to death; but we
were out of danger and began to realize that we were free once more.
We went down to the settlements in Kentucky, but could not see a man.
It seemed that they had all gone to the Union or the rebel army;
but the farms appeared to be in good condition and well stocked, and
the fields were full of corn. We came to a large farm at the foot of
the mountain, with a large frame house, painted white, but could not
see any one. There was quite a field of corn, just in roasting ears.
We halted, and I told the boys we must have something to eat, for
we were nearly starved. We had had nothing to eat since we ate the
apples and potatoes at old man Walker’s.
I told four or five of the boys to go to the corn field and bring as
many roasting ears as they could carry, and some five or six others
to go out in the pasture where there was a nice flock of sheep and
bring in a couple of fat bucks, and we would cook the mutton with
the roasting ears. In the meantime others went to the house and got
a wash kettle in which to cook the mutton and corn, and some salt
for seasoning. By the time they returned the boys had arrived with
the roasting ears. I looked out in the pasture and saw five boys,
each pulling a sheep along. They were so hungry that they thought
they could eat a sheep apiece; but we only killed two, and they
were fine. We had men in the company who could equal any butcher in
dressing a sheep. We filled the kettle with corn and mutton, and had
a fine barbecue. We had no soap, and when the boys got through, their
mouths, faces and hands were as greasy as a fat stand. I sent one of
the boys to the house to tell the lady how much we had taken, and ask
what she charged.
She said, “Nothing.” Some of the boys had a little gold and silver
with them and wanted to pay her.
We reached Camp Dick Robinson in a few days, and remained there some
time. Col. Reeve had his regiment nearly made up. We organized our
company as Company K, which about completed the regiment. The company
was mustered into the service, when the boys drew their uniforms and
their new Enfield rifles. After they had shaved, cleaned up and put
on their new uniforms, I met them several times and did not know
them. They were the happiest men I ever saw.