COMPANIONS AND INCIDENTS.
Who was this Mr. Andrews, from whom we had just parted in storm and
darkness,--the man from whose brain sprang the Chattanooga Railroad
Expedition, and to whose keeping we had so fearlessly committed our
lives? Few of us knew much about him at that time, but became wiser
afterwards. As he is the hero of the earlier part of this story, it may
be well to give the reader the benefit of all the information as to his
character and history subsequently obtained.
Mr. J. J. Andrews was born in that part of Western Virginia known as the
"Pan Handle," on the eastern bank of the Ohio River, and only separated
from my own county of Jefferson by that stream. While quite young he had
removed to the mountains of Eastern Kentucky, settling in Fleming
County. Here he acquired considerable wealth, but at the outbreak of
the civil war lost most of it again. While in business here he
travelled over much of the South, and became acquainted with many men
whom the war afterwards threw into prominence. At the first outbreak of
hostilities he joined the Union army, not as a soldier, but in the still
more useful and dangerous character of a spy and secret negotiator. He
accompanied General Nelson in his Eastern Kentucky campaign, on which
occasion I had seen him at Prestonburg, and afterwards he journeyed back
and forth two or three times from Nashville before the capture of that
city. He also spent several days in Fort Donelson during the week
preceding its capture by General Grant. At this place he narrowly
escaped detection. Subsequently he visited Atlanta and brought back much
valuable information. By representing himself as a blockade-runner, and
carrying southward through our lines articles of small bulk but of great
value to the enemy, he secured their confidence and brought back
information a hundredfold more valuable. This business was pecuniarily
profitable to himself as well as very serviceable to the Union army. A
Mr. Whiteman, of Nashville, afterwards testified that he had paid him
ten thousand dollars for one cargo, the most of which was clear profit.
Some of the Southern officers with whom he was intimate had bestowed
upon him passes authorizing him to come and go through their lines at
pleasure. It is not my intention to offer any apology for a man who thus
betrays the confidence even of rebels. What justice requires to be said
on this subject will find a more appropriate place in explaining the
position of those who accompanied him in his last and most perilous
journey. His occupation was one of the utmost danger, and he could not
expect much mercy if detected. He had even gone the length of taking the
oath of allegiance to the Southern Confederacy, though he was
passionately loyal to the old government. Indeed, his hatred for
secession and everything connected with it had become the more intense
from the very disguise he so frequently assumed; and the desire to work
all possible injury to that cause had far more influence in inducing him
to pursue his perilous vocation than any hope of reward. I have since
been told by Southern authorities that he acknowledged being promised
fifty thousand dollars reward in case he succeeded in destroying the
bridges from Atlanta to Chattanooga, but I never heard of such a
contract. Certainly no reward whatever was promised directly or
indirectly to the soldiers who accompanied him, and I never heard
Andrews himself speak of expecting any pecuniary recompense.
Mr. Andrews was nearly six feet in height, of powerful frame, black
hair, and long, black, and silken beard, Roman features, a high and
expansive forehead, and a voice fine and soft as a woman's. Of polished
manners, stately presence, and more than ordinary personal beauty, wide
information, great shrewdness and sagacity, he was admirably fitted to
win favor in a community like that of the South, which has always placed
a high value on personal qualities. He had also the clear forethought in
devising complicated schemes, and the calmness in the hour of danger
necessary for the perilous game he played. Carrying his life in his hand
whenever he ventured beyond the Union pickets, involved continually in
dangers, where a single thoughtless word, or even an unguarded look,
might lead to detection and death, he had learned to rely absolutely on
his own resources, and to contemplate with easy familiarity enterprises
that would have looked like sheer madness to one without this
preliminary drill.
But it was said that even he had grown tired of this perpetual risk, and
intended, if successful in this last and most difficult enterprise, to
retire to peaceful life. A tender influence conspired to the same end,
and imparts a dash of romance to his story. He was engaged to be married
in the following June, and intended then to retire from the army. Alas!
June had a far different fate in store for him.
At our interview in the afternoon, as well as in the midnight
consultation, Andrews impressed me as a man who combined intellect and
refinement with the most dauntless courage. Yet his pensive manner, slow
speech, and soft voice indicated not obscurely what I afterwards found
to be almost his only fault as a leader,--a hesitancy in deciding
important questions on the spur of the moment, and in backing his
decision by prompt, vigorous action. This did not detract from his value
as a secret agent when alone, for then all his actions were premeditated
and accomplished with surpassing coolness and bravery; but it was
otherwise in commanding men in startling and unforeseen emergencies.
This trait of character will be more fully developed in the course of
the story.
How were the soldiers selected who assembled that evening at the
rendezvous? This question was asked with curiosity and wonder by the
enemy, and is of great importance in estimating the treatment of such of
their number as were afterwards captured. The enemy could not, by their
utmost exertions, obtain correct information on this subject; but there
is now no reason for reticence. The nature of the enterprise was such
that it could not be publicly explained and volunteers called for, as it
was quite possible that spies of the enemy were in our camp; neither was
it right, according to the laws of war, to divest soldiers of their
uniform and place them under the orders of a spy without their full
consent. A medium course was adopted, which avoided the opposite
difficulties as far as possible. The captains who were ordered to
furnish each a man gathered a few of their soldiers about them in a
quiet way, and stated that a volunteer was wanted for a very dangerous
enterprise. Of those who professed willingness to go one was selected,
taken aside from the others, and told simply that he was to be sent
disguised into the heart of the enemy's country, under the orders of a
Southern citizen, whom the commanding officers trusted fully. If they
felt like engaging in this service, with all its risks, they could see
this man and learn more; but if not, they would be at liberty to decline
the dangerous honor. In one or two cases these preliminary explanations
were so vague that the men addressed did not fairly understand the
matter, and subsequently declared that if they had been more fully
informed they would not have taken the first step. After they met
Andrews, however, they felt that their reputation was at stake, and were
not willing to "back out." In one or two other cases the men were merely
selected by their captains and ordered, without any preliminary
explanations, to report to Andrews outside of the lines.
Twenty-four men were thus detailed, twenty-three of whom met at the
rendezvous. The twenty-fourth we never heard of; whether he tried to
reach us and failed, or whether some one of the captains who was to
furnish a man was unable to induce any one to accept the dangerous
honor, is uncertain. Indeed, there must have been a failure of two men,
for we had one with us who was not originally expected to go. Captain
Mitchel had one man to furnish, and Perry G. Shadrach was chosen.
William Campbell, a native of Salineville, Ohio, but for many years a
citizen of Kentucky, a man of wild and adventurous habits, was visiting
Shadrach, and at once asked and obtained permission to go with him.
Though he was only a civilian, we always spoke of him as an enlisted
soldier of Captain Mitchel's company.
While we are splashing along in the darkness and under the fast-falling
rain, it may be a good time to describe the members of the squad with
whom I travelled. Shadrach and Campbell were two of its members. The
former was small but roundly built, a merry, reckless fellow, often
profane, easily put out of temper, but very kind, and willing to
sacrifice anything for a friend. Campbell was physically the strongest
man of the whole party and possibly of Mitchel's division as well. He
weighed two hundred and twenty pounds, was perfectly proportioned, very
active, apparently fond of danger for its own sake, and as true as
steel. Neither of these two men possessed much skill in duplicity or
shrewdness in planning. They were willing to leave the task of asking
and answering questions to their comrades, but were always ready to bear
their full share in action.
The third, George D. Wilson, of Cincinnati, was of very different
character. He was not highly educated, though he had read a great deal,
but in natural shrewdness I have rarely, if ever, known his equal. He
was of middle age, whilst most of us had just passed out of boyhood. He
had traveled extensively, and had observed and remembered everything he
encountered. In the use of fiery and scorching denunciations he was a
master, and took great delight in overwhelming an opponent with an
unmeasured torrent of abuse. In action he was brave and cool; no danger
could frighten him, no emergency find him unprepared. The friendship I
felt for him grew steadily until his tragic death. I depended on his
judgment and advice more than on that of any one in the whole
expedition.
The writer was first corporal in Company G of the Second Regiment of
Ohio Volunteers, and had just been promoted to the position of sergeant.
I was twenty-two years of age, a native of Jefferson County, Ohio, had
been reared on a farm, had taught school in the winters, and more
recently had entered on the study of law. My opportunities for acquiring
knowledge were very limited, but had been tolerably well improved. I had
read a good many volumes and gained a fair English education. For war
and warlike affairs I had not the slightest taste, and was indeed so
near-sighted that it was very doubtful whether I could ever make an
efficient soldier. When the call for three months' troops was made at
the bombardment of Fort Sumter, I felt that the emergency was so great
as to require the services of every patriot, and immediately enlisted. I
did not then contemplate a longer term of service, as I believed that
the government would be able to organize an adequate force within that
period from those who were better adapted to the profession of arms. My
decision to enter the ranks was not made without some forethought. Just
previous to putting my name to the enlistment paper, I took a solitary
night walk and tried to bring up in imagination all the perils and
discomforts that were possible in military service, asking myself
whether I was willing to endure any of them that might fall to my lot as
the result of the step I then contemplated. Having decided, I returned
to the mass-meeting (convened in the court-house of Steubenville, Ohio)
and entered my name as a volunteer. The company formed that night was
hurried to Washington, and on the route was organized with others into
the Second Ohio Regiment. During the three months' service our only
experience of fighting was in the badly-managed battle, or rather
skirmish, of Bull Run. On the battle-field, when the tide of fortune
turned against us, I concluded that I ought to re-enlist for two
reasons. It was hard to quit the army with no experience but that of
defeat, and the country's need of men was still urgent. When the Second
Ohio was reorganized for three years' service, I therefore continued in
the ranks. We were sent to Eastern Kentucky, and succeeded, after some
trifling engagements, in clearing that part of the State from rebels. We
were then ordered to Louisville, and greatly to my delight were put
under the command of the astronomer Mitchel. A few years before I had
studied astronomy enthusiastically, and had even gone so far as to
construct a ten-foot telescope for my own use. This similarity of tastes
led me to feel greatly delighted, and almost acquainted, with our new
general. His fame as an astronomer did not guarantee his success in war;
but the ability displayed in one profession was a hopeful indication for
the other. Our division participated in the advance upon Bowling Green
and afterwards upon Nashville. This service offered no hardship except
wintry marches, for the capture of Fort Donelson by General Grant had
broken the enemy's resistance. During this march there was not perfect
accord between Mitchel and his less energetic superior, General Buell.
Even the soldiers learned something of their disputes, and were much
gratified when, at Nashville, Mitchel was detached from the main army
and left to operate independently. In three days he marched to
Murfreesborough, where this narrative opens.
[Illustration: WILLIAM PITTENGER.
[1882--twenty years later.]
Page 42.]
On parting from Andrews we worked our way eastward, keeping not far from
the railroad leading to Wartrace. We did not wish to travel very far
through the rain, which was almost pouring down, but only to get well
beyond the Federal pickets, so as to have a clear track for a long
journey on the following day. We wished to elude our own pickets, not
only to avoid detention, but to gain a little practice in such work. It
was our intention to get that night beyond Wartrace, where our last
outpost in that direction was stationed; but our progress was so slow
and fatiguing that we changed our minds, and determined to find a
lodging at once. This resolution was more easily made than accomplished.
For a long time we searched in vain. It seemed as if the country was
uninhabited. At length the barking of a dog gave a clue, which was
diligently followed. The better to prosecute the search, we formed a
line within hearing distance of each other, and then swept around in all
directions. A barn was our first discovery, but we were so completely
wet and chilled that we resolved to persevere in hope of a bed and a
fire.
Shortly after, finding a rude, double log house, we roused the inmates
and demanded shelter for the night. The farmer was evidently alarmed,
but let us in, and then began to investigate our character.
I narrate minutely the events that accompanied our first setting out,
not so much for their intrinsic interest, as for the sake of giving a
vivid idea of the conduct required by the nature of our expedition. This
may also be a good place to answer a question often asked, "How can the
equivocation and downright falsehood that follows be justified?" I am
not bound to attempt any formal justification; but it is easy to show
that all the moral question involved is only a branch of the larger
question as to the morality of war. In its very nature, war is
compounded of force and fraud in nearly equal quantities. If one of the
necessary ingredients be wrong, the other can hardly be right. The most
conscientious general thinks nothing of making movements with the sole
purpose of deceiving his adversary, or of writing absolutely false
despatches for the same purpose. If it be right to kill our
fellow-beings, I suppose it is also right to deceive them in order to
get a better chance to kill them! The golden rule, which is the basis of
all morality, has but little place as between hostile armies or nations.
To find where some unsuspecting persons are asleep, and steal upon them,
begin to shoot and stab before they can wake to defend themselves,
would, in peace, be thought a crime of the most dastardly and ferocious
character; but, in war, it is only a surprise, and, if successful,
confers the greatest honor upon those who plan and execute it. Are there
two sets of morals,--the one for peace, the other for war? "But," the
objector may continue, "is not a constant resort to falsehood in a
secret expedition peculiarly dishonorable?" Let us look this question
fairly in the face. All armies employ spies, and the old adage, "The
receiver is as bad as the thief," is here fully applicable. A general
who induces a man, by the hope of money or promotion, to go disguised
into the enemy's lines, with a lie in his mouth, for the general's
advantage, is a full partner in the enterprise, and cannot throw off his
share of the guilt. It is true that the laws of war throw all the odium
on the spy. But the generals, and not the spies, made the laws of war.
Besides, there is no necessary connection between the laws of war and
the laws of morality. The former are merely the rules men construct for
the regulation of the most tremendous of all their games, and can never
affect the essence of right and wrong. I do not wish to argue the
abstract right of deceiving an enemy, or of deviating from the strict
truth for any purpose whatever. It is enough for my purpose to show that
deception is an element in all war. The candid reader will also consider
that most of us were very young. The common sentiment of the camp was
that deceiving a rebel in any manner was a meritorious action. With the
full sanction of our officers, we had entered upon an expedition which
required disguise and deception. We had been expressly told that we were
not even to hesitate in joining the rebel army,--which implied taking
the oath of allegiance to the Confederacy,--if that step became
necessary to avoid detection. In the whole of this expedition we were
true to each other and to the mission upon which we had entered, but we
did not hesitate at any kind or degree of untruthfulness directed
towards the enemy. Such was the effect of our resolution in this
direction that no one, so far as I remember, ever expressed any sorrow
or remorse for any of the falsehoods that were so plentifully employed.
Indeed, while the war lasted, I did not find a single person, in the
army or out, who ever criticised our expedition from the _moral_
stand-point. There seemed to be some kind of an instinctive feeling that
the revolted States had forfeited all their rights by rebellion,--even
that of having the truth told to them. I confess that deception was very
painful to me at first, and from inclination, as well as policy, I used
it as sparingly as possible. But practice made it comparatively easy
and pleasant, within the limits indicated above.
We did not wait for all these reasonings before we began to practise
deception upon our host. He was informed that we were Kentuckians,
disgusted with the tyranny of the Lincoln government, and seeking an
asylum in the free and independent South. His reply was a grateful
surprise. "Oh," said he, "you come on a bootless errand, and might as
well go home again and make the best of it. The whole South will soon be
as much under Lincoln as Kentucky is."
"Never!" we answered. "We'll fight till we die, first!"
At this the old man chuckled quietly, but only said, "Well, we'll see,
we'll see." We found him to be an enthusiastic Union man, but firmly
maintained our own assumed character. He provided us with a good supper,
late as it was, and with good beds, which we refused to occupy until he
had promised not to betray us to the Union pickets.
The next morning we were early on our way, reaching Wartrace in the
midst of a pelting storm. Attempting to pass directly through, our
soldiers on guard were too vigilant for us, and we enjoyed another
opportunity for "diplomacy," in the endeavor to represent ourselves as
innocent citizens from the adjoining country. But it was more difficult
to deceive our own men than the enemy, and, to avoid detection, we were
obliged to reveal our true character, which secured our immediate
release.
We plodded onward through the deep mud and splashing roads, and were now
outside our own lines. Our only safety, from this time, lay in our
disguise and in our false tongues. We felt not unlike the landsman who
for the first time loses sight of the shore, and feels the heaving of
the broad ocean under his feet. To the average Northern citizen a vague
mystery and terror had rested over the whole of the Southern States,
even before the beginning of the war. During the existence of slavery no
Northern man dared make his home in the presence of that institution and
express any views unfavorable to it. Many tales of violence and blood
were reported from that region long before hostilities began, and as the
passions which led to the contest grew more fierce, the shadows still
deepened. When war began the curtain fell, and only reports of wild and
desperate enthusiasm in behalf of the cause of disunion and slavery,
with stories of the most cruel oppression of the few who dared to differ
with the ruling class in still loving the old flag, reached Northern
ears. No doubt there were many exaggerations, but there was a solid
basis of fact. The South was swept with a revolutionary frenzy equal to
any that history recalls, and the people were ready to sacrifice any one
whose life seemed dangerous to their cause. Even exaggeration was potent
as truth in aiding to invest the region beyond the Union lines with
mysterious horror. Into this land of peril and fear and frequent outrage
we were plunging as the secret but deadly enemies of the whole people.
Now, when Chattanooga and Atlanta are brought into such easy
communication with Northern cities, it is difficult to recall the
feelings with which they were regarded in the dark days of eighteen
hundred and sixty-two. But hope and courage outweighed apprehension in
our hearts, and we pushed rapidly forward.
Others of our party were occasionally seen trudging along in the dreary
rain, and sometimes we went with them a little way, but mostly we kept
by ourselves. Shortly after noon we crossed Duck River, and entered
Manchester, stopping just long enough to get the names of some of the
prominent secessionists along our proposed route, that we might always
have some one to inquire for, and be recommended from one influential
man to another. Nightfall this evening (Tuesday) found us still several
miles from Hillsborough, and we began to fear that we would be behind
time in reaching our destination. Each one was weary and stiff, but we
resolved to make every effort, and, if necessary, travel a whole night
rather than be too late. I have always been sorry that this night
journey was not required of us.
At the place where we lodged that night I first heard a slave-holder
talk of hunting negroes with blood-hounds. In conversation after supper
our host said to us, as a mere matter of news, "I saw some persons
dodging about the back of the plantation just as it was getting dark,
and in the morning I will take the hounds and go out and hunt them up. I
will be glad to have you go along and see the sport, if you can afford
the time. If they prove to be negroes I will make something."
"What will you do with them?" I asked.
"Oh, turn them over to the authorities and get the reward," was the
answer. "I have caught a considerable number, and it pays to keep on the
lookout."
Of course we had to agree outwardly; but the idea of hunting human
beings with the ferocious-looking dogs we had seen about his door, and
that for money, thrilled me with detestation and horror. Soon afterwards
we found that blood-hounds were not kept for negroes alone.
After a sound night's rest we continued our journey, and were fortunate
enough to find a man who was willing, for the good of the Confederacy,
and for an extravagant price in money, to give us a short ride. The
conveyance was an old wagon, with a wood-rack for a bed, four mules,
with a scanty chain harness, ropes for bridles and lines, a driver black
as ebony, who rode the lead mule, with a straw bag for a saddle, and
flourished a fine black-snake whip,--the latter the only really good
article in the whole "turnout." Seven or eight of our party were now
together, and we rattled merrily over the stony road, holding on to the
sides of the old wood-rack, and agreeing that this was much better than
walking. About the middle of the forenoon we came in sight of the
Cumberland Mountains. It was now Wednesday, our second day outside of
our own lines.
Never have I beheld more beautiful scenery. For a short time the rain
ceased to fall and the air became clear. The mountains shone in the
freshest green, and about their tops clung a soft, shadowy mist,
gradually descending lower, and shrouding one after another of the spurs
and high mountain valleys from view. But the beautiful scene did not
long continue. Soon the mist deepened into cloud, and the interminable
rain began again to fall. To add to our discontent, our wagon could go
no farther, and we once more waded in the mud.
At noon we found a dinner of the coarsest fare at a miserable one-roomed
hut. One of our men, not belonging, however, to the squad I usually
travelled with, managed to get possession of a bottle of apple-brandy,
which he used so freely as to become very talkative. He was placed
between two others, who kept him from all communication with strangers,
and walked him rapidly on until he became sober. This was the only
instance of such dangerous imprudence in the whole journey.
From the personal narrative of J. Alfred Wilson, who was with us by this
time, I will make frequent extracts, though by no means always indorsing
his opinions as to military affairs, or the hopefulness of our
enterprise. He was a man of great resolution and endurance, though by no
means of hopeful temper. He says,--
"Not till fairly away from the sight of the old flag and of
our regiments, and entirely within the enemy's line, could we
begin to realize the great responsibility we had incurred. To
begin with, we had cast aside our uniforms and put on citizen's
clothes, and assumed all the penalties that, in military usage,
the word _spy_ implies, which is death the world over. Again,
our mission was such that concealment was impossible. We were
sure to arouse the whole Confederacy and invoke the brutal
vengeance of its frenzied leaders in case we did not make good
our escape after doing our work. The military spy, in the
ordinary line of his duty, is not compelled to expose himself
to detection. On the contrary, he conceals, in every possible
way, his identity. This we could do until in the heart of the
enemy's country, the very place where we would be in the
greatest danger."
Some of the groups fell into the natural error of overdoing their part,
and by the very violence with which they denounced the United States
government excited suspicion. One party of five or six made a narrow
escape from this kind of danger. Their talk was too extravagant and
their answers to some questions somewhat contradictory. As none but
citizens were then present, no objections were made to their statements;
but a company of rebel guerillas was secretly summoned, and they were
pursued. The guerillas arrived at a house where this party had passed
the night but a few moments after they had resumed their journey in the
morning. The pursuit was continued; but growing somewhat weary, and
receiving more reassuring accounts of the travellers ahead, the chase
was abandoned, and our comrades escaped.
Two others of our number were less fortunate. They became involved in
the same manner, were followed, overtaken, and arrested. They told their
Kentucky story in vain, but as they professed their willingness to
enlist in the rebel army, that privilege was granted them. They were
sent to the nearest post and duly sworn in. Not long afterwards they
took the step that had been in their minds at the hour of enlistment by
endeavoring to desert. One of them succeeded, but the other was
arrested, and had to suffer a long and severe imprisonment. Finally,
however, he was sent back to camp, and his next attempt at desertion was
more successful.
In conversation my own group was careful to take a very moderate though
decided Southern tone. It was agreed that Wilson and myself should, as
far as possible, do all the talking when in the presence of the enemy.
On entering towns it was our custom to go directly to the street corners
and the groceries, inquire for the latest news, tell our Kentucky story
as often as it seemed necessary, deny some of the reports of Union
outrages and confirm others, assuring the bystanders that the Yankees
were not half so bad as reported, and especially that they would fight,
as otherwise they would never have conquered our great State of
Kentucky, and then demand, in the name of the common cause of the South,
direction and assistance on our way. We thus acquired much information,
and were never once suspected. It is my deliberate opinion that we could
have travelled from Richmond to New Orleans in the same manner at that
period of the war.
A little way out from our camp Dorsey met a man who seemed to be a
Southern spy, and on the strength of this suspicion was strongly tempted
to shoot him to prevent the irreparable harm he might do us. A little
watching, however, partly dispelled first impressions. The same man
afterwards offered Wilson a liberal reward to pilot him over the
mountains, and actually claimed to be a Confederate spy. Wilson kept
with him for a time and watched him narrowly, but became convinced that
he had not the least suspicion of our expedition. He allowed him,
therefore, to go on his way in peace. It is possible that he was not
what he pretended, any more than we ourselves were Kentucky citizens.
This man was met once more in Chattanooga, but then disappeared.
As we were mounting the first spurs of the Cumberland Mountains we
encountered a Confederate soldier from the East, who was then at home on
a furlough. He had been in many battles, among them the battle of Bull
Run, which he described minutely. Little did he think that I, too, had
been there, as we laughed together at the wild panic of the fugitive
Yankees. He was greatly delighted to see so many Kentuckians coming out
on the right side in the great struggle, and contrasted our conduct with
that of some mean-spirited persons in his own neighborhood who were so
foolish and depraved as to still sympathize with the abolitionists.
When we parted he grasped my hand with tears in his eyes, and said he
hoped "the time would soon come when we would be comrades, fighting side
by side in one glorious cause!" My heart revolted from the hypocrisy I
was compelled to use, but having begun there was no possibility of
turning back. We clambered up the mountain till the top was reached;
then across the level summit for six miles; then down again by an
unfrequented road over steep rocks, yawning chasms, and great gullies
cut out by recent rains. This rough jaunt led us down into Battle Creek,
which is a picturesque valley opening out into the Tennessee, and hemmed
in by projecting ranges of lofty mountains. As we descended the slopes,
a countryman we had overtaken told me how the valley had obtained its
name. The legend is very romantic, and probably truthful.
There was an Indian war between two neighboring tribes in early times.
One of them made a plundering expedition into the territory of the
other, and after securing their booty retreated homeward. They were
promptly pursued, and traced to this valley. The pursuers believed them
to be concealed within its rocky limits, and to make their capture sure
divided their force into two bands, each of which crept along the steep
opposite sides towards the head of the valley. It was early in the
morning, and as they worked their way cautiously along the mountain mist
rolled downward as we had seen it do that morning, and enveloped each of
the parties in its folds. Determined not to be foiled, they kept on, and
meeting at the head of the valley, each supposed the other to be the
foe. They poured in their fire, and a deadly conflict ensued. Not till
the greater number of their braves had fallen did the survivors discover
their sad mistake; then they slowly and sorrowfully retreated to their
wigwams. The plunderers, who had listened to their conflict in safety,
being higher up the mountain, were left to bear off their booty in
triumph.
But we had little leisure for legendary tales. We rested for the night
with a wealthy secessionist, whom our soldier friend on the mountains
had designated as "the right kind of a man." He received us with open
arms, and shared the best his house afforded. We spent the evening in
denouncing the policy of the Federal government and in exchanging views
as to the prospects of the war. Among other topics I happened to mention
an expatriation law which, as I had learned from a newspaper paragraph,
had been passed by the Kentucky Legislature a few weeks before. This law
only made the reasonable provision that all persons going South to join
the rebel army should lose their rights of State citizenship. The old
man thought this to be an act of unparalleled oppression; and in the
morning, before we were out of bed, he came into our room and requested
some of us to write down that infamous law that he might be able to give
his Union neighbors a convincing proof of Yankee wickedness! We
complied, and all signed our names as witnesses. No doubt that document
was long the theme of angry discussion in many a mountain cabin.
So thoroughly did we maintain our assumed character in this instance,
that three days after, when the culmination of our enterprise came to
the Confederates like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky, it was
impossible to make our host believe that his guests were among the
adventurers. This we learned from a Union man to whom he had shown a
copy of the terrible expatriation law!
We were still more than forty miles distant from Chattanooga on this
Wednesday evening, and were due at that place by five o'clock the next
day. On each of the two preceding days we had measured about thirty
miles,--a good rate of speed, but not sufficient. We had formed the
resolution of taking a night journey of ten or fifteen miles, but before
starting after supper, another squad arrived and managed to tell us that
they had seen Andrews and been informed that the grand enterprise was
postponed one day. This was a great relief, for it was hard to tear away
from our comfortable quarters; but this delay was a serious mistake. In
all combined movements in war, time is of prime importance. On the
appointed Friday success would have been easy; on Saturday--but we must
not anticipate.
Andrews had also caused the advice to be passed along the line that it
would be better to attempt to cross the Tennessee at some point far west
of Chattanooga, and taking passage on the Memphis and Charleston
Railroad, endeavor to pass through Chattanooga by rail. He had heard of
stringent orders being issued against any one crossing the river near
this town without a pass. Farther down the stream these orders might not
apply, or, in case of necessity, a raft might be constructed among the
wooded mountains, and a passage obtained by that means.
About noon of the next day we came to Jasper, and spent a short time in
the principal grocery of the place talking over the state of the
country. We informed the idlers that there would soon be a mighty
uprising of Kentuckians in favor of the Southern cause, but professed
ignorance of the movements of Mitchel's army. In return we received the
first vague reports of the battle of Pittsburg Landing. It was the
impression that the Union army was totally destroyed, thousands of men
being slain, and innumerable cannon captured. One countryman assured me
that five hundred Yankee gunboats had been sunk! I ventured to suggest a
doubt as to the Yankees having so many, but was not able to shake his
faith.
The same night we reached the banks of the Tennessee, directly south of
Jasper, and lodged at the house of a Mrs. Hall. A flat-boat owned by one
of the neighbors was used as a ferry-boat, and arrangements were made
for setting us on the other side of the stream early in the morning. The
evening spent here was very enjoyable. Others of our party came in, and
among them Andrews himself. After a good supper, we were all assigned to
the best room, which had a roaring wood-fire in an open chimney, and two
large beds in the corners. We met without any outward sign of
recognition, but rapidly became acquainted. Each acted according to his
own nature. The bountiful supper and the cheerful fire greatly refreshed
us after the labor of the day. My companion, Shadrach, was soon
acknowledged as the wit of the party, and received perpetual applause
for his mirthful sallies. Andrews was silent, but appeared to greatly
enjoy the fun. Dorsey, who had great forethought and prudence, and had
decided that it was good policy, even among his comrades, to appear as
ignorant as possible, felt highly complimented when told that his group
had been described to some of the others who followed as "a party of
country Jakes." Wilson gave us all the information wanted on every
possible subject. Songs were sung, stories were told, and as the family
formed part of the fireside company, many of the incidents may not have
been quite authentic. Late at night this social evening's entertainment
closed. It was the more highly appreciated as it was the first
opportunity most of us had enjoyed of becoming acquainted with our
leader and with each other.
In the morning Andrews started up the river on horseback. The flat-boat
was bailed out, and we were just entering it, when a mounted man
appeared and handed the ferryman an order forbidding him to allow any
one to cross the river at his ferry for three days. We tried to get an
exception made in our favor, as we had contracted with him the evening
before, but he was unwilling to assume the risk. The messenger gave us
the reason for the order, and a most interesting piece of news it was.
General Mitchel was moving rapidly southward for some unknown object,
and it was desirable on that account to stop all intercourse with the
country beyond the river. The messenger volunteered the comforting
assurance that "these brave Kentuckians will no doubt find a warm
welcome at Chattanooga," and gave us the best directions in his power
for reaching that point. We concealed our disappointment, and as soon as
we were alone debated as to the best course to be taken. Two
alternatives only were open. One was to build or seize a raft or boat
and cross in defiance of the order. This was easy enough in the night,
but in daytime it would be very hazardous, and that day, until five
o'clock in the afternoon, was the only time at our disposal. We
therefore took the only remaining course, and dispersing, hurried over
the mountains towards Chattanooga.
Our journey was far from pleasant, as the rocky mountain-spurs here
sweep directly down to the bank of this very crooked river. Several
times we lost our way in the entanglements of the woods, but at length
reached a valley that ran down to the Tennessee directly opposite
Chattanooga. The road was now more frequented, and we talked freely with
travellers, for all fear of being detected by those we chanced to meet
had long since been dissipated.
One countryman related a very interesting item of news from the war in
the East. It was to the effect that the Confederate iron-clad "Merrimac"
had one day steamed out into the harbor of Fortress Monroe, and after
engaging the Union "Monitor" for some hours, with no decisive result,
had run alongside of her opponent, and throwing grappling-irons on
board, had towed her ashore, where she, of course, fell an easy prey.
This may serve as a specimen of the kind of news we perpetually heard
while in the Confederate States.
Quite a number of persons--many of them of our own party--were waiting
on the banks of the Tennessee River. The assemblage of so many of us on
that side of the river was very unfortunate, as it materially increased
the risk of discovery; but a very high wind was blowing, and the
ferryman feared to risk his little shackly "horse-boat" on the turbulent
stream. Our time was nearly exhausted, and we could not afford to wait
very long. We urged the boatman very strenuously to set us over at once,
but he wished to delay until the wind fell. Nothing as yet had been said
to us about passes, but this was explained mentally by the conjecture
that there was a guard on the other side, whose inspection we would be
obliged to pass,--a more formidable ordeal than we had yet encountered.
When requests for a speedy passage failed to move the ferryman, we
changed our tactics, and talked in his hearing of the cowardice of
Tennessee boatmen as contrasted with Kentuckians, or even the Ohio
Yankees. When twelve or sixteen men deliberately attempt to make one man
angry, they can generally succeed. The boatman soon tired of our
raillery, and, entering his boat, told us to come on and show what we
could do by lending him a hand, adding that he would put us over or
drown us, he did not care much which. The invitation was promptly
accepted, and by pushing with poles and pulling on the limbs of
overhanging trees we moved up the stream to a point judged most
favorable, and swung out into the waves. The ride was short and not
without danger, but the peril on the other side was so much greater that
we had little thought to give to the passage. "How should we meet and
deceive the guard?" This was the important question. Our surprise was
almost equal to our delight when we landed and found no one to bar our
progress. The explanation was perfectly simple. The guard had not been
placed that afternoon because it was not believed that any one would
attempt to cross in the storm. Wondering at our good fortune, we hurried
to the cars, and were in time to procure tickets for Marietta before the
departure of the train, which was crowded with passengers, many of them
Confederate soldiers. In such a crowd it was easy to avoid notice.
Every seat in the cars was filled, and we had to be contented with
standing room. The fumes of whiskey and tobacco were very strong.
Talking was loud and incessant, and turned mostly upon the great battle
of Shiloh, the accounts of which were by no means so extravagant as at
first, though a great victory was still claimed. We took part in the
conversation freely, judging this to be the best way of maintaining our
assumed disguise. No general system of passports had been brought into
use, at least in this part of the South, and railway travel was entirely
unrestricted.
The sun was about an hour high when we glided out of the depot, and it
soon sank to rest behind the hills of Georgia. The time for our perilous
attempt drew near. There was some diversity of opinion among the members
of the party, as revealed by conversations both before and after, as to
the prospects of success. The most of us felt some solicitude, but were
far more hopeful than when we left camp. So many incidents had occurred
substantially as they had been planned, that trust in the foresight of
our leader, with the assurance that all would come out right, was
greatly strengthened. The first feeling of strangeness which followed
our plunge into the enemy's country had given way to confidence in the
impenetrability of our mental disguise. For my own part I scarcely felt
a doubt of success. It seemed to me that a dozen modes of escape were
open in the improbable event of failure. I saw the dangers surrounding
us clearly, but none of them now appeared more formidable than when I
first asked Colonel Harris the privilege of joining the expedition.
There were many bridges on the road we passed over, and we could not
help picturing our return on the morrow and the vengeance we proposed
wreaking on them. Darkness closed in, and on we went amid the oaths and
laughter of the rebels, many of whom were very much intoxicated. I
procured a seat on the coal-box and gave myself up to the thoughts
suggested by the hour. There was now no need of trying to keep up
conversation with those around. Visions of former days and friends--dear
friends, both around the camp-fires and the hearths of home, whom I
might never see again--floated before me. I also heard much talk of the
merits of different States and regiments in the contest, and many
discussions of the conscript law, which was just now coming into force.
The opinion of the greater number of the soldiers seemed to be that
while the provisions of the law were right in compelling all to take a
part in the burdens of the conflict, yet that it would be of but little
service, as the unwilling soldiers, who were thus forced into the ranks,
would be no match for volunteers. Little did they imagine that in this
terrible law their rulers had found a weapon which would enable them to
repulse the Northern armies at every point, and protract the war for
three years longer!
[Illustration: CHATTANOOGA AND
RAILROAD CONNECTIONS.]
At this time the Union cause seemed most hopeful. All appearances
indicated a speedy termination of the war and a complete
re-establishment of the old government. Few great battles had taken
place, but the preponderance of fortune as well as force seemed
everywhere on the loyal side. In the West, our armies had during the
last three months penetrated almost half-way to the Gulf; McClellan was
preparing to move with overwhelming force towards Richmond; Burnside was
dealing hard blows on the North Carolina coast; the force which captured
New Orleans was already on the way; and at no point were the rebel
forces a fair match for their opponents. Volunteering had almost stopped
in the South, while recruits were pouring as a steady stream into the
Northern armies, and continued to do so for a year longer. A rebellion
almost isolated and placed everywhere on the defensive could not hope
for long life unless new resources were discovered. The rebel leaders
well knew this, and therefore passed the conscription law.
It is scarcely an exaggeration to say that there were two wars waged
between the North and the South. The first was between the two people by
means of volunteers, and the second between the two governments. For the
first year the soldiers fought on both sides with scarcely a thought of
pay or bounty, and without a hint of compulsion. But the South had
reached the end of this period, and her volunteers were beaten and
exhausted. This was not from any want of bravery on their part, but
because of inferior numbers, and because, having less at stake than the
volunteers of the North, they could less willingly support adverse
fortune. Now the new law was enacted at the South which put all the
able-bodied population at the service of the State. The advantages were
immediate and obvious. All the volunteers who had enlisted for a limited
time were retained. The depleted organizations were filled up to their
full strength, instead of waiting for the recruiting of new regiments,
and the conscripts thus became, in a few days, the equals of old
soldiers. The second year of the war, in which the Northern volunteers
fought the whole force the Southern States could bring into the field,
was, on the whole, the most unfavorable of any period to the loyal arms.
It became clear that the supremacy of the Union could not be restored
unless the same potent weapon could be employed on her behalf. From the
hour that the possibility of this was demonstrated, and a draft
successfully enforced by the Union government, the issue was virtually
decided. Despair might protract the contest, but the utter exhaustion of
Southern resources was only a question of time. Was it necessary to
permit the war to pass from the first into the second stage? Might not
the victory of the Union volunteers have been pushed so rapidly as to
have prevented the South from enforcing the conscription law over any
considerable portion of her territory, and thus have ended the contest
at once? These were questions of tremendous importance, which could only
be answered in the months of April and May, 1862. Then was a golden
opportunity which once lost could only be regained by years of desperate
fighting. A half-dozen great victories in midsummer would be of less
real value than a vigorous advance in the spring, which should at once
discourage the enemy, while at the lowest point of his fortunes, and
prevent the recruiting of his armies by conscription. It has often been
said that the North did not win any decisive advantage until the
abolition of slavery. This is true, but it does not in the least
contradict the view just advanced. That great measure committed the
North absolutely to the conquest of the South, and thus led to exertions
adequate to the end sought. Yet we must conclude, reasoning from a
military point of view only, that if _the same_ exertions had been put
forth earlier, they would have been even more speedily effective.
These considerations, which were but dimly, if at all, realized as we
glided along in the darkness through the heart of the rebel country,
will render more intelligible the vast importance attributed by
competent military authorities to the expedition in which we were
engaged. If we burned the bridges on the morrow, General Mitchel would
certainly capture Chattanooga within three or four days, and spread his
power over East Tennessee and all the adjoining loyal districts. The
people of this section, now thoroughly alarmed and enraged by the
conscription, would enlist under his banner by tens of thousands. Seven
regiments had already been formed by East Tennesseeans, who, under
circumstances of the greatest difficulty, had run away into Kentucky.
The communications of the Eastern and the Western rebel armies would be
cut; and to destroy those armies in detail would only require the
vigorous advance of the forces already opposed to them. This was a
brilliant prospect to set before an expedition composed of only
twenty-four men; but there is in it nothing beyond the realm of
probability, and as I thought of the mere possibility of such
achievements I felt that we might afford to despise all personal danger.
To deliver a territory occupied by nearly a million citizens from
conscription; to place an army in the most important strategical
position in the rebel territory, for such Chattanooga was; to give the
command of the great continental system of railways into the hands of
our own troops, and to paralyze the plans of the enemy; these were,
indeed, almost incredible results to flow from such a cause; but we
believed then that such would be the meaning of our success. The reader
who will study attentively the military situation as it was in 1862,
with the railroads then existing, and add the fact that the Southern
armies were then depleted to the lowest point reached during the
struggle, will not be disposed to smile at such possibilities. It is
certain that in the first hour of panic, caused by our attempt, the
Confederates themselves acknowledged, not in words only, but in the most
significant actions, the deadly peril to which they had been exposed.
With such thoughts the hours passed not unpleasantly. I noticed that we
were making very slow time, and afterwards learned that this was general
on Southern roads. The absorption in warlike affairs and the scarcity of
iron and all other material, as well as of money, had caused the
managers of the railroads to let them fall into bad repair, and this
necessitated a low rate of speed. The fastest train on this road did not
get beyond eighteen miles an hour. This was a decidedly unfavorable
element in the problem we were to solve. Some of the adventurers were
even less favorably impressed with our prospects than I was. The immense
business of the road, which had become one of the most important in the
whole South, rendered the running of a train when we captured it much
more difficult. We saw many freight trains lying at the stations, and
everything indicated that the capacity of this line of rail was being
pressed to the utmost. Sergeant Ross and Alfred Wilson took the most
gloomy view of our prospects of success, and even sought an opportunity,
soon after, to dissuade Andrews from going any further in it. The latter
thus explains his own feelings,--
"After getting seated, and there being no further cause of
concern for the time being, I began to carefully study over the
situation with all the thought I could, and to calculate our
chances of success or failure. The result of my deliberations
was by no means encouraging. We were one day behind the time
appointed. I knew, too, or felt sure, that General Mitchel
would not fail to march upon and take Huntsville, according to
the arrangement made when we started. I also felt that if he
did so there would be little room to hope for our success. It
would cause the roads to be crowded with trains flying from
danger, and it would be difficult to pass them all in safety.
But it was too late now to change the programme. We must make
the effort, come what might. I said nothing, however, to any
one but Andrews; but on listening to my opinion on the
situation, he encouraged me by saying there was yet a good
chance to succeed. Indeed, he expressed himself in so sanguine
a manner that I made no further argument; but I still thought
my course of reasoning correct, whether the event should accord
with it or not."
From the soldiers and others in the train we received a rumor which was
full of startling interest to us,--nothing less than the reported
capture of Huntsville by General Mitchel. Much incredulity was
expressed, and details were wanting. His force was reported at
twenty-five or thirty thousand men,--an extravagant but not unnatural
over-estimate. We had no doubt of the truth of the report, though it
would have better suited us if he also had been detained for one day, or
even more.
It was near nine o'clock when the train reached the supper station.
After all our fatigue we were well prepared to do justice to the
bountiful meal that was spread. But there was such a rush for the table
that several of our party were unable to get near it, and had therefore
to continue their fast. The writer was more fortunate. Buffum, who was
crowded back on account of his small size, managed to stoop down and
slip up under the arm of a rebel officer just as the latter was rising
from the table, and thus took his place while a half-dozen hungry
travellers rushed for it. There was some laughing, and Buffum was
applauded for his "Yankee trick," more than he would have been had it
been known that he was actually a native of Massachusetts, and then
engaged in the Federal service.
The train rushed on after we left the supper station, and as I had
managed to get a good meal and also a comfortable seat in the changing,
all reflections and dangers were soon forgotten in a sound sleep, from
which I only awakened when the conductor shouted "Marietta!" It was then
almost midnight, and the goal was reached. This was, for the present,
the utmost boundary of our journey. We were now in the centre of the
Confederacy, and before we departed had a blow to strike that would
either make all rebeldom vibrate from centre to circumference or leave
us at the mercy of the merciless. But the first thing to be done was to
snatch a short repose preparatory to the hard work of the morrow.