In West Tennessee, not far from Memphis, lived an aunt of mine. Thither
I repaired. My plan was to get on a Mississippi steamer calling at one
of the landings for wood. This proved impracticable. I wandered many
days and nights, rather ill mounted, in search of some kind—any kind—of
exit, when one afternoon, quite worn out, I sat by a log heap in a
comfortable farmhouse. It seemed that I was at the end of my tether; I
did not know what to do.
Presently there was an arrival—a brisk gentleman right out of Memphis,
which I then learned was only ten miles distant—bringing with him a
morning paper. In this I saw appended to various army orders the name
of “N.B. Dana, General Commanding.”
That set me to thinking. Was not Dana the name of a certain captain, a
stepson of Congressman Peaslee, of New Hampshire, who had lived with us
at Willard’s Hotel—and were there not two children, Charley and Mamie,
and a dear little mother, and—I had been listening to the talk of the
newcomer. He was a licensed cotton buyer with a pass to come and go at
will through the lines, and was returning next day.
“I want to get into Memphis—I am a nephew of Mrs. General Dana. Can you
take me in?” I said to this person.
After some hesitation he consented to try, it being agreed that my
mount and outfit should be his if he got me through; no trade if he
failed.
Clearly the way ahead was brightening. I soon ascertained that I was
with friends, loyal Confederates. Then I told them who I was, and all
became excitement for the next day’s adventure.
We drove down to the Federal outpost. Crenshaw—that was the name of the
cotton buyer—showed his pass to the officer in command, who then turned
to me. “Captain,” I said, “I have no pass, but I am a nephew of Mrs.
General Dana. Can you not pass me in without a pass?” He was very
polite. It was a chain picket, he said; his orders were very strict,
and so on.
“Well,” I said, “suppose I were a member of your own command and were
run in here by guerillas. What do you think would it be your duty to
do?”
“In that case,” he answered, “I should send you to headquarters with a
guard.”
“Good!” said I. “Can’t you send me to headquarters with a guard?”
He thought a moment. Then he called a cavalryman from the outpost.
“Britton,” he said, “show this gentleman in to General Dana’s
headquarters.”
Crenshaw lashed his horse and away we went. “That boy thinks he is a
guide, not a guard,” said he. “You are all right. We can easily get rid
of him.”
This proved true. We stopped by a saloon and bought a bottle of whisky.
When we reached headquarters the lad said, “Do you gentlemen want me
any more?” We did not. Then we gave him the bottle of whisky and he
disappeared round the corner. “Now you are safe,” said Crenshaw. “Make
tracks.”
But as I turned away and out of sight I began to consider the
situation. Suppose that picket on the outpost reported to the provost
marshal general that he had passed a relative of Mrs. Dana? What then?
Provost guard. Drumhead court-martial. Shot at daylight. It seemed best
to play out the hand as I had dealt it. After all, I could make a case
if I faced it out.
The guard at the door refused me access to General Dana. Driven by a
nearby hackman to the General’s residence, and, boldly asking for Mrs.
Dana, I was more successful. I introduced myself as a teacher of music
seeking to return to my friends in the North, working in a word about
the old Washington days, not forgetting “Charley” and “Mamie.” The dear
little woman was heartily responsive. Both were there, including a
pretty girl from Philadelphia, and she called them down. “Here is your
old friend, Henry Waterman,” she joyfully exclaimed. Then guests began
to arrive. It was a reception evening. My hope fell. Some one would
surely recognize me. Presently a gentleman entered, and Mrs. Dana said:
“Colonel Meehan, this is my particular friend, Henry Waterman, who has
been teaching music out in the country, and wants to go up the river.
You will give him a pass, I am sure.” It was the provost marshal, who
answered, “certainly.” Now was my time for disappearing. But Mrs. Dana
would not listen to this. General Dana would never forgive her if she
let me go. Besides, there was to be a supper and a dance. I sat down
again very much disconcerted. The situation was becoming awkward. Then
Mrs. Dana spoke. “You say you have been teaching music. What is your
instrument?” Saved! “The piano,” I answered. The girls escorted me to
the rear drawing-room. It was a new Steinway Grand, just set up, and I
played for my life. If the black bombazine covering my gray uniform did
not break, all would be well. I was having a delightfully good time,
the girls on either hand, when Mrs. Dana, still enthusiastic, ran in
and said, “General Dana is here. Remembers you perfectly. Come and see
him.”
He stood by a table, tall, sardonic, and as I approached he put out his
hand and said: “You have grown a bit, Henry, my boy, since I saw you
last. How did you leave my friend Forrest?”
I was about making some awkward reply, when, the room already filling
up, he said:
“We have some friends for supper. I am glad you are here. Mamie, my
daughter, take Mr. Watterson to the table!”
Lord! That supper! Canvasback! Terrapin! Champagne! The general had
seated me at his right. Somewhere toward the close those expressive
gray eyes looked at me keenly, and across his wine glass he said:
“I think I understand this. You want to get up the river. You want to
see your mother. Have you money enough to carry you through? If you
have not don’t hesitate, for whatever you need I will gladly let you
have.”
I thanked him. I had quite enough. All was well. We had more music and
some dancing. At a late hour he called the provost marshal.
“Meehan,” said he, “take this dangerous young rebel round to the hotel,
register him as Smith, Brown, or something, and send him with a pass up
the river by the first steamer.” I was in luck, was I not?
But I made no impression on those girls. Many years after, meeting
Mamie Dana, as the wife of an army officer at Fortress Monroe, I
related the Memphis incident. She did not in the least recall it.
V
I had one other adventure during the war that may be worth telling. It
was in 1862. Forrest took it into his inexperienced fighting head to
make a cavalry attack upon a Federal stockade, and, repulsed with
considerable loss, the command had to disperse—there were not more than
two hundred of us—in order to escape capture by the newly-arrived
reinforcements that swarmed about. We were to rendezvous later at a
certain point. Having some time to spare, and being near the family
homestead at Beech Grove, I put in there.
It was midnight when I reached my destination. I had been erroneously
informed that the Union Army was on the retreat—quite gone from the
neighborhood; and next day, believing the coast was clear, I donned a
summer suit and with a neighbor boy who had been wounded at Shiloh and
invalided home, rode over to visit some young ladies. We had scarcely
been welcomed and were taking a glass of wine when, looking across the
lawn, we saw that the place was being surrounded by a body of
blue-coats. The story of their departure had been a mistake. They were
not all gone.
There was no chance of escape. We were placed in a hollow square and
marched across country into camp. Before we got there I had ascertained
that they were Indianians, and I was further led rightly to surmise
what we called in 1860 Douglas Democrats.
My companion, a husky fellow, who looked and was every inch a soldier,
was first questioned by the colonel in command. His examination was
brief. He said he was as good a rebel as lived, that he was only
waiting for his wound to heal to get back into the Confederate Army,
and that if they wanted to hang him for a spy to go ahead.
I was aghast. It was not he that was in danger of hanging, but myself,
a soldier in citizen’s apparel within the enemy’s lines. The colonel
turned to me. With what I took for a sneer he said:
“I suppose you are a good Union man?” This offered me a chance.
“That depends upon what you call a good Union man,” I answered. “I used
to be a very good Union man—a Douglas Democrat—and I am not conscious
of having changed my political opinions.”
That softened him and we had an old-fashioned, friendly talk about the
situation, in which I kept the Douglas Democratic end of it well to the
fore. He, too, had been a Douglas Democrat. I soon saw that it was my
companion and not myself whom they were after. Presently Colonel Shook,
that being the commandant’s name, went into the adjacent stockade and
the boys about began to be hearty and sympathetic. I made them a
regular Douglas Democratic speech. They brought some “red licker” and I
asked for some sugar for a toddy, not failing to cite the familiar Sut
Lovingood saying that “there were about seventeen round the door who
said they’d take sugar in their’n.” The drink warmed me to my work,
making me quicker, if not bolder, in invention. Then the colonel not
reappearing as soon as I hoped he would, for all along my fear was the
wires, I went to him.
“Colonel Shook,” I said, “you need not bother about this friend of
mine. He has no real idea of returning to the Confederate service. He
is teaching school over here at Beech Grove and engaged to be married
to one of the—girls. If you carry him off a prisoner he will be
exchanged back into the fighting line, and we make nothing by it. There
is a hot luncheon waiting for us at the ——’s. Leave him to me and I
will be answerable.” Then I left him.
Directly he came out and said: “I may be doing wrong, and don’t feel
entirely sure of my ground, but I am going to let you gentlemen go.”
We thanked him and made off amid the cheery good-bys of the assembled
blue-coats.
No lunch for us. We got to our horses, rode away, and that night I was
at our rendezvous to tell the tale to those of my comrades who had
arrived before me.
Colonel Shook and I met after the war at a Grand Army reunion where I
was billed to speak and to which he introduced me, relating the
incident and saying, among other things: “I do believe that when he
told me near Wartrace that day twenty years ago that he was a good
Union man he told at least half the truth.”