DIPLOMACY.
We had a rubber poncho and three blankets with us, and the country
through which we had passed had seemed so sparsely settled that we were
traveling by day and sleeping at night, getting our scarce and poor food
as occasion offered and living upon anything but a generous diet.
About dusk on the day of our little difference we were looking for a
safe place to camp, when we saw the figure of a man on the opposite side
of an open space. He was evidently surveying us intently, as he stood
stock still, and his appearance was not rendered more attractive to us
by the fact that he held a gun in the hollow of his left arm.
We sank gracefully to the ground and waited for some hail which would
announce to us the intentions of our friend. None coming, we concluded
that he was as much afraid of us as we were of him, and I crawled to a
spot where I could see, without rising, what had become of him. He still
stood there, evidently awaiting our next move, and I slunk back to my
companions.
We decided that the quickest way to learn who and what he was would be
to approach him, and that he certainly would not shoot if we held up our
hands. Accordingly we stood up, held up our hands, and stepped boldly
out into the clearing, I calling out:
"We are unarmed and are friends."
Not a move did he make, but we fancied we could see the gun move a
little, and we quickly halted, Rummel exclaiming:
"Don't shoot! we are unarmed and peaceable citizens."
As he said this, Miller burst into a loud laugh, and quickly ran toward
the figure. We instantly comprehended the situation and followed him,
arriving at the fantastic stump of a burned tree, to be saluted by
Miller with:
"Would you unarmed and peaceable citizens kindly recollect this event
when you are inclined to joke me about that canoe?"
We had nothing to say.
The next day we met a negro, who gave us our course for Dangerfield,
describing a corner of the square in the town, from which a plain road
led to a ferry across the Sulphur Fork of Red River.
This was the 27th of December, and we reached the outskirts of the town
late in the afternoon, hiding in some bushes until night.
When it was late enough we started boldly through the town, found the
corner described, and took the road at a rapid gait.
Just as the east was beginning to show signs of approaching day we
struck what we took to be another bayou.
Miller was anxious to show that he could brave the water in some cases,
so he pulled off his pants, handed them to me for safe keeping, and
started right in to wade the stream. He took two steps and disappeared
from view. We fished him out and concluded that we would wait for
daylight before proceeding farther.
When day broke we found that we must have made better time from
Dangerfield than we had expected, for this was certainly a river, and
could be no other than Sulphur Fork. It was high, and running swiftly in
the middle, the water being far above the banks and out into the woods
on both sides, so that it must have been fully two miles and one-half
across. No signs of a ferry were to be seen, and we hunted a good place
for a camp in which to lay over until the river should subside or
something turn up to decide us as to a way of crossing.
In building a fire I strained my instep by kicking a limb from a log,
and it became quite sore before the day was over.
The next day the river was as high as ever, and my foot was so sore that
I could scarcely step upon it. We lay over all day, as I could not
walk, and there seemed to be no prospect of crossing the turbulent
stream.
On the following morning my foot was much swollen, but I could limp
around, and the river seemed to be falling, so I insisted upon some
action, and started off to look around a little, leaving my companions
to await my return. They both wanted to go in my place, but we agreed
that it was best for me to go, so far as the chance of having to deal
with an emergency was concerned.
I hunted around for a while, but found nothing, and returned to my
companions. Just as I reached them we heard a pounding in the opposite
direction from which I had gone.
Rummel sneaked off, and soon returned with the report that he had seen a
horse a short distance down the road.
Again I started to investigate our surroundings. The horse was soon
found. He was hobbled, and close to him, in the woods, were two others.
It was a certainty that we had neighbors, but I could see nothing of
them, and, concluding that the owners had gone down to the river, I
walked boldly toward the animals to discover by their trappings what I
could about the riders. I had not proceeded more than a few yards before
I came to a thick clump of bushes, and, in skirting around the edge of
them, almost stumbled over three rebel soldiers, who were stretched out
comfortably on their blankets for a nap.
They looked up inquiringly at me as I suddenly halted and gave
involuntary utterance to an exclamation of surprise.
To say that I was scared would but feebly express my feelings. The cold
chills ran up and down my back, and I could not speak for an instant.
However, I quickly recovered myself, before they had a chance to speak,
and said to them:
"Hello, boys! I knew you were somewhere about, for I saw your horses and
was looking for you, but I was not expecting to find you so near at
hand, and I must confess that you startled me. How can a fellow get
across this infernal river?"
They informed me that they had been pounding to attract the attention of
the ferryman, who was on the other side, but they could not get near the
river bank, and could not see the ferry-boat, so had concluded to take a
nap.
Without giving them time to question me, I plied them with questions,
which developed the fact that they were members of General Gano's
command, and were despatch-bearers from Kirby Smith to General Magruder.
They expressed a strong desire to cross the river in a hurry, and
threatened to take forcible possession of the boat if the ferryman did
not make another trip that afternoon.
I then informed them that two comrades were with me, that they were in
camp a short distance back from the river, that we would join in
capturing the ferry-boat, and that if they had no objections to offer I
would go up and get the boys, so that we could cross and travel
together.
They told me to go ahead and I went; but, after walking easily along
until out of sight in the opposite direction from where my companions
were I broke into a run, skirted around through the woods, joined Rummel
and Miller, told them the facts, and we at once broke camp, running
around the river bank a mile or more, and secreting ourselves on the top
of the bank in a thick clump of bushes and timber, right alongside of
the road, where they would not be likely to look for us if they wondered
at my failure to return.
From the moment when my eyes had rested upon the figures of those three
soldiers I had forgotten my sore foot altogether, and never felt it
during my run and our subsequent movements. The strangest part of this
incident of my injured foot is the fact that I never afterward felt
soreness or a twinge of pain in it. I leave it for others to explain. I
simply state the facts.
After we had settled down in our hiding place we saw a number of people
coming up the road, evidently from the ferry, and our three soldiers
were among them. From their talk as they passed us we gathered that the
ferry-boat had come over, but would not go back again before morning,
and we concluded that the three soldiers were going to some place to
stay over night.
After these people had passed, I set out to hunt up some negro who could
help us get over the river. As I crossed the road I saw a darkey driving
a wagon toward the ferry, and I stopped to speak to him. Before I had a
chance to say more than a few words the man's master rode into view, and
I had to go on talking to avoid casting suspicion by sudden
disappearance.
When the master rode up I talked with him, telling him what I had told
the soldiers, and saying that we had given up seeing the boat until we
had seen the people coming up from the ferry, when I had left my
friends, to see if we could cross that evening.
We all traveled down the road together, and the negro's master showed me
where the ferryman lived, a little way off the road, and went up to the
house with me. He and the ferryman were acquainted, and, while they
talked, I went coolly up on the piazza of the house and sat down,
turning over in my mind the question of what I should tell that
ferryman.
If I stuck to my story, as told to the soldiers, I had no excuse for a
special crossing, which I wanted to urge, and we should run great risk
of discovery if we waited and crossed with the others. As I studied the
face of the ferryman I decided upon my course of action, and when the
old gentleman who was talking to him had left to arrange for the care of
his wagon and animals for the night I gave the ferryman no chance to
think or question, but took him around to the side of the house, where
we could not be overheard by anyone in the building, and transfixed him
by saying:
"I am an escaped Yankee prisoner from Camp Ford, Texas, and have been
water-bound on the river for two days. I have come to have you either
ferry me over the river or capture me."
The man seemed to be dumbfounded, and he stared at me in perfect
amazement, without speaking a word.
I told him that I had no honeyed promises to make, that the only
inducement there had been for me to attempt such a hazardous trip in the
dead of winter was my intense longing to see my wife and children in
Iowa, who did not know whether I was alive or dead, and had not known
since my capture on the 25th of the previous April, and that, after
seeing them, I expected to return to my regiment and remain until the
war ended, if I was not sooner killed. Keeping up this line of
conversation, I completely magnetized the ferryman, either by my nerve
or the apparent confidence I had in his disposition to let his humanity
instead of war's inhumanity control his actions.
The first words uttered by him were:
"Well, all I ask is for you to pay your fare and take your chances. The
boat is loaded at each trip, and you may be suspected by the passengers.
The fare is five dollars in Confederate, or a dollar and a-half in
Federal money."
After he had recovered from his surprise sufficiently to agree to this,
I told him that I had two companions with me, when he exclaimed:
"Oh, h----l But d----d if I don't help you fellows anyhow. I can't
understand why I agreed to help you, for I'm as rank a rebel as they
make, and if I am caught at it, and you give me away, I'll be shot, sure
as h----l."
I promptly declared that I would submit to being hung myself before I
would give him away, and this seemed fully to reconcile him to his
undertaking, for he replied:
"D----d if I don't believe you, young man."
We had but $4 in greenbacks, which I told him, together with the fact
that we wanted some bread, and we compromised by my giving him $3 for
our fare across the river and $1 for a supply of corn bread.
He would not make a special trip that night, as it might get him into
trouble if we were discovered, but he agreed to put us over the river in
the morning, do the best he could for us, and keep his mouth shut about
us.
I returned to my companions to report progress, and it would have been
hard to find two happier men than Rummel and Miller; they were simply
delighted with the result of my mission.
After a meal upon the corn bread bought from the ferryman, we turned in
for the night.