IV

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."