corners of the road to keep watch for anyone who might be coming, for
the home guards would go by at most all hours of the day and night.
Well, soon the kind old Quaker let us know that our midnight repast
awaited us and he invited us to come and sit down to their table where
his loving wife was seated. Here was a table spread with clean linen
and napkins, and we poor, starved, walking skeletons without anything
but rags to cover our feet from the snow and wet! Our drawers and
shirts were made up of all of our attire, and oh, imagine our feelings,
to be seated at such a repast that awaited us! And as we sat down to
the table of our hostess and folded our arms as he returned thanks to
his Supreme Maker the tears flowed from my eyes as I thought of home
and my dear old mother. That table and its clean spread put me in
mind of her. My dear comrade, though as brave as any man I believe
I have ever met sat by my side, and as we sat there thinking of the
embarrassed situation we were in, we were like two weak children. The
hostess sympathized with us in our distress. Well, we soon took hold
of the repast, for we had not eaten but a very few meals to a table
in over two and a half years. They were very anxious for us to tell
what we had suffered in prison and seemed delighted to hear of our
experiences. We would sit up evenings and tell of these incidents. We
had stayed with this good old Quaker four days, and the fourth day we
had it understood that we would start again on our journey. So when
the time came for us to go it seemed like parting with the best of
friends, leaving them never to meet again. I have often thought and
truly believe that God will reward these good people for their many
kindnesses to us. Now when all things were in readiness they furnished
us with a large sack of stewed chicken and a mess of cakes, the best
they could furnish, and with good advice we parted. The name of this
man I have forgotten in this narrative. I wish to mention the excellent
concealment that this good man had for us in his barn during our
stay with him. He had a very nice barn which was on the south side
of the road. It seems that the road runs east and west, and on the
west side of the barn there was a large hay mow, and in the further
end from the door he pulled out a large bundle of hay tied up in good
shape which revealed a passage clear around the back of the mow and
to the ether end. There was a good bed that we slept on during our
stay there, and through the day our food would be brought to us, and
nearly every day, through a knot hole we could see guerillas going by,
and sometimes stopping and looking around the place. Now I come back
again to where we parted. The kind old man had given us the direction
where we could meet another man on our way who was friendly to Union
soldiers. We tried to find his place on this shallow road which was
about thirty-five or forty miles distant from this Quaker’s plantation.
He told us to be sure and remember that his name was John Coltraines.
He also told us about this man’s having a brother about a mile further
along on the same road by the name of “Bill” Coltraines. One of these
brothers was a Union man and the other a rebel. John, the kind old
Quaker told us, was engaged in piloting Union men, as well as rebels,
through our lines. The first night, not getting started as early as we
ought, we only got about eight or ten miles on our way when we stopped
and concealed ourselves. We had been living rather sumptuously and
sleeping nights instead of laying still by day and traveling by night.
We laid by this night. Henry and I lay concealed the best part of the
next day, planning what we intended to do when we arrived home. We
talked of either going to his parents’ place or to my folks’ home.
We would conceal ourselves until everybody had gone and then we would
take possession and have everything to ourselves, and have everything
to eat that we could think of. Being starved as we had been seemed to
weaken our minds. Well, dear reader, if you could have seen the plight
we were in and some of the nests of leaves that we gathered up for many
a night to cuddle up in to snatch a few hours’ rest and to inspect the
tattered drawers and shirt that covered our starved skeletons, your
sympathy would have been aroused. Soon the day dawned again and we lay
concealed, sleeping and eating until toward night. Our stopping with
the Quaker planter seemed to get us more in the notion of eating and of
having some regular time in which to eat, but we could not let the sack
of food alone which we allowed would last us four or five days. It
surprised us how soon it was gone, for before night of Saturday we had
eaten about all we had started with.
We started again about eight o’clock to make more progress than we had
the night before, hoping to find our friend, John Coltraines, of whom
the good old Quaker had told us. We had to go very slow on the start,
for this was a main thoroughfare and a state road, along which there
was a good deal of travel. We were liable to run into rebels at most
any time, but after about ten o’clock we had less danger of meeting
with any travelers on the way. There were squads of rebels traveling
along this road at all hours of the night, so we concluded to travel
and make all the headway possible. We had traveled most of the night,
which was far spent, and I had been stopping all along the way asking
for something to eat, but had not been able to get anything. Once or
twice I had been driven from the door with double-barreled shot guns.
[Illustration]
We did not get clear through to our friend John’s, but stopped after
traveling about twenty-five miles or so. There were mile posts along
this road, so that we could tell how far we were traveling in a day or
night. After the second day had passed it found us again on the third
night eating hard corn from the cob, as we had often done before, when
it was not good for us to let ourselves be known along the way. We made
up our minds to get to where John Coltraines lived this night if we
could, for our old friend who had given us the direction of his abode,
told us if we could only find him he would help us through to our lines
without any trouble. We started with the full determination of getting
through to our lines this night if the Lord was willing, and until
midnight had past we had got out of the way and let squads of rebels
pass and repass along the way and still we had made some headway.
After about the midnight hour I had stopped several times to make
some inquiries as to where John Coltraines lived, without apparently
any success. I had also asked for hoecake, and in return I had a
double-barreled gun pointed through the door at me. This kind of fare
we had been receiving all along the way. Never on our whole journey
did fate seem to be so much against us as it did at this place, for we
had not obtained a bite to eat for most three days, except the first.
I had began to get quite jealous of my dear friend Henry, for I had
been stopping to enquire the way and he had not stopped, running the
chances of being shot at, and I began to find fault, as every jealous
person will, with my very best friend and comrade that I believe I ever
met in this wide world. I do believe if I should meet him and he had
but five dollars he would divide with me, and when Henry heard me talk
to him about his being a little cowardly he felt very bad, and told me
through his tears that he was no coward if I did think he was. This sad
talk, and with such feeling, broke me up, and I caught my grieved old
comrade by the hand and wanted him to forgive me for this unkind talk,
which I promised would never again happen, and I wish to thank God that
it never did. Henry was determined that he would show me that he was
no coward and he told me that he meant to stop at the very next house.
Now we had been told by our guide that we must not stop at William
Coltraines’, or “Bill,” as he was commonly called, for he was captain
of the rebel home guards, or of a band of guerillas. We had gotten very
close to where John Coltraines lived, and it was best that we should go
slow, as we had been told about the barn which was a very large one,
on the west side of the road, and the big wood colored house on the
other side located on a raised lawn. Several steps of square blocks led
up to the house. We came to this place, and Henry, not heeding my
warning, at once started up these steps. I continued to call to him to
stop, but he would not. He went to the large piazza and knocked on the
door. I still called to him, but he did not heed, so determined was he
that he would demonstrate to me that he was no coward. I could see very
plainly that this was the very house we had been warned not to stop at,
yet Henry continued to knock. There was a gruff voice heard, which I
will never forget until my dying day, asking who was there. Henry told
him that it was a friend. He was not satisfied, but still insisted on
knowing who it was. Then Henry inquired where John, his own brother,
lived. The old captain told him he would soon let him know where he
lived, so he came to the door and shoved out a double-barreled shot
gun, and before poor Henry had time to dodge, shoved my poor comrade
and friend to the ground. I thought when he struck the ground that he
had been killed, but soon he rose to his feet and pleaded for the rebel
to spare his life. Just at this moment I rushed up to the top of the
lawn, or stone steps, when he caught sight of me, and just as he was
about to level his gun on me I dropped backward and struck on all fours
at the bottom of the steps. Just as I did so Henry took advantage of
the situation and hurried behind the house. He ran clear around and
down through a cane field in the direction we had been going, and as
soon as I could gain my feet I started down the road as fast as my legs
could carry me. The rebel by this time was also at the road side and
sent another shot after me. The first shot came very close. Just as
I fell to the ground the rebel turned his fire on my comrade just as
he turned the corner of the house. Now as soon as the second shot was
fired at me he hastened to the barn, no doubt to get some steed with
which to pursue us. Just then there seemed to be a great stir at that
plantation house. My desire was to again get with Henry, and stopping,
I placed my fingers to my mouth and whistled the third brigade call.
At the time of Henry’s capture he was despatch carrier for our brigade
and also the bugler of our regiment. Now I had learned to give the
call on my fingers. This is the call in words: “Dan, Dan Butterfield!
Butterfield, get up you poor devil as quick as you can, and when you
get tired I will rest you again.” This repeated in the first words on
a horn or whistle is very interesting to anyone who has ever heard the
call. Now to whistle this call right in the face of an enemy seemed a
hard task, but it had to be done. Soon there came an answer, and within
five minutes we were again on our way, but the thought of ever meeting
with John Coltraines was now abandoned.
We had to change our course and leave this road, never to travel it
again. We struck out to the west of this road, the road, as I have
stated, running north and south. We made as good time as we could in
order to reach a forest that seemed to lay off to the west. By this
time it was now well on toward two o’clock in the morning. We succeeded
in getting into a thick swampy region which we had every reason to
believe saved our lives, for from the sounds we heard we came to the
conclusion that we were being looked after in this swamp, and that it
was no desirable place to be in. It was a very bad quagmire swamp, with
moss hanging from the trees, and a bad place to stop in at night, let
alone the day. For the next few days and nights, without a smell of
meat or hoecake, or any such thing, except hard corn, we had nothing
more to eat, and our company day and night was moccasin snakes and
other rattling and hissing reptiles. Still we traveled, not fearing the
wild animals as much as we did the rebels with their horns and hounds.
Well, I must say that, young as I was at that time, it was one of the
worst and most dreary times in the lines of life’s pages. To even
contemplate it now seems almost like a dream.
Well, after sleeping and traveling almost night and day
continually—cloudy weather some of the time and lost some of the
time—we finally came out where there was a large plantation on this
Shelterford road some sixty miles from where I had been shot at and to
which I had been directed by hearing the dancing of two small negroes
and the patting and singing of a large negro in one of the negro huts.
Here we stopped and ate the last meal together and the last night
that we ever traveled together in this southern country. Oh, how sad
it makes me feel when I think back of the lonely nights that we both
spent, traveling the balance of our journey! Well, as I was speaking of
our last meal together: It was at the supper of two rebel bushwhackers,
and these two rebels who were staying at this rebel plantation were
men who would shoot down a poor fleeing prisoner on sight, and this
made us uneasy to get away. This darkey had placed in the fire, in an
old-fashioned fire place, a mess of large sweet potatoes for us to
carry along with us, as he told us, but this he did intending to keep
us until the two rebel guerillas came in on us. We had told this negro
how well the old Quaker had used us during our stay with him, and I
think that this darkey took advantage of this to fool us in telling us
that one of these men staying here was a Quaker and he did not know
what the other was. He seemed to be so uneasy that it aroused us, and
we had just arose to go when the gate opened in front of the hut and
the two little black darkies slipped out unbeknown to us. They had
taken with them a ham that Henry carried along with him. Just at this
time we did not know what to do, for an instant, but I had learned
that my dear comrade was no coward, for here he showed the bravest
thing that I had witnessed in a long time. I told the darkey that if
he told of our whereabouts as we crawled under the bed, that we would
kill him if it was the last thing we ever did. What my dear comrade did
and which was his last brave act was to tell me to crawl under the bed
and leave all to him. He thought he could get us out of the trouble
all right. The two little darkies had already told the rebels of our
eating up their supper, and one of these rebels, it seemed, went to the
old planter’s house for a double-barreled shot gun and the other rebel
came into the negro cabin. Now this cabin was like all other plantation
huts. It had one door and one window on the east side, in the former of
which a rebel stood, and a fire place in the north end, made of stone
and sticks and daubed with red clay, and in the corner at the foot of
the bed was a ladder. Between this ladder, close to the straw cot, lay
my comrade, and just as soon as the rebel commenced to ask the negro
what was the matter, and the darkey standing in the middle of the hut
with mouth wide open, Henry arose to his feet and spoke to the rebel,
bidding him good evening. It took the rebel so much by surprise it
seemed as though poor Henry could have snatched one of his weapons
from his scabbard and shot him with one of his own guns, but it seemed
that the Lord had another way for us to get out of this dilemma. Henry
was trying to find his cane that he had left in the corner that he
might surprise the rebel still more, but the little darkies had made
way with it. So after the first surprise the rebel began to think of
his weapons, and drew them for the first time, asking Henry where he
was going. Henry told him he was going north to a large river that we
expected to cross. “Well,” said the rebel, “how many are there of you?”
Henry told him there were two of us. Oh, how uneasy I was at this time,
under a bed in a negro hut, betrayed, and, as I thought, almost in the
jaws of death! Still he asked Henry where the other fellow was, and
Henry told him I was out in the road. The rebel told Henry to go out
and tell me to come in and he would fix him in about a minute. This was
what Henry desired—to get out once for a start—so he went right off in
a southern direction, and just as soon as the rebel started after him
I got out of the hut as soon as I could. The darkey tried to stop me,
but with one swing of my club I placed him out of my way. When I got to
the road fence the rebels saw me running in the opposite direction. I
made for the timber in a north-easterly direction as fast as I could,
and very soon there was heard the blast of horns and the baying of
hounds in pursuit of me. Oh, how gloomy and heart sick I was to find
myself separated from my comrade, with hounds and rebels in pursuit of
me. It must at this time have been about one o’clock in the morning.
Soon thereafter it began to rain very hard. All at once the hounds came
upon me, but they did not seem to be as fierce as the blood hounds of
Andersonville. Shortly the blast of the horns ceased, and the hounds
stopped following us. This was the last of our being together.
Now, my travel the balance of the way to our lines, of over four
hundred miles, was alone, and a sad and lonely journey it proved to be.
Well, I have learned from Henry what he did after he ran south. The
poor boy came back to the negro shanty after it sat in and commenced
to rain, to find out, if he could, whether the rebels had captured me,
or had, as he thought, shot me, for as he made away they turned their
attention to me, and he heard them shoot at me as I left the negro
shanty. Henry came back to this shanty. The negro had drank an apple
jack and was so drunk in consequence that Henry could not wake him,
although he hammered him with his cane. He then went to the encampment
of a large band of guerillas, and here he whistled on his fingers the
call of the brigade which we belonged to until he aroused the whole
encampment. Well, dear reader, it is very seldom that one comrade will
do this for another.
On the banks of the Big Peedee river, after we had swam this stream
three times in one day, and each time I had carried poor Henry on
a cane across my left shoulder, we pledged ourselves that we would
not forsake each other in life or in death. Now I remained in this
timber, thinking that Henry might come this way and we would again get
together, but I was destined to disappointment, though I continued to
make the call on my fingers, yet did not give up in despair. If I had I
could not have written this simple narrative.
Well, I must hasten along. I lay by a good part of the next day in
this forest. Then I kept on in a northern direction until I came to
the river that Henry spoke to the rebel of. Now while crossing this
river I had since learned that Henry and I might have gotten together
again if we had only known each other, for below me, as I was told the
story, there was a rebel, to all appearances, crossing the river about
one hundred rods distant. We both told the same story, only he allowed
the rebel was just such a distance above him, and right here, if we had
understood, we could have gotten together again, but it seems our lives
still laid apart from each other.
I am in hopes that we may meet some day—if not in this world, that we
will in the world to come.
Praise God! My mind is continually trusting in Him that He will keep me
in the truth in this narrative.
Now, as I continue the sad tale of my life, I would not like to
rehearse the tale that Henry revealed to me of his escape in an
endeavor to get through to our lines after he left me. He had gone
south a short distance and had come back to the plantation, not finding
any clue as to my whereabouts. He had crossed the river, which I have
already mentioned. He then concluded to go east, in the direction of
Richmond, for he had learned that it was a great deal less distance
to travel to get through to our lines in this way than to go west to
Knoxville, Tenn. So he continued to travel for several days until he
came to a plantation where there was no one at home. He said that he
succeeded in getting into the plantation house, but he did not find
anything to eat of any account. He found a ten dollar bill in an old
pair of pants that he took possession of. He then continued to travel
for some distance in the day-time, as well as night, and finally came
to a small place where there was a log hut, and located in this hut
was an old man, working at shoemaking. He went to the door of this hut
and here he found, to his amazement, three rebels in full uniform, who
invited him in, but he declined to go in, and remained at the door of
the hut. There was some corn in a pile close to the door, and he got
some of it and put it in the fire that was close at hand, and as soon
as he stepped inside to help himself to the parched corn the enemy
tried to get between him and the door, but he kept them back with a
large club that he carried in his hands. These rebels, it seemed, had
not brought any arms with them.
Well, soon Henry left this place and went right back in a piece of
woods in the same direction from whence he had come, and just as soon
as he could he went straight back to the same house and this old man’s
yard. He had a large rooster and some chickens running about. He killed
the rooster and gave the old man the ten dollar Confederate bill and
stayed right there, while the rebels took his back track. Henry
started as soon as the old man had stewed this fowl for him.
The only other incident that I remember was getting through the rebel
picket lines on the James River, near Richmond, and his making a
signal of distress to a gunboat and their coming ashore and getting
him, while on the high banks there were lines of rebel pickets that he
had succeeded in getting through. He was taken into our lines at City
Point, and here he reported that he thought the rebels had killed me
at the negro shanty. This story my comrade had told the captain of my
company about and he had sent this word to my parents at home.
I will continue my story. As I have already told you, dear reader, my
journey lay in a northwesterly direction from Florence prison, and at
the negro shanty where we were separated it was very much nearer to our
lines at Richmond than it was to Knoxville, Tenn., but while we were
together we thought it was more difficult than to try to get to our
lines at Knoxville, but after we were separated Henry made up his mind
to try the nearest point. So I continued on my sad and lonely journey,
not knowing what there was in store for me. If I had known what was
going to befall me, it is possible this story would never have been
written.
After I left the river and continued my journey I was now nearing the
lines of West Virginia and the Blue Ridge mountains. I traveled a good
many dark nights after I came in sight of the Blue Ridge before I came
to them, and such nights—laying in swamps and the loneliest places that
I could find—to avoid being discovered, and eating raw sweet potatoes
and hard corn. It was very seldom I stopped to ask for anything to eat
until I was starved into doing so.
Oh, how often since have I learned to put all my faith in God! I have
frequently thought of the passage of scripture where the Saviour said
the foxes have holes and the birds have nests, but the Son of Man hath
not where to lay his head. How much I feel at this time that this was
truly my condition.
Soon I felt as I neared the mountains, and at this time near the lines
of West Virginia, that I must have something besides the stuff that I
had been subsisting on or I would have to give up. I finally came to
an old deserted house and at this time there was snow on the ground,
some two or three inches deep. Then imagine a poor starved skeleton,
weighing less than one hundred pounds, traveling the forests and swamps
without anything but a pair of drawers and an old shirt; no hat or cap,
no shoes, nothing but old rags tied around the feet, thinking of home
and its warm fireside. Well, dear reader, this was my sad plight!