No tongue--all eyes; be silent.--TEMPEST.
At nine in the morning our host awakened us.
[Sidenote: OVER MOUNTAINS AND THROUGH RAVINES.]
"Gentlemen, I trust you have slept well. The enemy has gone, and
breakfast waits. I call you early, because I want to take you out of
North Carolina into Tennessee, where I will show you a place of refuge
infinitely safer than this."
For the first time since leaving Salisbury we traveled by daylight.
Our guide led us deviously through fields, and up almost perpendicular
ascents, where the rarefied air compelled us frequently to stop for
breath.
We dragged our weary feet up one hill, down another, through ravines of
almost impenetrable laurels, swinging across the streams by the snowy,
pendent boughs, only to find another appalling hight rising before us.
Nothing but the hope of freedom enabled us to keep on our feet. Once,
when near a public road, our guide suddenly whispered.
"Hist! Drop to the ground instantly!"
Lying behind logs, we saw two or three horse-teams and sleds pass by,
and heard the conversation of the drivers.
Our pilot was not agitated, for, like all the Union mountaineers,
danger had been so long a part of his every-day existence, that he had
no physical nervousness. But it was reported that the Guards would
be out to-day, so he was very wary and vigilant. We crossed the road
in the Indian mode, walking in single file, each man treading in the
footsteps of his immediate predecessor. No casual observer would have
suspected that it was the track of more than one man.
At 4 P.M., we entered Tennessee, which, like the passage of the
New River, seemed another long stride toward home. Approaching a
settlement, we went far around through the woods, persuading ourselves
that we were unobserved. A mile beyond we reached a small log house,
where our friend was known, and a blooming, matronly woman, with genial
eyes, welcomed us.
"Come in, all. I am very glad to see you. I thought you must be Yankees
when I heard of your approach, about half an hour ago."
"How did you hear?"
[Sidenote: MISTAKEN FOR CONFEDERATE GUARDS.]
"A good many young men are lying out in this neighborhood, and my son
is one of them. He has not slept in the house for two years. He always
carries his rifle. At first, I was opposed to it, but now I am glad
to have him. They may murder him any day, and if they do, I at least
want him to kill some of the traitors first. Nobody can approach this
settlement, day or night, without being seen by some of these young
men, always on the watch. The Guard have come in twice, at midnight,
as fast as they could ride; but the news traveled before them, and
they found the birds flown. When you appeared in sight, the boys took
you for Rebels. My son and two others, lying behind logs, had their
rifles drawn on you not more than three hundred yards away. They were
very near shooting you, when they discovered that you had no arms, and
concluded you must be the right sort of people. In the distance you
look like Home Guards--part of you dressed as citizens, one in Rebel
uniform, and two wearing Yankee overcoats. You are unsafe traveling a
single mile through this region, without sending word beforehand who
you are."
After dark we were shown to a barn, where we wrapped ourselves in
quilts. During the last twenty-four hours we had journeyed twenty-five
miles, equal to fifty upon level roads, and our eye-lids were very
heavy.
XVIII. _Wednesday, January 4._
This settlement was intensely loyal, and admirably picketed by Union
women, children, and bushwhackers. We dined with the wife of a former
inmate of Castle Thunder. She told us that Lafayette Jones, whose
escape from that prison I have already recorded, remained in the Rebel
army only a few days, deserting from it to the Union lines, and then
coming back to his Tennessee home.
[Sidenote: A REBEL GUERRILLA KILLED.]
The Rebel guerrilla captain who originally captured him was notoriously
cruel, had burned houses, murdered Union men, and abused helpless
women. He took from Jones two hundred dollars in gold, promising to
forward it to his family, but never did so. After reaching home,
Jones sent a message to him that he must refund the money at once,
or be killed wherever found. Jones finally sought him. As they met,
the guerrilla drew a revolver and fired, but without wounding his
antagonist. Thereupon Jones shot him dead on his own threshold. The
Union people justified and applauded the deed. Jones was afterward
captain in a loyal Tennessee regiment. His father had died in a
Richmond dungeon, one of his brothers in an Alabama prison, and a
second had been hung by the Rebels.
The woman told us that another guerrilla, peculiarly obnoxious to
the Loyalists, had disappeared early in November. A few days before
we arrived, his bones were found in the woods, with twenty-one
bullet-holes through his clothing. His watch and money were still
undisturbed in his pocket. Vengeance, not avarice, stimulated his
destroyers.
[Sidenote: MEETING A FORMER FELLOW-PRISONER.]
Here we met another of our Castle Thunder fellow-prisoners, named
Guy. The Richmond authorities knew he was a Union bushwhacker, and
had strong evidence against him, which would have cost him his life
if brought to trial. But he, too, under an assumed name, enlisted in
the Rebel army, deserted, returned to Tennessee, and resumed his old
pursuit as a hunter of men with new zeal and vigor.
He and his companion were now armed with sixteen-shooter rifles,
revolvers, and bowie-knives. Guy's father and brother had both been
killed by the guerrillas, and he was bitter and unsparing. If he ever
fell into Rebel hands again, his life was not worth a rush-light.
But he was merry and jocular as if he had never heard of the King of
Terrors. I asked him how he now regarded his Richmond adventures. He
replied:
"I would not take a thousand dollars in gold for the experience I had
while in prison; but I would not endure it again for ten thousand."
Guy and his comrade were supposed to be "lying out," which suggested
silent and stealthy movements; but on leaving us they went yelling,
singing, and screaming up the valley, whooping like a whole tribe of
Indians. Occasionally they fired their rifles, as if their vocal organs
were not noisy enough. It was ludicrously strange deportment for hunted
fugitives.
"Guy always goes through the country in that way," said the woman. "He
is very reckless and fearless. The Rebels know it, and give him a wide
field. He has killed a good many of them, first and last, and no doubt
they will murder him, sooner or later, as they did his father."
[Sidenote: ALARM ABOUT REBEL CAVALRY.]
At night, just as we were comfortably asleep in the barn, our host
awakened us, saying:
"Five Rebel cavalry are reported approaching this neighborhood, with
three hundred more behind them, coming over the mountains from North
Carolina. I think it is true, but am not certain. I am so well known
as a Union man, that, if they do come, they will search my premises
thoroughly. There is another barn, much more secluded, a mile farther
up the valley, where you will be safer than here, and will compromise
nobody if discovered. If they arrive, you shall be informed before they
can reach you."
Coleridge did not believe in ghosts, because he had seen too many
of them. So we were skeptical concerning the Rebel cavalry, having
heard too much of it. But we went to the other barn, and in its
ample straw-loft found a North Carolina refugee, with whom we slept
undisturbed. He deemed this place much safer than his home--a
gratifying indication to us that the danger was growing small by
degrees.
XIX. _Thursday, January 5._
This morning, the good woman whose barn had sheltered us mended our
tattered clothing. Her husband was a soldier in the Union service. I
asked her:
"How do you live and support your family?"
"Very easily," she replied. "Last year, I did all my own housework,
and weaving, spinning, and knitting, and raised over a hundred bushels
of corn, with no assistance whatever except from this little girl,
eleven years old. The hogs run in the woods during the summer, feeding
themselves; so we are in no danger of starvation."
Boothby's company, enhanced by the two Rebel deserters from Petersburg,
and a young conscript, formerly one of our prison-guards at Salisbury,
here rejoined us. Our entire party, numbering ten, started again at 3
p.m.
The road was over Stony Mountain, very rocky and steep. As we halted
wearily upon its summit, we overlooked a great waste of mountains,
intersected with green valleys of pine and fir, threaded by silver
streams. Our guide assured us that, at Carter's Dépôt, one hundred and
ten miles east of Knoxville, we should find Union troops. Soon after
dark, to our disappointment and indignation, he declared that he must
turn back without a moment's delay. His long-deferred explanation that
the young wife, whom he had left at his lonely log house, was about to
endure
"The pleasing punishment which women bear,"
mollified our wrath, and we bade him good-by.
[Sidenote: A STANCH OLD UNIONIST.]
After dark we found our way, deviously, around several dwellings,
to the house of an old Union man. With his wife and three bouncing
daughters, he heartily welcomed us:
"I am very glad to see you; I have been looking for you these two
hours."
"Why did you expect us?"
"We learned yesterday that there were ten Yankees, one in red breeches
and a Rebel uniform, over the mountain. Girls, make a fire in the
kitchen, and get supper for these gentlemen!"
While we discussed the meal and a great bucket of rosy apples before
the roaring fire, our host--silver-haired, deep-chested, brawny-limbed,
a splendid specimen of physical manhood--poured out his heart. He
was devoted to the Union with a zeal passing the love of women. How
intensely he hated the Rebels! How his eyes flashed and dilated as he
talked of the old flag! How perfect his faith that he should live to
see it again waving triumphantly on his native mountains! One of his
sons had died fighting for his country, and two others were still in
the Union army.
[Sidenote: THE MOST DANGEROUS POINT.]
The old gentleman piloted us through the deep woods, for three miles,
to a friendly house. We were now near a rendezvous of Rebel guerrillas,
reported to be without conscience and without mercy. Their settlement
was known through that whole region as "Little Richmond." We must pass
within a quarter of a mile of them. It was feared that they might have
pickets out, and the point was deemed more dangerous than any since
leaving Salisbury.
Our new friend, though an invalid, promptly rose from his bed to guide
us through the danger. His wife greeted us cordially, but was extremely
apprehensive--darting to and from the door, and in conversation
suddenly pausing to listen. When we started, she said, taking both my
hands in hers:
"May God prosper you, and carry you safely through to those you love.
But you must be very cautious. Less than six weeks ago, my two brothers
started for the North by the same route; and when they reached Crab
Orchard, the Rebel guerrillas captured them, and murdered them in cold
blood."
After leading us two miles, the guide stopped, and when all came up, he
whispered:
"We are approaching the worst place. Let no man speak a word. Step
lightly as possible, while I keep as far ahead as you can see me. If
you hear any noise, dart out of sight at once. Should I be discovered
with you, it would be certain death to me. If found alone, I can tell
some story about sickness in my family."
We crept softly behind him for two miles. Then, leading us through a
rocky pasture into the road, he said:
"Thank God! I have brought another party of the right sort of people
past Little Richmond in safety. My health is broken, and I shall not
live long; but it is a great consolation to know that I have been able
to help some men who love the Union made by our fathers."
Directing us to a stanch Unionist, a few miles beyond, he returned home.
At three in the morning, we reached our destination. Davis and Boothby
did pioneer duty, going forward to the house, where they were received
by a clamor of dogs, which made the valleys ring. After a whispered
conference with the host, they returned and said:
"There is a Rebel traveler spending the night here. We are to stay in
the barn until morning, when he will be gone."
[Sidenote: THE ALL-DEVOURING VERMIN.]
We burrowed in the warm hay-mow, and vainly essayed to sleep. The
all-devouring vermin by this time swarmed upon us, poisoning our blood
and stimulating every nerve, as we tossed wearily until long after
daylight.
XX. _Friday, January 6._
At nine o'clock this morning our host came to the hay-loft and awoke us:
"My troublesome guest is gone; walk down to breakfast."
He was educated, intelligent, and had been a leader among the
"Conservative" or Union people, until compelled to acquiesce,
nominally, in the war. His house and family were pleasant. But while
we now began to approach civilization, the Union lines steadily
receded. He informed us that we would find no loyal troops east of
Jonesboro, ninety-eight miles from Knoxville, and probably none east of
Greenville, seventy-four miles from Knoxville.
"But," said he, "you are out of the woods for the present. You are on
the border of the largest Union settlement in all the Rebel States. You
may walk for twenty-four miles by daylight on the public road. Look
out for strangers, Home Guards, or Rebel guerrillas; but you will find
every man, woman, and child, who lives along the route, a stanch and
faithful friend."
With light hearts we started down the valley. It seemed strange to
travel the public road by daylight, visit houses openly, and look
people in the face.
Our way was on the right bank of the Watauga, a broad, flashing stream,
walled in by abrupt cliffs, covered with pines and hemlocks. A woman
on horseback, with her little son on foot, accompanied us for several
miles, saying:
"If you travel alone, you are in danger of being shot for Rebel
guerrillas."
[Sidenote: MORE UNION SOLDIERS.]
In the evening a Union man rowed us across the stream. On the left bank
our eyes were gladdened by three of our boys in blue--United States
soldiers at home on furlough. Seeing us in the distance, they leveled
their rifles, but soon discovered that we were not foes.
Our host for the night beguiled the evening hours with stories of the
war; and again we enjoyed the luxury of beds.
XXI. _Saturday, January 7._
[Sidenote: A WELL-FORTIFIED REFUGE.]
A friend piloted us eight miles over the rough, snowy mountains,
avoiding public roads. In the afternoon, we found shelter at a white
frame house, nestling among the mountains, and fronted by a natural
lawn, dotted with firs.
Here, for the first time, we were entirely safe. Any possible Rebel
raid must come from the south side of the river. The house was on the
north bank of the stream, which was too much swollen for fording,
and the only canoe within five miles was fastened on our shore. Thus
fortified on front, flank, and rear, we took our ease in the pleasant,
home-like farmhouse.
Near the dwelling was a great spring, of rare beauty. Within an area
of twelve feet, a dozen streams, larger than one's arm, came gushing
and boiling up through snow-white sand. By the aid of a great fire,
and an enormous iron kettle, we boiled all our clothing, and at last
vanquished the troublesome enemies which, brought from the prison, had
so long disturbed our peace.
Then, bathing in the icy waters, we came out renewed, like the Syrian
leper, and, in soft, clean beds, enjoyed the sweet sleep of childhood.
XXII. _Sunday, January 8._
A new guide took us eight miles to a log barn in the woods. After
dining among, but not upon, the husks, we started again, an old lady
of sixty guiding us through the woods toward her house. Age had not
withered her, nor custom staled, for she walked at a pace which made it
difficult to keep in sight of her.
At dark, in the deep pines, behind her lonely dwelling, we kindled a
fire, supped, and, with fifteen or twenty companions, who had joined us
so noiselessly that they seemed to spring from earth, we started on.