REPORTING TO GENERAL BANKS' HEADQUARTERS FOR DUTY--THE LIFE OF JEFF
DAVIS THREATENED--CAPTURED AT HARPER'S FERRY--INTERESTING PERSONAL
LETTERS CORROBORATING THE SUPPOSED DEATH OF THE "BOY SPY."
The Sunday of July, 1861 (21st), on which the first battle of Bull Run
was being fought, found me quietly recruiting from the tiresome
adventure in Virginia in the quiet little hamlet of Pennsylvania, in
which I was born, situated at the foot of the Cove Mountain, almost
within hearing of the cannon.
I had gathered from General Porter's manner as well as from his words,
while talking to me only a day previous, that a battle was not imminent,
and this opinion was seemingly confirmed by my own observations both in
the Rebel country and while coming through General Patterson's army.
There were, to my mind, no signs of a movement among our forces; the two
armies were too far apart to be quarrelsome; our headquarters presented
an appearance of satisfied security.
In our obscure village there were no telegraphs in those days, the mail
facilities being limited to a daily trip of the relic or remnant of the
old Bedford stage-coach, which rambled into town on the Monday evening
following, and brought us the first intelligence of a battle--and a
defeat which was being magnified every mile the old stage traveled into
a terrible disaster.
This startling news spread about the village like wild-fire, reached me
at the tea-table, and, to my untrained, impulsive disposition, had
pretty much such an effect as the lighting the fuse of a sky-rocket. I
went off like a sky-rocket--disappeared in the darkness that night, lost
to the sight of my friends for months. The rocket hovered over the rebel
hosts so long that I was almost forgotten in the excitement of the time.
I came back as suddenly as I had left, like the stick from the rocket
that drops down from above.
It is the purpose to tell in this chapter, for the first time, the
secret story of those months in Rebeldom, which has remained a mystery
even to my family for twenty-five years. I had never intended to print
these experiences, but hoped that I might find time, when I should grow
older, to prepare for my children only, a memorandum of the trip.
An hour after the receipt of the news, I was _en route_ for the nearest
railroad station, at Chambersburg, my first impression being that, as
the rebels were victorious, they would, as a matter of course, move
right on to Washington City and drive the Union officials off.
Entertaining this feeling, my first impulse was to get somewhere in
their rear. I felt in my heart that _something_ must be done to prevent
Beauregard and Jeff Davis from driving us all out of the country, and I
was frenzied enough at that time, by the excitement that was everywhere
prevailing--overcoming the reason and judgment of the most conservative
as well as the mercurial temperament--that, if an opportunity had
presented itself, I might have been foolish enough to have attempted an
assassination of Jeff Davis, sincerely believing, in my youthful
enthusiasm and indiscretion, that such an act would serve to defeat
their plans. That I entertained seriously and determinedly such a
chimerical scheme will probably be surprising to those of my
acquaintances now, but the confession will serve in a manner to explain
some of my movements, which, at the time, puzzled even my best friends,
who generously accounted for my queer actions by the indulgent--if not
complimentary--reflection that I was a "reckless and adventuresome boy."
The same night I reached Chambersburg, and the next morning took the
first train for Hagerstown, Maryland, where I learned there that
Harper's Ferry was headquarters; and, as there were no public
conveyances leading in that direction, in my eagerness to reach there I
decided to walk ahead the same day.
I tramped out through the same neighborhoods in which our camps had been
located only a few days before, finding them nearly all deserted, and in
the evening reached a farmhouse on South Mountain, where, tired and
sleepy after the fatigue and excitement of the day, I begged for shelter
for the night, and was put to sleep in the garret with a son of the
farmer, whom I found was in sympathy with the rebels.
Early the following morning I was again on foot, climbing the dusty
mountain road. It was a long, tiresome walk, and, as I met with no signs
of troops, I began to fear that I had gotten off the right road; toward
evening my path led me through a valley or ravine, emerging from which I
was suddenly brought into view of the river and hills about Point of
Rocks, or perhaps it may have been near Sandy Hook. Here I found plenty
of soldiers, who were dotted around the hills so thickly.
I had expected to report in person to General Fitz-John Porter, to
gather further from him some advice as to the _reliability_ of his more
_recent_ information about Johnston's escape. I learned that General
Patterson had been relieved. General N. P. Banks was in command, and had
his headquarters in a tent on a little plateau above, but convenient to
the railroad track and the river, from which he could look into the
Virginia hills, which were within rifle-shot of his tent.
I had no letter of introduction to General Banks, but, presuming upon my
previous services, boldly ventured into his presence unannounced, except
by the unarmed soldier who stood as an orderly outside of his tent.
I was invited into the tent, where I found the General had been lounging
or dozing on his camp bed. Rising, as I entered, he apologized for the
unkempt appearance of his quarters, shaking hands cordially as he
invited me to a seat on a camp-stool.
Then sitting in front of me, looking straight into my eyes, I told him
briefly my past experience with Patterson and Porter. He listened
attentively and commented, in his affable way, on the disaster, and
expressed, in a way that was most comforting to me, his belief that it
would all end right anyway.
I explained to General Banks my supposed qualifications as a scout,
being able to read the enemy's telegraphs, which immediately impressed
him as quite an important feature, as it would enable me to procure
reliable news from the highest sources of all information.
I again volunteered to enter the enemy's lines in the guise of a
Maryland refugee and, if possible, attach myself to headquarters of
Rebels at Manassas, or where there were telegraph instruments, without,
of course, disclosing my knowledge of the mysterious art.
The General thankfully accepted my proposal, and seemed eager that the
service should be undertaken at once. His words to me, uttered in that
deep but pleasant voice so familiar to American people: "Well, now, I am
right glad you have come to see me, sir."
After a moment's reflection, he continued: "I have no definite
instructions now. I beg that you will be kind enough to come and see me
in the morning again; in the meantime I will try and arrange a plan."
I presume the General desired--very properly--to make some inquiries as
to my loyalty and past service. As I prepared to leave, he again took my
hand, and in a kindly manner, which impressed me so pleasantly that I
shall never forget it, as he bowed me out of his tent. "I am very glad
too have met you, sir."
How different from the reception I received from General Patterson and
his Chief-of-Staff. The balance of the evening I put in pleasantly
enough after this agreeable reception in visiting the different camps in
the neighborhood and in peering through the twilight over the Potomac
toward the Virginia side, endeavoring to find a hole somewhere in the
hills that I might get through safely.
After the tiresome tramp on the dusty Maryland Pike, on that terrible
hot July day, I was glad enough when night came to accept the supper and
lodging that were offered--for a consideration--in an old half-stone and
half-frame house, situated close by the river bank.
The crowd of men who were gathered about the old house were dressing for
dinner, or supper, out in the yard; using an old stump for a toilet
stand and the lye soap (which had been manufactured by some sort of
process through the barrel of ashes that stood on a sloping bench close
by), and, throwing my hat and coat on the limb of a gooseberry bush, I
plunged into the water, like the rest; but I reckon they all thought I
was putting on airs when I declined to use the one towel that had served
for all, using instead a dirty pocket handkerchief on my face.
The next morning I was out bright and early. Unfortunately for me, but
perhaps better for the story, I was just too late to see the General,
who had ridden off but a few minutes before I reached his headquarters
on a general tour of inspection through the army. The orderly did not
know when he would return, or, if he did, was not disposed to tell a
stranger of his intentions; but, it was intimated that I should hardly
be able to see him at headquarters again during the day.
As I turned to walk away, undecided as to the next step I should have to
take, an officer observed in a jocular way: "You might see the General
up there," as he pointed to the highest peak of the hill. He imagined
that the unforbidding appearance of this height would deter me from an
attempt at climbing it, but the hint was sufficient. I at once made up
my mind, excelsior like, to crawl over the rocks and blackberry bushes
to the very top of the mountain to find the General, and, if he were not
there, I should at least have the satisfaction of being able to see all
over the country without walking any further.
From the top of Maryland heights, while sitting alone a short distance
in the rear of one of our masked batteries, the guns of which were
pointed over the river so as to cover the broad plateau above the old
town, I looked in vain for some appearance of rebels on the other side
of the river. There was not to my eye, which I flattered myself was
pretty good and educated to the sight of rebels, any appearance of life,
either on the valley side or on the opposite mountain, which were quite
heavily wooded.
I formed from that point of observation a plan to cross the river and
climb up on the other hill or mountain, thinking, perhaps, I might have
a more satisfactory outlook from that point.
Not finding the General, I retraced my steps down the mountain in the
direction of the town of Harper's Ferry.
There was at that time a temporary railroad bridge over the Potomac,
over which I was able to pass the guard on pretence of being a
railroader. Once in the village, I looked about for an opportunity to
get over the Shenandoah river, which was yet between me and the big hill
I desired to climb.
I had fully determined in my own mind, after the experience with the
running mate or companion of the former adventure, that I should not
attach myself to anyone or permit any association in future movements,
but the pleasure of meeting with a pleasant friend overcame my
resolution, and about the first thing I did after becoming well
acquainted was to propose that we should together go over the
Shenandoah and climb that big hill, to try if we couldn't "see
something" by daylight. My newly found chum eagerly assented to the
proposal, and, as I have previously said, for me to decide was to act,
in those days.
It was expected that we should be able to return before dark, and I
hoped in an indefinite way that I might be able to bring back to General
Banks, when I should see him in the evening, some information that would
impress him with the idea that I was competent to undertake and to carry
out the plan of going through our own and the enemy's lines to
Washington.
In my first talk with General Banks, to whom I was an entire stranger,
he had made a remark about a decision to issue no authority to go
outside of his lines, to which I had replied that I did not ask any
passes; that, if he wanted to avail himself of the service, I should be
able to get outside ours and inside the Rebels' lines, and did not want
to carry any paper passes.
My chum and I followed the same tactics in crossing the Shenandoah that
we had practiced in crossing the Potomac on the former occasion. With an
apparent intention of bathing we found a good place to "go in," as we
boys used to say about swimming time; undressing in a careless way, we
were soon splashing about in the shallow water in sight of our pickets.
It was a hot, sunny July day, and at our bathing place the sun poured
down upon that portion of our bare skin that was exposed above the water
his fiercest rays. This fact served as a pretext to ask the guard's
permission to cross over to the shade on the other side. The permission
was reluctantly obtained.
Bundling up our clothes we waded over the slippery rocks, in sight of
our picket on the shore. Once well over the river, which is neither deep
nor wide, we puttered about the other shore long enough to allow any one
who had felt disposed to watch our movements to become satisfied that we
were only out for a little fun. During all this time, however, we had
slowly, almost imperceptibly, moved further and further away; and, upon
reaching a portion of the bank almost covered with willows and
undergrowth, we silently stole away from the water, and, like a pair of
guilty boys escaping from an orchard, we ran as fast as possible through
the undergrowth along the side of a road which led up a little stream
that emptied into the river.
We were again in Virginia, but this time in daylight; and, hastily
putting on our clothes, I, for the first time, took note of the
unfortunate circumstance that my comrade's clothes were all of the
regulation blue of the Union army, which would be difficult to reconcile
with our stereotyped story of being Maryland refugees, in case we should
be captured.
We satisfied our fears on this point by the hasty conceit that we were
not going to be caught on this trip, as we only proposed to climb to the
top of the big hill.
Ascending Bolivar or London Heights is like climbing up the others, and
has been well described. When we reached the summit, we found a clearing
of a couple of acres which had the appearance of having been very
recently occupied, and the discovery of the ashes and blackened places
on the rocks where camp-fires had been--we knew not how
recently--burning served to make us the least bit nervous. We were
disappointed in the expected view of the rebel armies, as the heavy
growth of trees in that direction wholly obstructed the view; but we
were rewarded with a most satisfactory observation of our own troops and
camps on the Maryland side of the river.
Satisfied with having scaled the mountain, and a little bit uneasy, we
soon began our descent, taking a different course from that we had
followed in coming up.
When we had about reached the road that leads along the water at the
base of the heights, my chum startled me by grabbing frantically at my
leg as I was about to climb over the fence into the road, shrieking,
like a scared girl: "There's a man." And before I had time to look in
the direction indicated, he continued, excitedly: "Great Scott! there's
a whole lot of them."
He started to run back as fast as his legs would carry him, leaving me
almost pinned to the fence with astonishment.
His movement had the immediate effect of causing a half-dozen armed men
to rush suddenly from their ambush, straight down the road toward us.
My companion, in grabbing me by the leg as a fierce dog would a tramp
getting over the fence, for the moment so startled me that I lost my
head, and, thinking something was coming at us from behind, I jumped
over the fence toward the danger while he ran off on the other side.
[Illustration: "THANK GOD, I'M SAFE AMONG MY FRIENDS."]
On finding myself confronted by three Rebels in uniform, two of whom had
guns, the third, being an officer, gesticulated in a threatening,
inelegant sort of style with the hand in which he carelessly held a
cocked revolver; I at once walked toward them and, with a suddenly
assumed air of relief, said:
"Thank God, I am safe among my friends."
This vehement observation rather nonplussed the officer, who, seeing
that I was unarmed, walked up to me and accepted my outstretched hand in
a dazed sort of way. He hurriedly directed the men to follow my
entreating comrade, saying, as they ran down the road:
"Remember, now, you are not to fire unless you meet a lot."
I was rejoiced to hear this, and at once told the officer that my
comrade, like myself, had intended to come into their army, but he was
scared and ran because he thought they were our own scouts.
"Are you both Yankee soldiers?"
I repulsed the base insinuation with scorn, and told him we were both
dying to join the Rebel Army.
"But that fellow has on the blue uniform."
Sure enough, I had forgotten all about that, but told him that was no
difference--that half the men in Banks' Army were only waiting a
favorable chance to come over and join them. The officer, who was a
conceited fellow, who had been placed in charge of the pickets or
cavalry scouts on this outpost for the day, eagerly swallowed this
stuff. It will be remembered that at this time--only a week after their
victory at Bull Run--the Rebels were prepared to believe almost anything
reported to them from our side and were, of course, somewhat lax in
their scrutiny of refugees, who were actually going over the line daily
to unite their fortunes with those of the South, whom they were sure
after the first battle must be victorious.
We had quite a pleasant talk as we stood together by the roadside
awaiting the result of the chase of my comrade. It was explained by the
officer that their instructions were not to fire except in certain
emergencies; the object of their being there was to quietly observe the
operations of the Yankees from their points of lookout on the heights,
from which a full view of everything transpiring on our side was to be
had.
This was an item of news from the Rebel officer which I should like
General Banks to have been advised of. He further astonished me by
saying:
"We have been watching you two fellows all the afternoon; we saw you
cross the river, and when you came up the hill our men up there came in
and reported that you were two scouts, and could be captured, so I was
sent down here to gather you in."
I was able to force what I am afraid was rather a sickly laugh at this
exhibition of our "prowess," and, as a further earnest of our good
intentions, I volunteered to accompany the officer down the road, with a
view of meeting my running comrade and signaling him it would be all
right to come in.
Accepting this service, we walked rapidly together in the direction
taken by the two men with guns, but as all three had stopped to hear my
story, my chum had probably been making good time along _his_ side of
the fence, which, with the undergrowth, had served to keep him out of
sight, and had stretched the distance between him and the Rebels, but,
as the river was still to ford, I feared, for my own safety, that he
might yet be captured.
We had not gone far when we met the two men returning alone. To the
eager questioning of the officer the foremost one replied:
"We been down to the river and he ain't thar." The second Rebel joining
in, said: "That fellow's in the woods, sure--he never went to the
river."
After a little consultation, in which I took part, it was decided to
wait and watch till he should come out of his hole. With a view to
making myself more solid with the officer, I volunteered to assist in
the hunt by proposing to call loudly on my friend to come out of his
hiding place and join us. The proposition was, in a courteous manner,
conditionally accepted, the officer being fearful that any loud calls
might be heard by the Yankee's outposts and endanger their secluded
outlooks, advised that I should be moderate in my outcry. Climbing up on
the fence and putting both hands to my mouth to form the trumpet boys
use when hallooing to their playmates, I sang out as loudly as I could,
"H-e-l-l-o-o-a, B-o-b!"
All eagerly listened for the echo in reply, but I, fearful that he might
answer, continued in the next breath:
"All right," and as I forced a little choking cough, to disguise and
smother the words, like the robber in Fra Diavalo, "Come on!"
All waited quietly for an answer, but only the echo "on" came back. Bob
was too far off to have heard my voice, and I realized I had been left
alone in the hands of the Rebels. I was a prisoner.
There is among some old letters that my sister has religiously
preserved--one from a stranger, signed with Bob's correct name and
address, describing in feeling terms our adventure, and my capture,
bewailing my sad fate, and tendering his heartfelt sympathy, pretty much
in the same form of letters from comrades in the field, which became
frequent in the families of the North and South announcing the death or
capture of sons and brothers, in which it is stated that, as my
companion heard shots after he left me, and he supposed, of course, I
had been killed. I may as well state that this letter was written by Mr.
C. W. Hoffman, who is now a resident of Latrobe, Pennsylvania.
Comrade Hoffman served subsequently with distinction as a scout, being
detailed as one of a party to approach Fort Sumter previous to the
attack made there.
A pleasant renewal of the old war acquaintance has recently been brought
about. I give herewith a recent letter from Mr. Hoffman:
LATROBE, PENN., March 29, 1887.
J. O. KERBEY.
_Dear Old Friend:_ I often thought of you. I learned your
present address from your brother at Wilmore. What are you
doing? Let us hear from you. I am the fellow that run away from
you on the mountains, in Virginia, in August, 1861. I went on
quite a distance that day. I slept on that mountain all night.
The next day I returned to the hotel at Sandy Hook. I had quite
a time of it: I saw several Rebel cavalrymen, but I always
made it a point to keep out of their way, as I had the blue
pants and blouse on. Those fellows made their headquarters next
to where you made the inquiries at the old woman's log house.
It was a wonder they did not take me a prisoner, as at times I
wandered out in the country very barely. Wasn't there a Rebel
camp near Leesburg, or was that the name of the town near that
mountain? I suppose it is about eight miles from Harper's
Ferry. I could hear drums beating plainly--I was not far from
the town. I had quite a time of it when I returned to Sandy
Hook--I was arrested as a spy, was thrown into the guard house,
but finally got out all right. I was a scout and had papers to
show to that effect, but never did much at it. Hoping to hear
from you.
Yours truly, C. W. HOFFMAN.
As a further evidence of the correctness of my narrative, and with a
view of adding interest to the story, I publish herewith a private
letter from my brother, Spencer, who was at that time in the Military
Telegraph Service. My aunt Ruth, to whom it was addressed, and who was a
mother to us both, passed many sleepless nights on account of my
wanderings, has recently resurrected some interesting testimonials.
CAMP UNION, NEAR BLADENSBURGH, MD.,}
September 9th, 1861. }
_Dear Aunt:_ By some unaccountable reason your letter was
delayed. It was handed me by an "orderly" this evening. I
presume it's beyond the possibility of a doubt that poor Joe
was killed at Sandy Hook. My grief can better be imagined than
described. None but those who have suffered the severing of
ties of a loving brother's affection can form an idea of my
heart's affliction. My dear sisters, how deeply and sincerely I
sympathize with them in the deplorable loss of an ambitious
brother. That letter must have almost broken Hatty's heart. It
must have been a violent shock to father, but why should I so
write and rouse within all of you the bitter renewal of your
grief? We have for our support, that brother Joe fell nobly in
the cause of his country, lamented by an affectionate and
loving family, relatives and friends. It is to be hoped that
when the keen sensibilities of our passions begin to subside
that these considerations will give us comfort. I pray that the
Almighty may give us (particularly father) fortitude to bear
this severest of strokes, is the earnest wish of a
Brother in affliction, SPENCER.